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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.

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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.

********

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CALL OF THE DAY: setting some pussy parameters

Do I have to stand up to be your bitch? Because I don't think that's a good idea right now...

Do I have to stand up to be your bitch? Because I don't think that's a good idea right now...

I've talked about him before; he loves him some BigBlackCock (TM) (aka BBC), and actually inspired the locker-room gang bang in my play Phone Whore. Sometimes he calls me from home, where we are able to browse the same Xhamster videos together (where the fuck did they get the name Xhamster from, anyway?!). His favorites list is chock-full of interracial gang-bangs, obviously, things where the girl is really getting reamed, because eventually we're going to pull him into that centerpiece position, and he likes it rough.

Lately he's mostly been calling me from his truck. It's his company's truck, he says, and no, I have NO IDEA what that means, what line of work he's in that they have company trucks, or whether he is doing what he actually says and taking his tissues with him when he leaves the truck. His calls are brief—usually only seven minutes, every now and then 10—but we have nonetheless managed to develop an understanding, he and I, about exactly what he likes. We also are able to be with each other outside the call as well, in a non-awkward way.

This kind of phone relationship is as rare as it is wonderful. For me that outside interaction is way more interesting and indicative than the content of the fantasy, for telling me about the caller as a person. The guys who hang up without saying good-bye, well... I am obviously not a person to them. They don't owe me anything, any more than you owe your vibrator anything. When I first started taking calls, I resented that attitude a lot; now I just shrug.  But the ones who do have the time and inclination to say goodbye, or "have a great weekend", well, that makes the world a better place for everybody, I think. And if we are able to banter a bit, if we can joke and be a little affectionate or charming with each other, that's brilliant. I especially love those occasions when my callers let the real world intersect with their fantasy world, and we can laugh about it.

For example, today this caller said he was literally drooling, thinking about getting some BBC in his mouth. I told him to get a dildo and get to work on it; I wanted to hear him use a little finesse at first and then I wanted to hear him choke on it. Done and done, very well done, in fact. Then I got to the bit where he's working on six or seven BBCs at once and one of them is going to slide in behind him, and I asked him, "your pussy is twitching right now, isn't it, so fuckin' greedy?"

And he totally switched gears, from panting and breathless horny-bitch cocksucker begging on his knees to slightly embarrassed dude on the couch. "Well, you know, normally I'd totally do that, but today everything's coming out and nothing's going in."

And I laughed and he did too, and I said, "Well, it's important to be aware of physical limitations. That one in particular is a good thing to notice when it comes to getting your FUCKING PUSSY STUFFED." And we got back into it and finished him off.

That is some good customer/client relations right there.

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I CALL HIM "LOCKER-ROOM GANGBANG". He'll be in the movie, too! At least his fantasy will be. Donate TODAY to support the production of Phone Whore (the movie). All the details here:

CLASSIC CAMERYN: downtime

I was going to write something about the dead days, like today, where I got one call at 10:30am and that was it. And then I thought, maybe I better check back through the archives to see if I'd already done one on that topic! So I went back to look, and lo and behold! I had written one about dead days, almost exactly two years ago, and it was also on a Wednesday in February. Hmmm. The article remains 100 percent accurate—the only thing that has changed is that I'm staring out the wintry window at Montréal, not Boston. So, I am officially calling that particular post a "classic". Go back and read it! It's only slightly depressing!

Oh, and you'll read in the article where I say that there is no formula for which days might be banging and which might be dead. I think we can safely say that there is some anecdotal support for the assertion that, for my company, at least, and only on average, February tends to SUCK ASS.

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THEY DON'T TALK ABOUT SHITTY DAYS IN MOVIES ABOUT PHONE SEX. Up until now. Donate TODAY to support the production of Phone Whore (the movie). All the details here:

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CALL OF THE DAY: my bilingual papi

He's an ass man, a bit of a chubby chaser, dominant but gentle, mmm... yeah, I'll admit it: he's one of the few callers I think wistfully about from time to time. He's fun, too, in unusual ways. For example, he likes to celebrate holidays. Around the winter holidays, he talked about taking me outside and rubbing snow on my nipples. On his birthday last year, he tricked me out in a bra and garter belt set two sizes too small and asked me to do my best impersonation of Marilyn Monroe singing 'Happy Birthday' while he pounded my ass.

