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CALL OF THE DAY: making a meth user come

A new guy, but not a brand-new-to-the-company new guy, as I have cause to be grateful for when the dispatcher fills me in: he wants a party girl, "someone who does ice."

Does what?

"Meth."

What the... I don't... what does that even sound like?

"I don't know, I guess real wired? Here you go, 15 minutes!"

Eeep, wait!

Drug calls are rare for me to get, which is GREAT, because actually I am extremely naive when it comes to drug use and effects and side effects and adjusting the pace and energy of the call accordingly. Does the drug in question kill boners, like alcohol? Is it difficult-to-impossible to come under the influence, like cocaine? (I have reason to believe that Extreme Top is a coke-head.) I haven't had a lot of face-time (genital time?) with guys who are doing drugs to the point of being noticeably affected—I just don't run in those circles—but at least my dispatchers have dropped me hints here or there, so I've learned basic logistics over the years, things like giving the caller lots of time warnings, and preparing for the worse, i.e. they may not come before the end of the call and sometimes there's nothing you can do because BIOCHEMISTRY YOU STUPID FUCK.

But I still don't have a good sense of what the drugs FEEL like, you know, how I should be acting if I, too, am supposed to be getting high, so if the caller wants me to party with him, like this guy, I am totally making shit up.

"You like to party?"

Oh, yeah, yeah! I mean, if someone's got something, I'll do it!

"How do you do it?" (That's not what he said, I can't remember the word he used, but I got the sense of it. GAH! I am not hip to this jive! I am going to blow it! Please, please, can we just get to a blow job?)

Oh, I, uh... mostly I just smoke it. I had some friends over last night, I think we smoked most of it... but I have a half-glass of vodka left over by the bed! (Is this what party people do, drink whatever leftover alcohol is lying around? I imagine so. Whooo, party! Glass of vodka, so edgy!)

"Cool. I shoot up. I've got a whole [incomprehensible drug measure] right here, I wanna do it with you on the phone."

(Ulp.) Oh, huh, I've never, uh, shot up. (Fuck.) So, uh, what does that feel like? (I feel like I am so obviously fishing, but he doesn't get suspicious.)

"I get warm and buzzy all over, it just spreads, you know? And sometimes I can come without even touching my dick." (O-KAY, now that is useful information. Go slow and detailed, and prepare for possibility of early ending.)

Ooh, wow, that sounds amazing! Do it, I can't wait to give you a good fucking time!

I say it that way, but I'm hella nervous. I have never enjoyed hanging out with people whose chemical consumption puts them in a noticeably different headspace than my own. Even the easy-to-come-by stuff like pot or booze: if everyone's on it except me, I'm outta there pretty quickly. It's just too hard to connect, and I end up feeling like a stick in the mud. Injectables... this is a whole different category. Someone pushing drugs into their blood system via self-administered sharp object is operating with a level of ... desperation? dedication?... that I will never know. But here, right now, with a guy preparing to shoot up a whole gob of meth on the other end of the line—okay, I don't know how much, but it sounded like a lot—I gotta go with it.

I can hear it in his voice when the meth hits, and I let him take his time enjoying that initial rush. Then I offer the blow job, and go so so slow. I don't mean my voice is slow, I keep that fast and excited, keep that stream of talk flowing, he seems to like that, but the pace of the described action, oh, I spend a full minute talking about how my fingertips feel brushing along the inside of his thighs.

He talks to me a little, and I try to match his energy, but it feels fuzzy and blurred, he is crackling like a cloud of electricity, voice getting higher and faster, and when he comes—not too much before the end of his call, I am pleased that I managed the time correctly—his voice is practically sizzling through the phone line.

"I'm totally calling you again," he says over and over. I always take that with a grain of salt, especially with my drunk or high guys, but he remembers my name from 15 minutes before, which is a good sign.

I act excited, but I'm not. I really am naive. Drugs scare me.

CALL OF THE DAY: you try singing “Feliz Navidad” around someone’s dick

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I can't find the bustier he was talking about, but this is pretty cute...

Bilingual Papi knows he can get away with it, going over the time limit. He knows I won't stop him. I shouldn't let him, I should get hardcore on his ass, but the truth is I really do enjoy his calls and I let them go.

