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CALL OF THE DAY: the Case of the Reluctant Dom

I was hoping for a good call to get me started back, after four months of being away. No, let's be honest: I was, in my heart of hearts, hoping that I would make it big enough in theatre this year that I wouldn't have to get started back. But, since I have known for some weeks that I would be doing phones again this fall, I have hoped that my re-entry would not be too horrible. Not Extreme Top. Not the Strangler. Not Dead Soul. That shit you gotta work up to.

I lucked out, though. I got the Reluctant Dom.

I think I've written about him before, but I can't find any other posts about him here, so I'll be brief in the recap: the Reluctant Dom is a gentle man with a sadistic streak a mile wide, and he loathes himself for it. I remember more than one occasion, after a call in which he has just been lashing me with a belt or pulling on handfuls of my pubic hair, and during that gasping post-coital cool-down, he has said something along the lines of "I'm a bad man. I can't keep doing this. What woman would ever want this?"


Of course I tell him that there are women out there who would want that, who would gladly take all the torment he dished out, if he took care of them afterward.  I tell him it's fine. I'm not sure he's listening. I don't know whether or how much of his self-loathing is essential to his turn-on. I don't think much. I think he really doesn't want to be turned on like this, and as an active kinkster, that makes me sad. So occasionally with him, I break my own rules and ofter advice or meta-scene encouragement. This is okay to want, I say.

Today I looked at the Reluctant Dom's card and realized that I hadn't talked with him in over a year. He just hasn't requested me, and he said, without prompting, that he hasn't called for at least a year. He had me up in the examining table in the doctor's office, where a mild-mannered interview about my continued lack of orgasm tumbled pretty quickly into him calling his two beautiful nurses in to beat me with a belt and suck on my tittieses and fuck me with a strap-on while I begged for more and eventually came. After he came, I asked if there was a reason he hadn't called in so long, and I could almost hear him shrugging his shoulders and blushing.

Right. Not my place to know. But I like to imagine that he wrestled with his demons, and then won and went out and found Fetlife. A year is about long enough for that journey to at least begin, even for a very reluctant dom.

The prospect of getting out

So, here I am, about four weeks out into my UK tour. Four weeks since the last time I took a call. Before this summer, six weeks is the longest I've gone without being on call. Now I'm basically tripling that. It still feels strange to not have to drag my eyelids open in the morning to sign in, to not have to drop everything to pick up a call, to make lunch plans. With other people. OUTSIDE THE HOUSE.


My boss told me back in April that I could have my job back when I return, right before Labor Day. She added, "if we're still operating when you get back," which I immediately recognized as a half-joking attempt to make me feel guilty for taking the time off, and a half-serious compliment about some of my regulars maybe not wanting to stick around if I'm not there. I hate when she pulls that shit. It's flattering to be someone they've grown to rely on, but c'mon, that's basic business strategy, right? Don't put all your eggs in my basket.

In one of our earlier conversations about this hiatus, my boss said, "But what if you make it big while you're over there?" I laughed that off and told her "not likely," but in my secret performer soul, I was, like, PLEASE. Let it be so.

The prospect feels a little confusing and unmooring, I'll admit. I don't know what full-time playwright/performers do in their day-to-day lives, anymore than I knew what PSOs do with their lives before I started doing it. I suppose it's the same things I already do—writing, networking, emailing, dicking around on the Internet—minus the frequent interruptions to help the next wanker, and without this particular form of fallback income. It's not an earth-shaking transition, in other words, but change is still scary. I've been living this way for over five years. I hope that I can be honest enough with myself to not let my fears get in the way of me getting out.

I mean, because it would be amazing if I successfully transitioned all the way into theatre. PSO work was always just a job, something enabling me to stay afloat while I figured out what I wanted to do next. Now that I've figured that out—playwright/performer all the way, baby!—I've gotta be brave while I figure out how to move on that. This is the part about transitioning out of sex work that is not so easy, because it's not like I hate the work. I just know it's not the main thing that I want to do with my energy, and I'm still grappling with how to move around in the outside world without phone sex as my ballast, my constant tagline, a funny little part of my calling card.

Will I miss doing phone sex, when the time comes? Some of it. Will I miss a ready excuse to talk down and dirty with other people about sex? Yeah, well, I'll just have to find some other excuses, like my plays, or Sidewalk Smut. Or getting into advice territory or podcasting or sex-ed. Will I miss being tied to the house by the range of my cordless phone? Not a bit. I'm ready to return to the work if I have to. I'm more than ready to move on if I don't.