This is my bilingual papi. I call him that because he likes me to call him papi—at high pitch and volume—and he is most definitely bilingual. He is fluently, almost lyrically horny in both English and Spanish. The first time I did him, I remember he asked if I spoke Spanish, and I said no, but I learn quickly. He said, "We'll see about that."

"Say it in Spanish, dammit!" Mmf-mmm-mm-HMMFF!

"Say it in Spanish, dammit!" Mmf-mmm-mm-HMMFF!

I don't think he's been disappointed. The front of his stack in my card box doesn't have the usual measurements or genre abbreviations on it, no: it's mostly just a cheat sheet of Spanish-to-English gutter talk. The phrases that I have written down are a good indication of what is important in this phone relationship we have...

muñeca (doll)
esclava (slave)
maltrata me/viola me (sp? meanings should be obvious, if you know your Latin roots...)
but then
yo soy tuyo para siempre (I am yours forever)

Yes. He gets romantic. He likes to hear me whimper "te amo" in between rounds of ass fucking, and has talked about putting a ring on my finger and kissing me deeply while fucking my ass. (Oh, yes, "chinga me culo" was one of the first phrases I tried on him, and he ate it up.)

I think he enjoys teaching me this stuff. I remember one day, in my mind it will be forever known as "the pop quiz call".

"Tell me you love me, your king."

Papi, I forgot how to say it!

"Then you get a spanking. Today you get everything in Spanish, and if you forget, you get spanked. Now say it!"

Papi, I don't know!

"LET ME HEAR YOU BEAT THAT ASS. [he pauses for my spanking] Te amo, mi rey."

Te amo, mi rey. [pause to catch breath] Papi, my ass hurts.

"I'll kiss it for you. Tell me to kiss it."

Papi, please kiss...

"IN SPANISH."

Papi, you never taught me that one!

"I don't care, spank your ass anyway!"

Rough usage, yes. But today he used a new word, hermosa, as in mi muñeca hermosa. I looked it up.

My beautiful doll.

********

THIS IS THE SHIT YOU HAVEN'T SEEN IN MOVIES ABOUT PHONE SEX. Up until now. Donate TODAY to support the production of Phone Whore (the movie). All the details here:

“Who calls on Valentine’s Day?”

I wrote about this a little back in December, when several people wondered out loud to me, "Who calls at Christmas?" As it turned out, only two people called during my shift on December 25, and they were both seven-minute calls, so I didn't get a chance to ask them more about why were they calling a phone sex line on a major national holiday and DIDN'T THEY HAVE ANY FAMILY TO BE WITH.

Just kidding. See, I'd never ask them a question like that, because a) it's none of my business; b) not a sexy question; and c) still none of my business.  I'm also hesitant to linger on that issue, because it could easily go in the opposite direction, as in "don't I have any family to be with?" And the answer was no, but it's not a depressing no, so I don't spend a lot of time worrying about it.

Darn it, I wish we didn't need both hands to use these phones!

Darn it, I wish we didn't need both hands to use these phones!

But yeah. Valentine's Day is another one of those big holidays where people wonder. It's the perfect set-up for a really hack joke, about lonely dudes and phone sex and wow, isn't that sad.

Psht. These things are only sad if you assign disproportionate value to whatever trait or familial and/or relationship constellation is being celebrated by the holiday, whatever it is that "makes" that day special. If you believe that Christmas is all about biological family and long outings in the snow followed by hot chocolate around the fireplace and "God bless us, every one!", then yeah, the idea that, on that special day, people seek out physical release or emotional connection from someone they pay, that might seem a little weird.

Similarly, if you believe that Valentine's Day is all about that special someone (just one!) and intimate dinners and impractical romantic gestures, and that everyone needs that one person and if you don't have a special one, that is a end goal devoutly to be wished, and you should be putting all of your energy toward getting that in your life... well, if you believe this day is all about that, then obviously in your view, someone spending on phone sex what they could be spending on dead flowers and a heart-shaped box of second-rate chocolates, they are making the wrong choices in life.