He has so much fun, especially during any kind of holidays. He's just that guy. I bet when he gets older he will put cheesy seasonal flags up outside of his house. I bet he grumbles about the Christmas lights, but really enjoys looking at them when he steps off the ladder for the last time and looks. And in phone sex, he makes holidays really... special.

This Christmas call, he started off by saying he saw something at Frederick's of Hollywood that he thought would look amazing on me, "if you really look like you say you do." Tell me about the outfit, I said. "Oh, god, there was this deep-red velvet bustier"—of course there was—"and a garter belt to match, that would look so good all digging into your ass. God, I LOVE your ass!" He has never seen my ass, but he loves it, and he is REALLY REALLY EXCITED about it dolled up in tacky winter-themed lingerie. Fishnets, he says, and 6-inch-high shiny black shoes, and a little red velvet g-string with a jingle bell on the back. Ooh, and pasties with jingle bells to match! And a Santa's little helper hat, too! Yeah! He said all that!

(Yeah, I'm not giving you a link to Frederick's of Hollywood. You can google that megamillion-dollar crap-lingerie outlet your own damn self.)

Oh, and he wanted me to call him Papi Claus.

So, I did. And I begged him for some serious ass-pounding, because I've been a VERY good girl this year, Papi, you know I have.

"Papi Claus, say it, sweetheart."

Papi Claus, please please please kiss my little asshole and get me ready for it. I need you, Papi, I need to feel you that deep inside me.

Oh, and he roared into it. "God, you are so beautiful. I love the way you talk to me!" And then he put a 1-carat diamond wedding ring on my finger and kissed me so hard—"I want to get balls deep in your ass and just make out forever"—and dressed me up in a bridal dress, except a little bit see-through so he could see the red lingerie underneath, and then after he lifted back the veil he wanted me to suck his dick while singing "Feliz Navidad."

That's when he came.

And that is why I let him go 2.5 minutes over today. Next time I'll tell him that he needs to start buying the 12- or 15-minute packages if he likes hanging out with me that much. But today I got to suck Papi Claus' dick while singing "Feliz Navidad."

Happy holidays, my fellow pervs.

CALL OF THE DAY: being a real-life accomplice

The one call that I hated the most, over my nearly five years in phone work so far, involved a man calling in with his wife, and pressing her to get it on with me. I was so angry at him, for asking me to engage her in nonconsensual activity. I felt like an accomplice. This was real life; someone on the other end was actually being coerced into participation, someone was actually being directly, psychologically abused by their partner, and I was playing along. No other call has ever made me feel even half as sleazy.

Except this guy. He's a close second.

He's a regular when I'm around, he's always so excited the first time I get given his call when I come back from tour, and pretty reliably requests me when I'm consistently around in the evenings. I have no illusions that he, like all of my "seasonal regulars", is perfectly happy with whichever other PSO is handling his call when I'm not available—anyway, since my seasonal availability is self-imposed, I can hardly complain—but I am happy to hear his enthusiasm.

He fantasizes about his wife being a complete cock-hungry slut. (Side note: I kinda like it when guys fantasize about the women in their lives. I mean, in our mutual imagination they could do anything, and they're choosing their wives.) This guy's cuckolding thing is multi-layered: he likes watching her be greedy, he likes the idea of fucking her after a bunch of guys (and a dog) have come in her, and his calls always culminate with a worked-up rant about how loose her cunt is when he's inside her, partly because of how many dicks she's taking and partly, that's just the way her cunt is and that's how small his dick is, relatively speaking. She's loose and he's small, and he likes to see her finally filled up, the way he wishes that she would want it.

So far, so good. He wants his wife to be a slut. I imagine, though I have no stats, that this is probably pretty common. He has talked about taking pictures of her, too. She sometimes agrees to pose, but not always. He tells her that he is just jacking off to them, but I know better. I forget that I know what he does with the pictures, because he doesn't talk about them all the time, but then he mentions them and I remember. And then I feel the sleaze settle on my skin all over again.

He posts them on a fuck-my-wife site. Guys post up shots of their partners, with or without their partners' knowledge, and revel in other guys looking at and talking dirty about their partners. On one call he gave me the link and his log-in name so I could access the site and his photo collection; we sat there for 10 minutes and discussed his wife's body.

