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"What are you wearing?"
I never had much patience for that standard phone-sex question. Without warning, it is awkward as fuck to provide narrative context for wearing anything around the house other than pajamas, jean skirt and a t-shirt, or just a robe and panties, but at least the panties are clean.
“What are you wearing?” is one of the most common questions to pop up in the first 30 seconds of a call. Doesn’t mean I’ve gotten over it, though. If the caller is someone I already have a card for, then I’ll know what I should be wearing; it’ll be right there on the card. But if it’s a new guy, I have no way of knowing what he wants me to say. A generic, lowest-common-denominator sexy is ridiculous, given the time of day, you know, hey, you reached me at home and I am just lying around in my black lace negligee and stilettos. I always want to say, but that doesn’t make sense. There's a continuity editor in my head, and she gives me a fucking headache.
So, I never had much patience for that question, but after seven years I now have none. What difference does it make what I tell you I’m wearing if you think 44B is bigger titties than a 36DDD, or if you’re just going to tell me to take it off within 30 seconds? How much detail do you even want? Why on earth would I be wearing a latex catsuit and seven-inch-high heels around the house on a Tuesday afternoon waiting for you personally, Mr. Subby McSub?
This question was never easy, and now I just bite my lip in irritation as I tiptoe carefully around the potential narrative tangles and sartorial slips. Fortunately for me, there are regulars like Mr. Softcore, whose attitude is basically the phone-sex equivalent of “you look so beautiful without all of that makeup on.”
With Mr. Softcore, and Bilingual Papi and a few of my other regulars, I have let myself relax. A little. They think I’ve completely let my hair down, so to speak, and they love it. “What are you wearing?” they ask. Nothing, I say, my voice carrying the suggestion of a sly wink, or, I haven’t gotten dressed yet, what would you like me to put on? (Usually to that last one, they’ll say, “don’t bother.”) With these same people I am comfortable answering the other common question—“what are you doing?”—with very simple and true commonplaces: baking, writing, lying on the bed looking at the internet.
Mr. Softcore frequently says, as these natural-core fans do, that he loves that I am “just myself” with him. These callers want to believe that I am not myself with everyone else on the line, that I am being fake with everyone except them, that my natural nakedness and real-life activities are precious gifts. They are, actually, because these callers are the only ones I half-trust with the half-truths. For example, most of my subs have not been impressed, shall we say, when I mention my cowboy boots and not the leatherette thigh-high boots. (They should actually be a lot more scared of the cowboy boots, I think, but I digress.)
In phone sex, the PSO can “be oneself” only within certain established parameters of selfhood. My pastimes have to fit into certain categories of behaviors that match an only somewhat expanded definition of sexy and appropriate. And I can “be myself” or “be natural” because I tell these regulars—and they believe it—that I am whatever their version of naturally beautiful is. Bilingual Papi thinks I have a big round butt; of course he’s fine with me wearing some crappy old shorts or whatever. The toe-sucking mommyfucker doesn’t blink about me always wearing the same green satin pajama top and nothing else, because my toes are always painted candy-apple red.
And Mr. Softcore, well, he has waxed lyrical, on numerous occasions, about my perfect breasts and my perfect pussy. It is important to him, my natural perfection. If the clothing or the image were important, as it is to other callers, then I would have to “go to the extra effort” of dreaming up some clothes to wear.
As it is, for Mr. Softcore I only have to conjure up my “natural beauty.” It seems effortless to him, but for me, it’s just another outfit.
You can get more of my natural beauty by becoming a patron of mine over on Patreon. So natural! So real! So ME.
My ex-boyfriend fingered me (I have a vulva) without thoroughly washing his hands after cooking with whole dried jalapeno peppers earlier that day. It was extremely painful and he felt horrible and was very apologetic and put cream on me afterward.
(Names used here are neither real names or phone names.)
He’s told me before that he wants to do a call with the dispatcher, “Becca,” who is also the owner of the company. There is no room for professional jealousy in this line of work—if he doesn’t stick with me down the road, I’ll find somebody else—so when a caller talks about wanting someone else, or wanting to do a call with the dispatcher, I just shrug. This guy, he’s mentioned it once or twice; he thinks Becca has a sexy voice, but he’s never pushed it, and he always seems super satisfied with my service.
But he asked me today, “Did Becca say anything about me before she passed the call along to you?”
No, I said, should she have?
“I wrote her a letter.”
Oh, I said. That seemed like the only thing I could say.
He rushed on, kind of tripping over himself, bashful and unsure. “I told her how much I liked her and her voice, and I told her what I would love to do for her some time. I hope she wasn’t offended. Do you think she was offended?”
No. I thought about the things he talks about, not just with me, but with a bunch of other girls on the service. He calls regularly. And “Becca” listens in on all kinds of calls. She has heard enough of his calls that she has a totally accurate nickname for him: “Stinky Jim.”
No, I said. I doubt she was offended. She’s been doing this for a long time.
“I wrote three pages,” said Stinky Jim, “but I wasn’t pushy about it.”
I’m sure you weren’t, I murmured. Over the phone, at least, Stinky Jim is the epitome of the Southern gentleman. But a three-page letter? About what he liked and why she would have a good time? You might guess, from his nickname, that his thing is Not A Common Thing, and you’d be right. Still, he’s never been one to feel bad or weird about his Not-Common Thing.
He continued, “I just really think I’d have a good time, and I think she would, too. But maybe she’s not into it.” His voice lilted up, making this more of a question.
I thought again about Stinky Jim’s special areas of interest, and had to bite my tongue to keep from saying: most people aren’t. Instead I opted for something less harsh. I don’t know, hon, she and I don’t really talk about that sort of thing.
“You think I did the right thing? I showed Wanda the letter before I sent it.” Wanda is supposedly the madam of the brothel that he goes to on a Sunday, where he supposedly gets to play around for cheap and/or free, because he likes to eat out the girls after they’ve been working all weekend. “Wanda said it was a good letter.”
I’m glad you showed someone the letter, I said. Those are hard letters to write.
“Really, Becca didn’t say anything?” Stinky Jim asked. “I mailed it three weeks ago.”
Oh, god, I thought. It was a Valentine’s Day proposition. At that point I started getting the feeling that he wanted me to ask her if she got his letter.
No, I said. I think she would have said something if she wanted to follow up with you about it. Did she sound different to you? Did she treat you differently?
“No,” he said.
Okay. Are you asking for my advice?
“Yes!” he said.
Well, I think you have to leave it in her court, and not ask her about it, and be willing to let it go. Same thing is true here, as it is out in real life. If you make your gesture, and someone doesn’t want it, it doesn’t help your case to pester them.
“You’re right,” he said reluctantly.
I’m sorry, I said. And I actually was, a little bit. Without knowing the context of his relationship to Becca, I felt a bit squicked on Becca’s behalf about the idea of getting a three-page letter detailing one of Stinky Jim’s fantasies. On the other hand, she obviously knows all about his stuff. She knows he will talk about it with whoever’s available.
So I was left with the same feeling about Stinky Jim and his unrequited lust, that I have about most of my phone clients in general: putting one’s desires into words can feel really scary. So, good on ya, Stinky Jim, for putting yourself forward. Not everyone can do it.
But I don't think Becca's gonna go for it.
I put scary shit into words. This is what I do. If you like the way I do it, show me. Become a patron of mine on Patreon.