Don't get me wrong. I like getting together with friends and having sex and eating fondue and going out on great dates and making snow angels, all the stuff that goes along with these kinds of holidays. But I can get that action any day of the year. The big holidays like Valentine's Day or Christmas are arbitrary and invariably ramped up, in a capitalist society, with lots of pressure to buy in. Literally. There is something you're supposed to be spending money on, or at the very least, some activity that you're supposed to be spending your time on. If you don't buy it, if you're not into it, people look at you funny, anyway. And if you turn around and spend that money on sexy times, well, let's just frost that weird little cake with a thick layer of social stigma and you can eat it.

That's what's going on here. Really.

So, I don't know who calls on Valentine's Day, or St. Patrick's Day, or New Year's Eve. All different guys who, for whatever reason, want a little sexytime off the holiday grid. You can stop asking now.

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CALL OF THE DAY: the Strangulator

I call him... the Strangulator. (Duh-duh-DUHHHHH.)

Hey, don't judge me and my dramatic names. I have to amuse myself somehow.

Anyway, the Strangulator is a mild-sounding older gentleman who, in his fantasy, wants to rape me and then kill me. His set-up is almost romantic, as he lingers in loving detail over my hair, my beautiful body, what I am wearing (inevitably black lace panties and bra, and sheer black stockings). He has narrative reason to know what I'll be wearing because in the fantasy he's been watching me through the bedroom window. He doesn't specify for how long he's been watching me, but the intimate, honeyed tone of his voice makes it feel like weeks or months.

That's all deeply embedded backstory, if anything. The important thing is that he rapes me—and that he is able to say that he is raping me, over and over—and that is the last time I'll ever be raped. No, fucked. Actually he says it both ways. The inadvertent political echoes of "last time you'll ever be raped" make me curl my lip in scorn and something else, because sometimes women get raped more than once. Sometimes it's chronic.

He is one of the callers who tripped me out the first time I did him because I have had such limited exposure to the activity he's fantasizing about. Not the rape part, I know all about that. I have friends who have rape fantasies, I've dabbled a little myself  The snuff part, the part where he chokes the breath out of me and keeps violating me. That I don't know a damn thing about. I DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO PRETEND IT. I don't watch horror or thriller movies. In historical movies, when someone is being hanged, I always avert my eyes. I don't watch violence in movies at all. Maybe I've read about being choked? On accident.

So I don't have much to go on, but I made a routine, and it seems to do the trick: protest verbally for a couple of minutes, let out whimpers and gasps for three or four minutes, and then do short, soft choking noises for the last four or five minutes. I think in real life it'd be over a lot sooner, but I don't know. Like I said, it works for him.

You know what works for me, when I have to do this and other scary-feeling calls? Finding the kink parallels. I have talked many, many times before about how the incest/pedo calls made more sense and stopped freaking me out when I thought of them as age-play sessions and compared them to dynamics and stories that I've shared with daddies of mine. Similarly, Mr. Strangulator here fantasizes about raping. Well, there are women, lots of 'em—and men!—who fantasize about being raped. Both sides of the equation are being played with.

Personally I find it harder to keep from being affected by a fantasy if it is actually really in line with prevailing attitudes or sociological phenomena or crime statistics. I feel less stressed out when my callers bring me rape fantasies with themselves as the target. I guess then it's easier to believe that they don't really want it, couldn't possibly want it. When the Strangulator calls, or any of the guys call wanting to rape me? Well, it just feels like more of the same shit that's out there in the world. Bleah.

But again.

There are people with rape fantasies going one way. If that's fair game, then the other direction has to be open for business, too.

He used to just hang up, but after the first few calls he has taken to debriefing with me afterward...

"Did you say you were married?"

Yes.

"Does your husband know you do this kind of thing?"

He doesn't know all the details, but yes, he knows.

"Good, Well, you take care of yourself now. I'll talk to you again soon."

Bye, I say, apparently arising from the dead.

********

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