This time he mentioned that other guys sometimes posted pictures of printouts of his wife's picture with their come all over it. He also asked if my boyfriend has seen the pictures yet. Shit. I forgot that I said I might show these pictures to my lovers. Shit. I am a terrible liar. Not yet, I say, if I remember I will. Of course I will not show them. Of course I will say that I showed them, and they got so hard. And he will believe me because that is how much he wants images of his wife to be seen by strangers.

I need to remember, this could be all made up. His wife could fully approve of the way he's disseminating her naked images. She could be totally getting off alongside him, but somehow I don't think so. If his wife really doesn't know about this, I hope she finds out and rips him a new one. Hell, I hope she divorces him. In my book, this is a fully divorce-able offense; this is frying-pan-to-the-head territory.

As angry as I am about this betrayal, my anger is muddied a little by my witnessing it, by my complicity and implied approval. It feels a little awful. Unlike all the dead babies and hard-cock ponies and innocent little girls WHO DON'T ACTUALLY EXIST,  I think this woman does exist. I desperately hope that he's making her up, but I think she actually is alive and clueless and cooking dinner regularly for this man who loves her and fantasizes about her and has completely sacrificed her right to privacy to his satisfying wank. My job is to help him with that sacrifice.

Some days I don't like my job very much.

Blue balls and brats: coming back after a week off

man-pouting

Poor baby! I guess Rosie Palm will be tackling this by herself today...

Yesterday was my first day on the phone in a week. I didn't have a private place for phone work while I was in DC, so I just had to take the week off. It's not the longest I've been off the lines—my current record is approximately six weeks, when I was over in the UK this past summer on tour with my show—but to some of my clients, A WEEK IS FOREVER.

It is, right? When you really want something, especially something that for whatever reason seems silly to even complain about not having? When you want the newest iPhone, you don't NEED it, you just really, really want it, and the stores can't tell you when it's going to be in stock again, so just keep calling back? Or how about when a movie you've really been looking forward to is coming out in a week, and you can't really commiserate with your friends because it's a kids' movie and you're all grown-ups and they would laugh and laugh, so you just sit on your excitement and burn up from the inside?

Yeah. it seems silly to want and want these things, and to feel like a week is never going to be over. I mean, some people have been waiting a lot longer than a week to get a roof over their head in storm-tossed countries in Asia. We must acknowledge that our wants, for gadgets and entertainment and a hot dish of a particular kind of mac and cheese... for example. Ahem. These wants are very high up on Maslow's hierarchy. Pervy phone sex with your favorite operator, the one who knows everything you like, is right up there. Yep. There it is, as undeniable as it is silly.

And when you don't get that, when you're all revved up and tenting your pajama pants and you call in and Cameryn is NOT THERE, well, you might get especially cranky, because that's not just the desire for instant gratification talking, that is blue-ball-related desire for instant gratification.

(Even if you're one of the tease-and-denial guys, my not being there is not actually erotic. You want someone to KNOW that you're not going to get any, to have the possibility of release taken away...)

So, yeah. My boss tells me they get a little miffy when they ask and I'm not there. She hates it when I have to go, because she is down one older-woman talent and she has to deal with my regulars. When I come back on after these absences, she acts all nonchalant, but I know she's glad. My clients, though, they don't usually act as happy as they should. They usually take out their pissed-off-ness on me, a little bit. Like Bilingual Papi did yesterday. Bilingual Papi is one of my favorites; he seems to be a good and decent man. We had our usual butt-sex smorgasbord; he was so happy to be with me again. But even he lost it a little, during our post-coital cool-down.

"Where were you last week?"

I was traveling.

"Still? God, I hate it when you're not around."

I know, it's hard.

"You damn right, it's hard! Goddamn, I hate it when you're not there when I call!"

I know, papi. I'm sorry. (No, I'm not.)

"I want to be able to find you any time I call!"

And at that, I burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

You want me on retainer? And I kept laughing.

"What? Why are you laughing?"

Just... that would be easily a four-figure discussion. I don't think you're ready for that kind of commitment.

CALL OF THE DAY: variations on an unexpected theme

He is not so sentimental as to not use the phone service when I vanish for weeks on end, but he always finds me after I get back and begins requesting me again. I'm glad, because he is unfailingly polite and nice. His fantasies are also polite and nice, too, which is... well, nice.

