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CALL OF THE DAY: “I feel like I really know you”

"We've talked a lot," he says. "I feel like I really know you."

I murmur something sexy but noncommittal while I look idly at his card. First of all, there's just the one card. Considering his first call to me was nearly four years ago, that means that we actually haven't talked that much. My real regulars have three, four, five cards clipped together now. He's just got the one.

And his calling pattern doesn't suggest a whole lot of connection either: seven-minute calls every month or so, followed by a 14-month break, followed another string of sporadic calls, none of them requests until about a month and a half ago, when suddenly he's doing 15-, 20-, 30-minute calls every week to 10 days, and doubling up. Today we did three calls in a row, totaling 75 minutes.

I guess to him it feels like he really knows me. To me, it feels like maybe someone isn't getting proper attention in his love life. I DON'T MEAN the sex isn't working. By his accounts, the sex is stellar. It feels like the pillow talk is lacking, because that's what he's looking for with me. I don't even mean sexy pillow talk, I mean just... talk! He wants to talk so much, and hear me talk, that he keeps running out of time without getting to sex and then calling back for another session. And he's telling me a lot, more than is usual for a caller, even with the longer time blocks.

In the middle of all this reveal, I suddenly flash to scenes in every movie I've ever seen that has phone sex in it, where the caller and the PSO are suddenly making this "real connection", you know, each one of them is hanging out all awkwardly on their own bed, and the camera is flipping back and forth between the two of them just, you know, Being Real, and they're talking about non-sex things, like, arguing about some obscure movie director, and it's Real!

Oh, and it also happens to show that the PSO is a Real, Deeper Person, she's smart and all, too, so props to whoever came up with that fucking set-up, it kinda kills two birds with one stone, right there, in terms of plot development. Three birds with one stone, really, because this magic moment of Being Real is also when you know the relationship is going to somehow be consummated face to face... and I wonder if that's what this caller thinks is going on here. I wonder if he is thinking about, oh, you know, "free and easy" non-sexual conversation in a paid sexual encounter being evidence that it's a deeper connection, it must be, he's a Real, Deeper Person, too, he's obviously not shallow, because he's paying for all of this not-having-sex-just-talking, and that is clearly not the move of a man who is only obsessed with sex.

He mentions that he was a touring drummer for a long time; he does this fake name drop a few times, where he says he doesn't want to name-drop, but these musicians/producers/etc he was recently hanging out with and talking about life and music with, they're pretty well known (but he shouldn't say their names, but They're Famous!). Now he's a self-proclaimed aging hipster in SE Portland, with two walls full of vinyl records, one wall of literature and literary criticism, and a TV on which he is running a "cheesy" interracial (straight) gang bang porno (sound off). He feels a little guilty, he says, about spending a Monday night watching cheap porno and talking to a phone sex operator. I laugh and say, I don't know, that sounds like a great way to spend a Monday night. I tell him to keep wanking to the porno, but to stop calling himself any kind of hipster, that is not a label that one can apply to oneself. He has told me in the past a little about the music that he's doing now; in this particular phone call, he tells me about the copywriting executive he's currently fucking. We talk about Powell's Books. You'd be stunned how much I spend there, he says. No, I wouldn't, I say. I know how tempting the stores are.

I reveal to him little things, just to keep a ring of authenticity in my voice and because there is not room for an entirely new persona on the front of an index card. But I mix it up between true and false. I know about Powell's Books (true), or I mostly wear glasses (true), I have reddish-blonde hair (false), I wear cowboy boots (true), I was a semi-professional modern dancer (false, although I did dance) and now am a writer and perform other things (true). I try to give him enough to forestall any deeper questioning, offering only part of the truth.

Yes, and during the first two calls of the series, I was super careful to check in with him about the timing; I didn't want him to think that I was deliberately trying to distract him, string him along. I'm just following his lead, I assure him, and he says he knows it's true.

It is true, but in spite of the needed boost to my call volume today, I kinda wish he'd go ahead and just get off already. The pressure of "being real" is wearing on me a little.

CALL OF THE DAY: He needs me to say “Yes”

He's an ass man, but he wants a particular kind of ass: mother-daughter ass, to be precise. And not just any kind of mother-daughter ass, but particularly mother-pre-teen-daughter ass, and one that is particularly willing. He wants to know that the prospect of me getting my 10-year-old daughter's ass ready for him Turns Me On.