SMUT STAND REPORT: May 10, 2014 (Brighton, UK)

On her hands and knees is the way you like to see her...

On her hands and knees is the way you like to see her...

WHEN: four hours (3:30-7:30pm), May 10, 2014. WHERE: New Road between North and Church streets, Brighton, UK. OUTPUT: Five custom pieces, including a nice, gentle reverse-cowgirl scene for a young man on his dinner break, softcore sitting-up PIV intercourse, an atmospheric stranger-in-hotel-room job, hardcore lesbo squirt action (as a gift for a long-distance lover in Australia), and a group sex encounter with hints of cuckoldry. Lots and lots of attention from passersby; I'm sure that I would be able to give out more cards if I just stood there handing them out, but I'm convinced that having them approach me is a more solid connection. I just wish it wasn't so windy and cold, gah! My favorite encounter of yesterday was when a woman approached me to ask about the service, and then when I handed her a card, she said, "Oh, that's all right, we already have tickets for your show tonight!" That group-sex scene was hers. During the course of the interview, she revealed that she had done or wanted to do a few things—group sex, ass play or pegging with her husband—that she thought he would be fine with, but was afraid to bring it up with him. So... I brought it up, in the story. When I read the finished piece to them, he blushed and she just grabbed me and hugged me. Ahhhhh. Satisfaction in a job well done.


Find out where I'm going to be next with the Smut Stand by finding me on Facebook, or visiting my Always on Tour page!

Atlanta Fringe, outside of Fringe: November dates

affAtlanta Fringe runs in June every year, but they've got a strong commitment to Fringe-type theatre year-round, as indicated by their bringing me in for the second year in a row. I mean, you really have to commit to Fringe ethos when you produce a show called slut (r)evolution! We're still settling the dates, but it looks like Nov. 13-15, plus a matinee showing of Phone Whore on Nov. 15. Ah, matinee! I'll do animal balloons, bring the kids!


Pussy-eating and poetry

I felt it two days ago.

It was with a regular I like. It usually only happens that way, with someone who I know very well and feel really comfortable with. It needs to be a fem-dom-type call, too, an interaction in which I am expected to run my mouth, in which I have to because they are in some kind of subby head space and they maybe have forgotten how to speak, and if I don't keep talking, then the line will go silent for too long.

So I am on top, I'm sitting on his face, I am at the point about four minutes into his usual seven-minute call where he will want me to orgasm loudly and wetly all over his face. It's not enough to just moan. Moaning or "oh, yeah!", that is not enough when I am trying to emphasize how little control he has over the proceedings, that I set the pace and I say what is going to happen and he better get with the program or I'm just going to run right over him.

So I tell him, open your mouth.

Open your mouth and keep swallowing, there's a river coming down on you now, there's a whole fucking sea.


I heard it, see. I rarely listen myself when I'm talking; it imposes a constraining level of self-awareness on the interaction that would be fatal in phone sex. But every so often I do hear myself, and it sounds good. It feels good, good enough that there's a little glitch in my verbal brain, just one little stutter out of the flow to put in a pin in that moment, just long enough that I will remember to come back and explore that moment, because it feels beautiful.

It felt effective, too, in the way that good words spoken out loud to the right ears can move the listener to tears or riotous standing applause or, yes, closer to an orgasm. Powerful. For this guy, I knew it would work. But also, it was beautiful.

Everything I say doing phone sex needs to be effective, obviously. I need to get the guy there. But the words don't need to be beautiful, by my subjective standards. That is gravy, and let me tell you, most days Mama does not get a lot of gravy. Most days my callers are fine with the graphic language or a mean (or loving) tone or my fair-to-middling level of inventiveness when it comes to describing acrobatic positions. Most days anything approaching lyricism would be superfluous, wasted effort.

So I never put conscious effort into making a particular passage sing. I just focus on the sex and the emotional connection, and let the language take care of itself. But sometimes poetry happens anyway, and if I'm lucky, I'll notice it. That stuff from my subconscious, sliding up to the surface and into this call about face-sitting, that is not for them. That is for me.

CALL OF THE DAY: “I have no limits”, or, the mating call of the armchair sub

Took a call from a new-to-me-sub last night. He's obviously been watching a LOT of fem-dom potty porn—"I have no limits," he said, HAHAHAHAHAH those armchair subs can be hi-LARIOUS—but after I figured out what I could get away with in terms of dismissive contempt, I had a good time.