For the longest time we did the sultry older woman thing, with wavy silver-grey hair and everything. He liked to press on me from behind, on a hot day, and smell and kiss the sweat from my neck. I would always be wearing something lightweight and summery, and at some point he would set me down gently on whatever sturdy piece of furniture was available in the scene we had painted, lift my skirt, eat me out until I came, and then enter me and thrust until he came.

All that in seven minutes, so there's never much room to improvise too freely, but he's so sweet and obviously enjoys the stories, so I just shrug my shoulders and spin out the sweet vanilla strands that seem to tug him the right way.

Lately, though, it feels like we're circling around the hot spot for him, and it's not as vanilla as I originally thought. For a couple of months before I left on tour, we played that he was a much younger man—like, a 14-years-old younger man—and I had to instruct him in all this. Huh.

And for the last few calls he has specifically asked for me to dominate him, and to "go ahead and be mean". Er. I can do this, don't get me wrong, but it's shifting up a few gears at once, if you know what I mean. While he's in me, he wants me to forbid him from coming, and if he does come, I need to tell him that his punishment is eating his own cum out of me afterward.

Yes. Not quite as simple as he used to be. Still nice, though. He still thanks me afterward. I asked him one time, after he came, if that is something that he would actually do, eating out the cream pie that he made. "Sure," he said. "I think you should be willing to try just about anything once."

See? Nice guy. I'm glad he's digging a little deeper.

Why even other sex workers “don’t know any phone sex operators”

I am staying two nights in London, before I head up to the Edinburgh Festival Fringe to present 25 nights in a row of Phone Whore. A London stay could be expensive, but my UK tour sponsors, the Sex Worker Open University, found me a billet at a "working" apartment, a place that an escort is using during the day for appointments. This means that I have to spend large swathes of the day out in cafés looking for internet access, but I'd be doing that anyway, so...

This is one example of that rare species, Phonus Coitus Operativa...

This is one example of that rare species, Phonus Coitus Operativa...

So, I was chatting with my host last night about my performances and my decision to not go independent with phone sex because it would interfere with my writing and touring, and then she told me about her photography work and how she'd love to maybe photograph me sometime. One of her projects is portraits of other sex workers, and, she said, "I don't know any phone sex operators."

This is something I hear often from ... Muggles? squares? the mainstream?... let's just say non-sex workers. I didn't expect to hear it from a politically active, well-networked escort. But it makes sense. In fact, I started knowing this way back when I first started, that most phone-sex operators—that is to say, PSOs who only do phone work, and don't combine it with face-to-face work—aren't particularly visible in sex-work politics, or indeed anywhere.

We don't need to be. After all, phone sex is one of the most anonymous and safe forms of sex work. It is legal in most states and countries, and it's relatively easy to hide from people who aren't sharing a wall with your work space; let's call it "customer service" or "call center work". Safety, anonymity... if you've got something to lose, why risk it by going public?

I certainly struggled with this when I first started. I had serious roommate woes for the first six months after I started—the sex noise was a real problem for wooden floors with gaps between the planks—and when my case worker for food stamps pressed me for details about my new job, I blushed and had to whisper.

But when I started doing Phone Whore, that all went by the wayside. I had to talk about my work, often and openly, and in conjunction with my picture, too. So I did, I learned how. I dove into writings by other sex workers, online and in $pread magazine, observing how people talked about what they did. And then, bolstered by the support of my existing friend network, I went forth and made new friends, not hiding what I did that made it difficult for me to go out and visit people, that made it SO MUCH EASIER to come visit me. I'm a born activist, so speaking up in public—about my job, and about the fact that I do consider it sex work—became a lot more natural for me, the more I did it.

Now I have reached the point where I tell border agents. THIS IS NOT HARD FOR ME. They may look at me funny, and occasionally smirk, but again, phone sex is legal, so what do I have to lose? I've disclosed countless times crossing the US-Canadian border, in both directions, and now the UK boys got it, too, when I was detained at Heathrow for six hours yesterday. They basically got my pitch: I'm here to perform my solo show Phone Whore, which is based on my work as a phone sex operator. Yes, that's how I make my money in the States.

If people have never met a phone sex operator, it will not be my fault.