This is an essential part of my skill set, that I be able to act authentically aroused. There are a few calls where I need to sound violated (rape fantasies), angry (extreme domme), or utterly indifferent (the humiliation calls), but for the most part, I am supposed to sound like what the caller wants is absolutely getting me hot and I couldn't imagine doing anything else at that moment. I can convey that emotion in a lot of different ways.

But no. This guy wants me to SAY IT, repeatedly, that it Turns Me On. He prompts me to say it at regular intervals, and it irritates me every time he asks for it. It is not enough for me to go "Mmmmmm!" and "Ahhhhh!" and "Oh, that little pucker is twitching, she is so ready for it!" That is not clear enough. I have to SAY IT, that this turns me on.

I have nothing against lying, in this context. My entire work in phone sex is suspended on a delicate, beautiful tissue of untruths. I give him what he wants, a perverted version of Yes Means Yes, enthusiastic consent, the most boisterous, joyful co-conspirator you could ask for in a pre-teen buggery fantasy.

But outside of the call, of course I wonder. Is he so uneasy in his own fantasies that he is uncomfortable inhabiting them by himself? How much does he want to feel that he is not alone in being a pervert? How much is this true for any of my callers? He seems to want to believe that I am not just making this story up for money, but that I actually enjoy it, that I get so wet, that this is my desire, too. I imagine many callers' fantasy logic as follows: if I am not alone in thinking about this act, then I am not weird. Maybe this guy  just needs the explicit, verbal statement to believe it.

It is one of my burning desires, on a social-change level, that people could just look at their fantasies and not feel weird, that they have people to share it with who will say Yes. Almost surely this caller does not have anyone closer than me to say it to him. So yes, I will Say It. I will Say Yes, I Want It, and keep wondering.

Please don’t ask me this question anymore…

Often, when I tell someone new that I'm a phone sex operator, they say, "Oh! How long did you do that?" Notice the the use of past tense. The assumption is, of course, that my time in phone sex was in the past, that I am no longer doing it, that I have left it behind and moved on to my obviously successful and lucrative career in playwriting and solo performance.

<pause for laugh break>

Yes. I find that hilarious, too.

I am glad that my profile and branding and visibility is high enough at this point that people think I must doing well, but really... it's mostly PR. I need to make people think that I'm already big news, so they don't want to miss me, so they want to book me. This isn't marketing hyperbole, as much as it is simply my M.O.: I fake it 'til I make it. I am sure a lot of emergent performers do this, putting out their hype just slightly ahead of their performance curve, and stepping up to the plate with a prayer on every slightly shallow breath.

I am also quite sure that my colleagues in performance, those of us hovering around the same level of visibility and exposure and gig income... most of us have second jobs. Maybe even third jobs, but definitely second ones. Whether it's the time-honored food-service position, or consulting gigs in tech writing, or office jobs, or arts administrators at various levels, or yes, phone sex... we have to make money somehow while we are striving to make money in some other way.

But not all of these second jobs are treated the same way. People accept without comment that actors might perform and continue to wait tables, or that playwrights would write in the evenings, after they've left the office. What is it about phone sex, and sex work in general, that makes it so hard to reconcile with other aspirations?

I don't have all the answers, I never do. I just have thoughts, and they are these:

First of all, it is a not-unheard-of approach for writers to dip into some exotic field or lifestyle and then dip right back out when they've got enough material. I wonder if people assume that naturally I'd have followed that trajectory, because my first play Phone Whore is about phone sex, and, you know... Why would I still be doing phone sex, if I got what I needed from it, i.e. grist for the mill?

Oh, wait. What if I wasn't doing it for the research? What if I needed the actual money? What if I still need the money? What if this option is, in fact, preferable to other paying-the-bills options?

Okay. It has become kind of okay to say, in some circles, that you did a little sex work, if you put it down to fun or research or empowerment. If you did sex work strictly for the money, you can only really admit it if you put it in the past, and remove any element of choice about it, as much as possible. To buy nice clothes? Not desperate enough. We're talking paying for college, making money after a layoff, getting off the streets. In the past. In the popular cultural understanding, sex work is a last resort, and if it happened in the past, it means that you boot-strapped your way out of a terrible situation and props to you, and now you can leave that all behind you. We can only talk about "degrading situations" if we've triumphed over them, or if we're actively working on getting out. That is the way a feel-good narrative works.