Which doesn't always or even usually happen, right? Not even with these sub calls. In lifestyle power exchange, what's being exchanged is solely power, and the players have an exchange, I want to try this, let's do that, not so much of this, hah, but maybe you need it for your own good because I am your master and you need to get used to it. Those exchanges can and do happen. The interpersonal back-and-forth of power is right there. But in paid work, the dom has much less power; I think this is at least as true in face-to-face work as it is in phone work. We have the power to take the call or client or not. Some of us can set our own hard boundaries. But really the scene is about what the client wants.

In face-to-face encounters where no money is involved, I can say "no" to greedy, entitled little bottoms who want to use me for their own satisfaction and don't care about whether I'm getting anything out of the encounter or not. At my company, though, I don't get to turn down calls, so I have to listen over and over to guys saying, "Anything goes" and then proceed to lay down their laundry list of narrow-focus needs. This... irritates me. Now, I understand. This is fantasy, and fantasies can be done however you want. The client is paying; it's what he wants. Futhermore, it is not part of the deal that I get to be personally challenged and engaged for any of my calls. But hey: it's nice to have fun when you can. When I get a new sub, I wanna see how mean I can get. Now THAT'S a challenge! Too mean and they could hang up. Not mean enough and they could hang up.

Last night I found the zone with this new sub. He gave me enough hints with his little "I have no limits" monologue that I could hit the ground running: I told him to piss in a cup before we were five minutes in—"no domme has ever made me drink piss before," he said, his voice shivering with anticipation—and asked him if he had any toys or anything on hand.

"No, this was kind of a last-minute thought."

I see, I said, and filed that away, not before reprimanding him about the need to affix "ma'am" to any answer he gave me. (His voice got even more shivery during that lecture.)

Eventually we got to the point where I had him get his finger wet, stick it in his own ass, and then pull it out and lick it. It was inevitable, of course; potty play + pegging + submissive + no fucking toys = stick it and lick it. I made him swish his finger around really deep and well, and I made him look at it first. Is it dirty?

"Yes, ma'am!" He was whimpering a little.

Do you normally clean your ass out before sessions with those other dommes?

"Yes, ma'am!"

But you didn't this time, because it was a Last-Minute Thought, isn't that right?

"Yes, ma'am!"

You need to plan better, you little pervert. If you had planned better, you would have cleaned out for me, and you would not now be getting ready to stick that nasty dirty finger in your fucking mouth, would you?

"No, ma'am!"

So it seems that either you like sticking your shit-covered finger in your mouth, in which case this is not a problem, or you will remember next time and not do a Last-Minute Call. You will get cleaned out and you will have some fucking toys on hand, because I cannot really pound your ass properly with just a finger, do you hear me?

"Yes, ma'am!"


I think I was a drill sergeant in a past life.

my ideal client

I have preferences in clients, of course. In my current work situation I don't get to use those preferences in any way that might benefit me. I don't control my marketing, nor do I get to select or screen who I talk to. But I still have the preferences. I keep them in the little break room of my mind, where the worker me goes to hang out when things get weird. There, up on that metaphorical bulletin board, I pin special moments, and lines from my favorite customers, and little sound bytes. To remind myself, you know.

The guy I did yesterday is on that bulletin board. He is a gentleman from North Carolina, with a soft, high-pitched, almost delicate voice, who likes to talk about the women he spends time with over at a brothel a half-hour away. "They like me there because I love pussy," he says, claiming that they will let him eat them out for free on Sundays because it's usually slow and he's that good.

If I had to come up with a nickname, I would call him the Sniffer. He likes smells, all the smells: well-fucked, unwashed cunt, pee, sweat, ass crack, body odor. (I compared him to a wine enthusiast and called him a connoisseur; he loved it.) He also likes hirsute women, with unshaven pussies—"it holds the smells in better"—and hairy assholes and armpits and legs and hair goin' up the belly. He likes cellulite, jiggly asses and thighs. And he likes older women, MILFs on up to 70-year-old ladies. In fact, the Sniffer seems to be drawn directly to all the things that our society tells us aren't sexy, and he goes into marvelous detail about his enjoyment, with gusto and little exclamations of delight.

Even when he comes, he can describe what is happening with his feeling; "it's going up my spine and trickling down my forehead like beads of ice water." I mean, that's fantastic  The Sniffer is so detailed and enthusiastic that he actually freaks my boss out a little bit. This is funny to me, considering the other callers that we handle. And on that little checklist pad of preferences, he just goes tick, tick, tick, right down the list:

SELF-AWARE. My preferred client has spent some time figuring out what they want. They pay attention to the stuff in their own head. If they like something that is illegal, they are obviously aware of the differences between actuality and fantasy, and they are comfortable navigating that line, which leads me to ....