*********

If you liked this post, be sure to browse around some more. I’ve been blogging about my work in phone sex for almost four years, since six months after I started in April 2009. And if you live in the UK, you’ll have a chance this year to hang out with me while I’m on call! Okay, not really, but that’s what my award-winning solo play Phone Whore feels like, and I’m bringing it to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival Aug. 1-25, and then to five other UK cities through mid-September. Follow those links to read all about the tour and my show, and if you do make it out, come up and say hi!

CALL OF THE DAY: coitus interruptus, phone-sex style

Please, for the love of God, can I just get one mouthful of this in my face?

Please, for the love of God, can I just get one mouthful of this in my face?

It had been shaping up to be a really nice weekday brunch: bacon, toast, omelet made with Parmesan cheese and garlicky sautéed veggies left over from last night's pasta Alfredo. Definitely the first nice, truly home-cooked meal I had attempted at my new billet, so I should not have been surprised when the phone rang right as I was folding over the finished omelet. (Murphy's Law and Cameryn's Phone-Sex Corollaries.) "Divvy all of that up," I directed my brunch buddy with a sigh, "and then can you take it out to the balcony?" And then I rushed off to the bedroom and my notebook.

It was a 15-minute call, a regular whose calls I don't really like because he only pretends to let me choose scenarios (I know all the ones he likes, in the limited sphere of mommy-daughter ass play), and then after 30 seconds he is back on the steering wheel and veering a hard right, back to whichever scenario he actually wanted that day. He's very nice about it, but still. Grmph.

What is worse—and what I forgot until the first time it happened today—is that he has SHITTY cell phone reception, and it inevitably cuts out two or three times during a 15-minute call. Either that, or he is in an insecure work environment, and totally delusional about exactly how much uninterrupted wanking he can get away with during work hours in an unlockable work space, and so he has to hang up and act nonchalant a few times per call. Either way, it's profoundly irritating and very, very challenging to work with, right? Every time he stops the call, we lose momentum.

So his call interrupts the plating of the brunch, I'm like, okay, fine, I''m fine, and the food might still be fine. But his service drops, sudden silence on the phone after four minutes. I call in per the protocol of my company, let them know his call ran short and why. I don't know when he's going to try to call back, but I take the phone on the balcony, where the plate is still pretty warm. A bite of bacon, that's all, just a little nibble of salted pork product, and the phone rings again. He's back. I tell my friend to go ahead and start eating, and stalk back to the bedroom.

My caller is apologetic in an unspecified way, so that I remain unclear about why his call dropped so abruptly. Okay, we have 10.5 minutes left, I can teach my nubile teenage daughter how to properly rim my ass in that time, oh, yeah, that's right, honey, you're going to learn to get excited ONLY by mommy's asshole, yes, baby, ye..... wait a minute. The silence is back. He's gone again. FUCK.

I call back in to let the dispatcher know that the caller dropped off again. He has 3.5 minutes left. That is NOT enough time to do a good ass-play scene. "We'll see if he calls back," she says. I don't think he will, but of course I keep the phone with me and go out onto the balcony again. My friend has Hoovered up his brunch—he jokingly calls himself Vlad the Inhaler—while my share remains there, pristine, untouched... congealing.

Phone sex is fuckin' HELL on domesticity, man.

CALL OF THE DAY: people who live in glass houses…

How about on the coffee table? "No, it's glass, too."

How about on the coffee table? "No, it's glass, too."

I rarely have a good sense of the caller's location, their surroundings. Bed, chair, in the bathroom leaning over the sink... that much I get, but I don't really know how they live or who they live with, usually. If they're always super whispery and quiet, I guess I can figure out that there's a wife or roommate or coworker somewhere nearby. But other than that, I don't usually know.

This guy, though, he told me. He's one of my longest-term regulars to date, and we talk. He keeps a basement office—he frequently travels for business, though—and lives with his wife and two teenage daughters. Because it is an unfinished basement, with no doors and, I guess, a pretty open floor plan, he can only do calls with me when he knows for a certainty all "the ladies" are going to be out of the house. With two teenagers, those times are not nearly as frequently as he would like.

This week, though... THE LADIES ARE ALL GONE, to the Bahamas or somewhere tropical. His wife and daughters flew off for vacation, leaving him alone in the house for the past 10 days and for the next three, so he has already called twice and says he will call again before they get back.

Yesterday I started out the call asking him a little more about the house layout, and asking him where exactly he could do me. Since he has the run of the house, I further suggested that he actually relocate his bare ass to one of those places, in order to, you know, get more into the scene.