But saying out loud, in a broad-daylight way, that one does sex work for money, that one is currently doing it, that one has no immediate, focused, near-future plans for not doing it... that looks, to the outside eye, suspiciously like "giving up on ourselves". "Undervaluing ourselves." Obviously "not motivated enough".  Bleah. You know what? I felt a lot less valued in the office job I got laid off from in 2009, and I was getting a lot less of my own creative work done. But people think "sex work" = "unmotivated", which doesn't mesh with how they see me. Not that I need to break stereotypes, but...

POW. Did that hurt when your brain blew out sideways?

The truth is, there are many reasons why sex workers are doing the work we do, and as with any profession, some of us desperately want out, some love it, or are just fine with it, and some are doing it, with greater or lesser degrees of enthusiasm, until our other plans pan out.

I fall in this last category, for sure. I do want to make my living writing and performing. But I don't see what I'm doing as "rescuing myself". I'm working toward success in performance, not away from some tragically wasted life in phone sex, boo hoo. No. I still do phone sex, and I'm really, really good with doing phone sex right now, and I'm in no particular rush to leave it, BELIEVE IT.

When I "make it", when I get to the point that I make all my living in performance, I will tell people  the periods of my employment in phone sex, if it's relevant, but I won't hide this life, or refer to it as a wacky little phase, or a terrible time that I got through. This is a decent fucking job that I've held for four years. It can be isolating as hell, and it's a little marginal right now, but it's easier on my feet than food service. And doing phone sex does more than pay the bills. It inspired my first play, and feeds my soul and my mind in a way that no other job ever has.

So my question to you is: why should I be so eager to leave that?

No, I can’t iron and get you off at the same time.

My director showed me the first draft of the Phone Whore screenplay this week. Since I know nothing about exterior shots and zooms and cuts, we decided that the best way to adapt the original script is to have him get in and make the breaks and add the action, and then I look over it to make sure that we haven't lost what it is that I want the whole thing to say.

Checks and balances. Thank god they're there, because I already called him out on one key thing. At a certain point he had my character on a call and checking email at the same time. I did a double-take when I read that, I very consciously and carefully re-read that particular passage, to make sure I hadn't mistaken how he had laid the scene out. Nope. He had me on a call, and reacting to something on the laptop. My hackles went up, and I had to breathe slow, so that when my director and I talked 10 minutes later, I could tell him this in the middle of my few other script comments:

I don't work that way.

I don't multitask when I'm on a call.

In Phone Whore the play, when I "take a call" on stage, for the duration of that call, I direct my attention over the audience, up to the top of a wall or the EXIT sign at the back of the theater. I am not doing that because I don't know where to look, but because when I'm on a call, that's what I actually do. I go to a green screen in my mind, against which I spin the porno that I am creating for the caller. I don't know what other PSOs do, but that's how I work. I watch that scene, watch my words create it even while I am following it.

It may not look like I am doing anything, and I understood, from the director's point of view, that it is kinda boring for film, but I told him to find some other way to add visual interest and action and dynamism, because the way he wrote it was wrong. Wherever I am sitting or lying, whatever my position, creating the story or encounter is the only thing that I am ever doing while I'm on a call.

Yes, I learned that from experience. I have tried doing phone sex while clicking briefly through Facebook, putting away dishes, even once while getting my pussy fingered, and the result was always the same: I was distracted and I'm sure the call quality suffered. I tried that maybe three times, at the beginning, and now I definitely don't do my calls that way.

More than almost anything else, I resent the implicit stereotype. You know the one I'm talking about. It's in every movie or music video or TV show that references phone sex, the idea that phone sex is easy to do, easy enough to do that you can do it while checking email, while cooking, while holding an iron in one hand and a baby in another. That it doesn't require any particular focus. That it's just a bunch of moaning and groaning and you don't need anything special to do it, not only that, but you can do it while doing anything else.

But you can't. Well, I can't. I have more pride in my work than that. Or maybe I'm just shitty at multitasking. Maybe a bit of both

So I told my director. I told him the only things I might do while on call would be
a) utterly mindless actions that
b) don't make any noise and
c) would be done quickly,
d) in order to prevent a fire alarm or some other loud noise from going off.