UNASHAMED. They do not waste any of their precious minutes circling around their fantasy, or coming up with something else to supposedly throw me off the trail, or excusing it or avoiding it.

HEDONISTIC. They are going for the sensations and experiences and fantasies that they truly enjoy. They are having fun with it, not only with the fantasy, but with the phone call itself, and with me. They love their orgasms, too, and have created the space around the call where they can come as loud as they want.

COMMITTED. They really throw themselves into it. If they step outside of the experience at all, they do it cleanly and explain themselves—"hang on, honey, I need to go check on the ribs in the slow cooker"—and then step right back in.

ARTICULATE. Phone sex happens through the words and sounds. When I have to make all the words, it is a performance, with all the burden that entails. When they contribute, and do it well, it's less a performance and more a dance.

Strange as it sounds, I love to dance with the Sniffer.

CALL OF THE DAY: “is anyone there with you?”

We chatted a bit about what I looked like, and what I "did for work" (um....), but he moved pretty quickly to what was important to him: "Is there anyone with you right now?"

EEEP. Such a short sentence, illustrating two of the primary rules of paid phone sex:

  • The way they ask questions tells you the way they want them answered.
  • Say "yes, and..."

The first rule relates to listening. "Is there anyone with you?" is a different question than "there isn't anyone with you, is there?" First construction calls for a coy yes, most likely, while the second version is begging for a reassuring no. Easy to read, but uh oh. Answering this short question the way he obviously wants it answered, while following the second rule ("yes, and") leads me to the edge of a very slippery slope. The caller wants someone there with me, and I don't know who or why. I don't think it's a pedo call; usually those guys will lead with asking whether I have any kids, and probably the dispatcher would have mentioned it. But sometimes it's not in their client files, and I don't know for sure. Proceed with caution...

Not right here with me, but my lover is in the next room.

(He's not at all, I'm just trying to temporize, give myself a little more time to  figure out what's going on.)

"Can I talk to him?"

(See, this. This is what I was afraid of. I can't say yes to this. I don't have the skills to switch to a male voice. What to do, what to do. ... I know! I'll go with in-charge, slightly mocking laughter, while I figure out what to say...)

HAHAAHAHAH, NO, you can't talk to him, are you kidding! (Um... oh, yeah, control the situation, set the boundaries...) You aren't paying enough to talk to him! That is a whole different kind of call! What do you want to talk to him about?

"I want to hear him fuck your ass."

(What does he mean by that?)

What do you mean by THAT? I mean, you can't talk to him! He's not getting paid to be a part of this. And I hope you know it takes longer than <checks timer> six and a half minutes to get really into anal.


"Okay, well then, I want to hear him fuck your pussy."

(For fucks' sake...)

Anyway, we just had sex this afternoon.

(Okay, that answer is not going to hold him for long...)

"What, he can't get it up again?"

(He had to go there...)

RUUSSSSS! <pause> RUSSSSSS! Can you come in here for a second? <pause> Yeah, this guy is calling into question your masculinity. Can you just stand over here by my head? Yeah, and get those boxers off. <pause, and direct the next comment to the caller> You're gonna have to give me a minute or two to get him hard.

(Slurpy noises. I can do slurpy noises.)

"Aw, yeah, have him fuck your throat."

(Okay, now we're back into familiar territory. Gagging on virtual dick is way easier than  playing the voice of my lover. Anyway I just had some cheese puffs, so my fingers taste pretty good.)

CALL OF THE DAY: “Make me come” usually means the magic’s over


Oh, god, I'm not going to make it... IT'S HER FAULT!

There are many things I don't want to hear when doing a call. "Oh, whoops, I gotta go. <click>" "Uh... I think they sent the wrong girl." "You're sounding a little raspy today!" But the thing I NEVER want to hear... ugh. I heard it again tonight.

"Make me come."


I usually get it from mild-to-moderate douchebags who are drunk or coked-up and therefore underestimated the amount of time they would need to get off, i.e. ALL OF THE TIME AND IT STILL WOULDN'T BE ENOUGH. Extreme Top, the Dean of Douchebag U., often starts out his calls with it.

"Make me come." It is bad enough from assholes, because it tells me exactly how little they are thinking about their role in this encounter and how much they think I am to blame for their failure to launch. I am entirely to blame, apparently, even though I am nowhere near their dick. And an independent observer would notice how many times they flipped the scene, when they could have just sat with one or two shifts and let the momentum build. Or how many times they took a "bathroom break". (I'm looking at you, Extreme Top.)