In the living room?

"No, there are floor-to-ceiling windows."

What about up on the countertop in the kitchen?

"Floor-to-ceiling windows."

Um, okay, how about over the dining room table? Wait, let me guess...

Yep, floor-to-ceiling windows. "I don't want the UPS guy to come up to the door and see me writhing around naked."

I bet that's not the worst thing they've seen.

He laughs. "Yeah, well..."

So I say, well, let's pretend that we're in a different location. He chooses the largest sofa in the living room; he likes his sex romantic, but a little bit acrobatic, so that makes sense.

There are four sofas in that room, apparently, which tells me that he lives in a pretty fucking big house. I am starting to put together the architect's rendering in my mind: something big and modern, set on a large lot, but not removed enough from the road, at least from the front, that people can't see in in passing. It's angular on the outside, lots of glass. Obviously if you've got something like that, you don't want to destroy the look with, say, floor-to-ceiling fucking VERTICAL BLINDS or whatever.

I feel that a good pun could be made about glass houses at this point, but mostly I'm just a little sad. No privacy from the outside, no privacy on the inside, only able to call from a basement that probably smells a little bit, you know, basement-y and dank, on a chair that's down there because it doesn't fit in the decor upstairs...

I like it better when he calls me from his hotel.

ASK A PHONE WHORE: “what is a misconception people have about your job?”

ASK A PHONE WHORE is a semi-regular feature, appearing whenever I get a good question. Anything you want to know about my phone work, ask away! Make sure to read through the archives here to see if I've already addressed your question in a previous post, or to see if I've written about something already and you have follow-up questions. I may set up a separate page here to solicit questions, or maybe just put a widget up, but for now I'll be running my mail bag over on Facebook.

First of all, I don't have any clothes that require ironing...

First of all, I don't have any clothes that require ironing...

Q. What is a misconception people have about your job?

Oh, god. I'm going to do a Top-5 list, and maybe later I'll tackle each one in a separate post, because there are so many it's tough to know where to start.

These misconceptions have spread pretty freely, owing to how phone sex operators and the work that we do are depicted in popular culture: films, TV, music videos, etc. And they aren't easily stopped because not a lot of phone sex operators talk about the work publicly. Phone sex is the most anonymous of jobs in the general category of sex work, which means that we can choose to not talk about it if we want to.

I choose to talk about it. Lucky you.

Before I go into the list, though, I want to point out that the real problem with misconceptions and stereotypes is not that they aren't true. Because they often are, for some PSOs. The problem is that they are taken for truth, for all PSOs everywhere.

So here is my Top-5 list of Misconceptions People Have About Professional Phone Sex.

5) We do other things while talking on the phone. I pretty thoroughly discussed this here. This is me and the way my mind works or doesn't work. I am sure there are other PSOs who can multitask, but I can't. (This also doesn't include the category of calls where the client wants the operator to be doing other things and ignoring them. It's a kind of low-impact humiliation thing, I think.)

4) We get off while doing calls. I am sure that some PSOs do, but I do not. I just can't  keep track of my own turn-on and the callers at the same time (see above). And really, I can count on three fingers the callers I've had whose phone presence and fantasies mesh and/or intersect with mine enough to get me off.

3) We can take our calls anywhere. In the awful movie Valentine's Day, the phone-sex-operator character gets into laugh-a-minute hijinks because she keeps getting calls at awkward moments, in awkward places. Once, when I was talking about how touring cuts down on my availability, a fellow operator asked why I didn't take calls while I was driving. To which I answered, I can't multitask like that (see above). I think that for some independent operators, the ones who specialize in long-format domination or Girlfrend Experience calls, the talking-while-driving could be an option. But for me, not. As far as taking the calls anywhere, I would never want to run the risk of inflicting my side of the conversation on an unsuspecting eavesdropper. You've read my Call of the Day posts, right?

2) We are too ugly and/or fat to do in-person sex work. Ugly is a relative term, and I know plenty of fatties who do, in fact, do in-person sex work. While phone sex, like any phone-based work, is a good place for women with great voices and bodies that don't fit into conventional notions of attractiveness, we cover the entire range of body types. And who cares what the person on the other end looks like, anyway? It's a voice and a fantasy.