Like turning down the heat on a pot of soup or setting my cell phone on silence. That's it. I'm not mixing cookies or even sorting socks, and I'm certainly not checking my email. I'm paying attention. If I'm not, then that porno in my head is going to get weird and wobbly and stupid really quick, and that's not what my clients are paying me for.

This is a phone sex romance

This is how we ended the call...

"Oh, my god, baby! Sorry, I couldn't help it! Shit, I couldn't hold it back anymore!"
- That's okay, papi, I say, if I had known that you liked the idea of me licking my own butt plug after it comes out, I would have held onto that a little longer.
"Yeah, that was super hot. ... So, I wanted to call you before I left. I'm heading out of the country for a few days, hopefully everything will be okay."
- Oh! Is it family problems?
military phone"No, I'm heading over to North Korea."
- What?
"Yeah, there's lots of crazy stuff happening there, it's a real hot spot, but maybe you don't read the news much..."
- No, no, I know what's going over there, I just... I don't think I knew that you're in the military. This isn't Vietnam 35 years ago, but I still get anxious about tense international politics.
"Yeah, that's why I'm so crazy." He changes the subject abruptly. "It's strange to find you on at night."
- Well, I have rehearsals sometimes, and... you know I travel a lot for performances.
"But I don't know specifically what you perform."
- I can't go into a lot of detail.
"Why not?"
- Because I can't make it easy for you to find me.
"I'm not one of those guys, I'm not a stalker!"
- You're in the military, you have ways. We both laugh, then he turns serious.
"No, I know I'm not going to find you. Why would I do that if you don't want me there? I love what we do together, but I'm not that guy. I know you don't want me."

I hesitate. I want to tell him before he goes, give him a belated birthday gift, but I'm not sure he'll believe me.

- Papi.
"Yes, baby."
- You know I talk with a lot of guys.
"Of course. You're really good!"
- Well, I just want to tell you that you're on my shortlist... He starts laughing. No, really, my shortlist of guys that I feel wistful about. There are only four of you, who I think... who I wish it would be possible. You're pretty amazing.
"So are you, sweetheart."
- I think this is as romantic as we get to be. He seriously busts out about that. Papi, will you... will you call me if you don't end up going to Korea? I'll want to know.
"Of course I will. I'll call you as soon as I can."
- Be careful over there.
"I will, baby."

This is how we began the call. ...

"Baby, we missed my birthday, and you need to make up for it. Tell me what you want to do."
- Papi, yo quiero tu palo duro, please, papi, please please!
"That's right. Get down there and show me how much you want it. Put it in your mouth.... there you go. Now I want you to hum 'Happy Birthday' with my dick in your mouth."


WANNA SEE A MOVIE ABOUT PHONE SEX THAT'S SMART AND MAKES SENSE? I KNOW I DO. So much so that I'm going to make it happen. Donate TODAY to support the production of Phone Whore on film! All the details here:

QUANTIFYING PHONE SEX: the volume of a cumbucket

Q: How much cum will a cumbucket hold?

A: Depends how well you prep it.

One of the many things my Extreme Top likes to play with is modifying my physical body to degrade or humiliate me, and to get better sexual use out of me. So, for example, he will talk about fucking my pussy with a two-liter bottle until it’s gaping, and then having men come in me until my cunt is “an overflowing cumbucket.”

That got me thinking: how many loads of cum would actually have to be dumped in me to objectively qualify me as an overflowing cumbucket?

sod-soda_300This particular phone sex story problem is easy to solve. If he has fucked me to gaping with a two-liter bottle, then the space roughly defined by the walls of my (now battered) pussy is two liters, or 2000 milliliters. An average load of cum is between 1 and 5 milliliters; let’s drop down the middle of that and say 3ml. Divide the total volume by the volume of the load size, and you get 668. Assuming that my cumbucket stays at the same capacity over the course of the gang bang, and that no one is actually fucking it, but just jacking off into it, AND that all the participants get all their jizz into the target receptacle, I would need to catch 668 average loads in order to overflow.

This all raises interesting images in my mind, especially in relation to the next largest unit of cum ingestion and/or containment: the cum dumpster...