So when these douchebags panic and say, "make me come", it is understandable, if not excusable. Last night, though, I got it from Bilingual Papi. And I thought, oh god. That's the end. Those words are the death knell of a GFE phone sex relationship. The underlying entitlement has finally poked through.

Because in GFEs, the caller is keeping up the fantasy that they love me and respect me and all that business with credit cards, that's just a side thing, peripheral, it has nothing to do with me or them. They get to imagine that I'm in it because I love them, too, and I will do anything to make them happy, for however long it takes, because I want to.

But the clock is alway ticking, on my side if not on theirs, and last night we were up to 12.5 minutes on Papi's usual 10-minute call, and even though I had given him the "come cue" at 8 minutes, and told him at 11 that I had to go—and he said "no, you don't"—I could tell he was nowhere near coming. I said again, I have to go, and when he protested, I flung it back in his face.

Why do you do this to me, Papi? You go over a lot, and I get into trouble.

"No, you don't," he said.

Yes, I do. I gritted my teeth. I love you, Papi, but I have to go.

And I went.

Second time I've ever hung up on a caller. But I had to go. I called the dispatcher immediately and let her know what happened. She said, "what an asshole", and told me not to worry about it, that I did the right thing. I wasn't so much worried about that; I just felt bad for hanging up on someone who I didn't think was actually a douchebag. But he was turning into one, by virtue of willfully ignoring the boundaries that were firmly in place, and I was turning into a sucker who would let him. I didn't want it to go any further; I had to take a stand. And so I hung up.

To my relief and surprise, this morning he was my first caller. And he had bought 15 minutes, AND he apologized, sincerely and repeatedly.


Boundaries, man. I don't really get to have them in phone sex at all, except the limits dictated by the company. So this was a happy ending.

My time is not my own


Some days I don't know where it goes...

It is easy to forget, after a few slow days on the lines, that time is not what I think it is. On some of those days, my own self-imposed deadlines may be few, so I'm really just farting around online. An incoming call may startle me, but it's actually a welcome interruption. So I do 10 minutes, or seven, and then roll back over and get back on Facebook and it's just la-di-da-di-da, what a low-paying but relaxed life. I have all this free time to do what I want.

But then a day comes along when I really am trying to do something I want, and the bubble bursts. Like yesterday, when I wanted to eat a delicious pancake breakfast with my lover and get ready in a leisurely fashion for a meet-up that I would have to leave the house for as soon as my shift was up. And then I got a 30-minute regular. And another one. My pancakes sat there congealing and the bacon got cold, and the call timer moved slowly while the real-world clock rushed on, and I knew that I was not only going to be a little late, but hella late for the Exploring Sexuality Book Club, and that's even before putting a dab of makeup on and finishing my bacon.

(Fuck the book club. Always finish bacon.)

Yesterday was the sort of day when I remember, sharply, that my time is not my own. It belongs to the company, and ultimately, the callers. My time belongs to the universe of phone-sex wankers. That time feels like an endless river sometimes; I mean, I can get a lot done on those slow days. Some days I can just keep dipping my cup and take out as much time as I need.

But I'm only borrowing it. I only get to use it if they're not using it. When I get a call, whatever time I've just scooped up has to get thrown back in the river. Whatever I was doing with that time—whether it's eating pancakes or talking to the bank or riding my way steadily to ecstasy on top of a lover—that gets thrown out the window.

I know these things. They are nothing new, merely the real-world results of going against the guidelines that all steady on-call PSOs know: no cooking anything that can't be safely and reasonably stopped mid-production; don't eat anything that is going to get worse from sitting out; time your bathroom breaks carefully; don't step outside or make a separate phone call without signing off, no matter how little time you think it is going to take.

I know, I know. This is the choice I made. But if I were to follow all those rules all the time that I'm on call—some days that's up to 16 or 18 hours—my life would become emotionally and culinarily untenable. So I run the risks, I push back against the rules on a regular basis. I borrow that time flagrantly, and hope it doesn't get called back in. I take showers with the phone sitting on the top of the toilet. I bake (today I'm making carrot cake). I fuck, occasionally with toys that are not easy to take out quickly. I make business calls on my other phone, always warning the other party that I might get a call and have to go.

And I make pancakes and bacon for Sunday breakfast, pretending like it's just a normal Sunday with my lover, pretending that the hairs in my ear are not all on edge the whole time, semi-sub-consciously waiting for the inevitable, waiting for the call to return this time that I borrowed.

It's not mine, but damn if I will not wring out every drop I can.

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