1) We wear pajamas all day. Okay, I do that. But I know other PSOs who shower and get dressed and sit down at their desks in their separate phone-sex offices, and take lunch breaks, the works. These operators tend to be the ones with more control over their work flow, that is, they are independents or working for a combination company, where they need to be putting out blog posts or do podcasts or troll chat rooms to boost their call volume, so they've got tasks other than waiting for the phone to ring. They've set up their work environment to support that level of productivity, in a way that works for them.

Me? I figure I can just as easily write this post in my kitty pajama bottoms and thin t-shirt and no bra.

********

If you liked this post, be sure to browse around some more. I’ve been blogging about my work in phone sex for almost four years, since six months after I started in April 2009. And if you live in the UK, you’ll have a chance this year to hang out with me while I’m on call! Okay, not really, but that’s what my award-winning solo play Phone Whore feels like, and I’m bringing it to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival Aug. 1-25, and then to five other UK cities through mid-September. Follow those links to read all about the tour and my show, and if you do make it out, come up and say hi!

CALL OF THE DAY: “Who’s a bad man? You are!”

I bet your dick is getting as hard as the steel toe in a cop's boot, isn't it?

I bet your dick is getting as hard as the steel toe in a cop's boot, isn't it?

"He likes to talk about young girls, and he wants you to tell him that he's a bad man."

That's all the dispatcher gave me. The first part I understand; I get pedo calls all the time. The second part I... I've never had a caller specifically have it, in his notes, that he wants to be told that he's a bad man. Sissy faggot, yes. Panty sniffer, yes. Bad man, no. That's simultaneously a very vague insult and a very specific target.

When we get on the phone, I start with the standard option: would you like to hear a little about me or tell me about yourself? He goes straight for the good stuff: He's got a girl there in front of him, and she's pretty out of it.

Oh, right, that's my cue!

I start to put on a concerned tone, shading to outraged, asking the questions that he obviously wants me to ask—what do you mean she's out of it? What did you do to her? How old is she? She's WHAT?—since he is not volunteering the information on his own. When I find out she's 11, I find myself in a strange place. How many different synonyms can I get for "bad man" that aren't complimentary in my head? "Sick fuck", "dirty perv", "twisted bastard"... these are practically terms of endearment amongst some of my friends.

To get in the right head space, I have to get into the minds of the people who think what I do in phone sex is appalling and wrong. I have to pretend, for the duration of this call, that I do NOT in fact understand the difference between fantasy and real life, that I honestly think he is doing terrible things to a real 11-year-old. It is really hard for me to reach back to that state of naivete, and everything I say sounds ... weird and unconvincing.

Finally, at about five minutes in, he says, "What could you do about it ?"

Shit, that's another cue, and I don't understand what it means. I could... take her place?

"You could, but what else?"

I could ... push you out of the way?

"What if you called someone?"

Oh! ... I mean, YES I COULD REPORT YOU TO THE AUTHORITIES, bad man that you are, and they would kick the door in and drag you outside with your dick hanging out, and everyone in the neighborhood will know!

That's the sort of thing that I tell him, over the next two minutes: what a bad man he is, and I am totally calling the cops right now, and oh my god, they are going to kick his door in and find him right there, with his dick firmly planted in some pre-teen pussy, no mercy, you are going to get busted for sure, I am going to call the cops right now, and dude, you are totally going to get what's coming to you. It still feels really fake, but now I have the authorities on my side!

I guess it's an acceptable fakery, though; like, he buys it. After he comes, he says to me, "I just want to make sure that you understand that this isn't real. I just need to hear that stuff to get off."

(A-DOY.) Oh, I know. This is the sort of thing that phone sex was built for!

"No, no, no, I understand. It's just... if someone were to hear this without knowing the truth, they might actually call the police."

No, baby, don't worry. I get it. I'm just acting shocked and offended.

That, my friends, was a weird line to dance along.

********

If you liked this post, be sure to browse around some more. I’ve been blogging about my work in phone sex for almost four years, since six months after I started in April 2009. And if you live in the UK, you’ll have a chance this year to hang out with me while I’m on call! Okay, not really, but that’s what my award-winning solo play Phone Whore feels like, and I’m bringing it to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival Aug. 1-25, and then to five other UK cities through mid-September. Follow those links to read all about the tour and my show, and if you do make it out, come up and say hi!

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