CALL OF THE DAY: the Titty-Fuck Rosary

It's been about three months, but I finally heard from Titty-Fuck Rosary again. He has occasional long gaps in his call patterns with me, and I don't know whether it's because I sometimes have gaps in my availability, or because he goes on a bit of a bender and then gets the credit card bill and has to retrench a little. I think both are probably true.

I do know that he asks for me first, and then if I'm not around he will try other girls out. I know this because he gets a little irritated if he's trying to reach me and I'm not on at all for long stretches of time. I remember one conversation, when it was for sure an issue of me being away for performance-related reasons. "Where have you been?!" he practically shouted. "I spent $200 on phone sex with these weak-ass bitches who make me run over time, they don't know how to get me off." He conveniently forgets that he regularly runs over time with me and has to re-up for another call; in fact, that happened during that particular call, 20 minutes and then another 20.

I can only assume that he likes my voice, because in terms of content, a mynah bird could do his call. He was the first caller I had where I actually got bored. It was repetitive to the point of tears. I don't think I'd be interested in 20 minutes of titty-fucking IN REAL LIFE; to have to describe it for 20 minutes is just mind-numbing (thank God there's always a bit of blow-job before and during).

It's not just the titty-fucking that's repetitive. He wants to hear all about the skin color, a litany of titty-fucking that involves his big black cock buried in my enormous white tits. Those are exactly the phrases he wants: "big black cock" and "enormous white tits". I mean, I can use synonyms for "big" and "enormous", and I can substitute "shaft" or "stick" or "rod" for "cock" occasionally, and he likes to hear my bra size (42JJ) and textures ("luscious" or "velvety skin"). Lately he's been mentioning how "trashy" I look, with all thick black eyeliner and lip liner that's obviously darker than my lips (the lip liner doesn't get smudged, apparently, no matter how much I'm slurping on his cock). But mostly it's for my sake that I change it up. He is fine with just... Big Black Cock and Enormous White Tits. All. Fucking. Day. Or at least for 20 minutes.

The thing that renders Titty-Fuck Rosary particularly charged is that we are talking about his Big Black Cock; usually it's white guys who go for this phraseology. In our first call he told me that he was a lighter-skinned African-American, and that he wants me to talk about his cock being dark, dark, dark.

This makes me sad. It suggests to me, in a very specific, personal context, that the myth/stereotypes about black men and their sexual prowess are being internalized, by at least one black guy. His own light-skinned dick is not dark enough for this fantasy. I don't know if it's big enough, but it's not dark enough.

QUANTIFYING PHONE SEX: an anal infographic

I occasionally draw up graphs and charts and illustrations about my experiences doing phone sex. Something like Indexed, only much cruder, both conceptually and artistically. I had one flowchart already, "All Roads Lead to Ass", from almost two years ago; I picked up the thread a couple of months ago because I've been invited to present at Nerd Nite Austin, an event where apparently Powerpoint is king. At first, I was all, wait, there aren't really any visuals in phone sex, that's one of the selling points. Nothing about phone sex goes that easily into a slide presentation.

Then I thought, hey, there are things going on that have defied my understanding for as long as I've been doing this job; maybe if I picked out a couple of strong or distinct connections, it might make more sense. At the very least it would give my readers a different sight line into my work.

So, here's my most recent one. I'll be pulling the previous ones off of FB from time to time, just to get them over here. Enjoy!

(Oh, and if you are good at laying out this sort of thing, please drop me a line!)

large intestine


CALL OF THE DAY: surfer dude meets lesbian porn

I also imagine that he already has the hair for the role...

I like to imagine that he already has the hair for the role...

I think he sounds like a surfer dude, a stereotypical SoCal stoner. He definitely calls when he's high sometimes, and when he talks about what he's been up to over the summer, it usually involves following some jam band around on tour. I should learn not to assume a damn thing about anybody, but sometimes the contrast between how they "present" and what they WANT is just so fuckin' delightful!

Surfer Dude likes to role play as a woman, see. It's not forced feminization or sissification or any of that; he straight-up drops into a woman's body and jumps my ass. No "I'm a terrible man with a tiny penis, so I must be a woman" set-up here, he's not humiliated in the slightest. He's a hot fuckin' lesbian femme bitch and so am I—both of us with long hair and long fingernails and high heels—why would he be humiliated by this state of affairs?

One of his favorite roleplays is that he is my personal assistant "Wendy" and I'm, well, me, and she is supposed to be doing stuff for me at my house, but I come home from the gym in my sweaty, skimpy gym clothes and find her naked on the couch (why do I imagine a leather couch here?) jacking off to something from my porn stash. And then of course I have to reprimand Wendy and fuck her into submission, using those time-honored tools of frottage and strap-on sex and hot lesbian making out. (For that I just make a "puppet mouth" with my thumb and index finger and make out with that; I think it sounds more authentic. Maybe he doesn't care about authentic. I do.)

Surfer Dude is definitely a regular, and a fun one at that. He is super up and chill at the same time, and ends every call saying very complimentary things, which I don't understand, because I find it hard to believe that he is even hearing one-tenth of what I am saying. He gets so wound up during the call that he frequently wrests "control" of the scene away from me in the middle, and he talks over me. This means I have to talk louder and faster to get him to hear anything, and then he talks louder and faster, until by the end of it we are both kind of shrieking "bitch" and "fuck me" at each other and moaning in this sweaty girl-on-girl frenzy, which culminates in his REALLY high-pitched ejaculatory moan.

Whatever works, dude.


WANNA SEE A MOVIE ABOUT PHONE SEX THAT'S SMART AND MAKES SENSE? I KNOW I DO. So much so that I'm going to make it happen. Donate TODAY to support the production of Phone Whore on film! All the details here:

CALL OF THE DAY: so soft, it’s hard!

I've never understood the visual metaphor of "curtains blowing in the breeze". Could just as easily be "mac n cheese burning in the oven".

I've never understood the visual metaphor of "curtains blowing in the breeze". Could just as easily be "mac n cheese burning in the oven".

He likes to call early and talk about kissing me awake in bed. His favorite outfit for me is my birthday suit and some bed sheets, and the other day he actually used the word "loins". He's nice, he's gentle, and if we're going to be completely honest, he is one of my most challenging regulars. Oh my god, this guy is So Soft-Core.

In movie and TV depictions, paid phone sex is almost always rough, nasty, and/or kinky, or some combination thereof. Even in my own practice, it is easy for me to get stuck in the "assertive/aggressive domme" groove, simply because that is mostly what I am called on to do. Layered on top of that is my own preference for fast-talking filth. So, when Soft-Core calls, I have to take a few deep breaths and make a conscious effort to slow... it... down. Our conversations are slow-paced, soft, gentle, full of "mmmmm" and "yesssss". I'm glad for all those breathy, throw-away responses; they give me time to figure out what I need to say next.

Because he's SUBTLE. He likes the adjectives. I mean, all my calls have adjectives, but the domme ones tend to rely more on verbs, the doing, the DOING HARD, the fucking and changing positions and "what are you going to do for me next, bitch?" When you're in the middle of a gang-bang, there's not much time for anything but verbs. Choke. Thrust. Fill. Pound. Gush. Yeah, lots of verbs.

Soft-Core, he enjoys the sensing more, taste and smell and languorous touch. Which makes sense. My domme calls tend to be shorter, meaning "get to the fucking point, lady." Soft-core, he goes longer; today's 20-minute call—he called right when I started writing this post!—is a typical length. So he has time to savor the experience in exquisite, minutely described detail.

Exquisite detail, not graphic. Not for him the sweat and stink. He doesn't want legs spread wide enough to hurt. No ass-licking, no cream pies, no choking on cock. He wants to feel the energy lines of my waking-up self twist and twine around him, against him in my half-asleep arousal. He wants to hear about each of the seven different paths that my fingertips could follow from his scalp to his hardness (yes, I think he likes that word more than "cock").

If he has one fetish, it's physical perfection. Everything is "perfect": my pussy, the head of his cock, the fit as he slides in me (always missionary style, followed by titty-fucking my perfect breasts). I think part of it is that he's overusing "perfect" the way many people overuse the word "epic", to mean awesome or amazing. I like to make that translation in my head, when he and I talk. "You are perfect," he breathes.

I laugh silently and think, yes, I am pretty amazing.


HE'S A CANDIDATE FOR A BONUS CALL IN PHONE WHORE (THE MOVIE). Donate TODAY to support the production of Phone Whore on film! All the details here:

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