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the death of imagination

His voice was dull and colorless as he asked me about how old I was when I first had sex and had I ever had a gang bang. I spun out my best teen-slut stories, trying to find his hook, but his voice never changed and he just kept asking questions. At seven minutes into his 10-minute call, I said to him sweetly, "So, we have about three minutes left. I just want to make sure that you're happy before we have to go."

"Well, it's all right," he said, almost apologetically. "I have a hard time getting hard these days. Maybe tonight I'll think about some of the stuff you told me and try again. I'm 56 and you know, when the imagination goes, it's just... that's the end of it."

When he said that, my heart fell a little. Not because it was really outside of any scene and I knew that we weren't going to get him there on that call—I knew that already—but because a) he's right, and b) that is a terrible place to be. Never mind his dick, he couldn't even get his imagination up anymore, or he felt like he couldn't, which is functionally the same thing.

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one simple blow job takes up a lot of photo wheels...

I mean, cuz WHOA, imagination is what phone sex is built on. I think it is what all good sex is built on: what's in the head. It's one of the things that separates us from the rest of the animal kingdom. We are not constrained to rut when needed for the survival of the species, and therefore we can fuck however we want, and that includes across every virtual surface we can create in our heads. There we can play with things that are not; we can fuck anybody, real or imaginary, dead or living; we can imagine ourselves with physical traits that are not sustainable in the real world. We can flip through other people's teen-slut stories, for example, like we would click through a View-Master and pause, enjoying our favorite scenes.

This is one of the awesome things about phone sex, but it takes two people to get there, and both have to be using their imaginations at least a little bit. I can be reveling in the glorious porno that I'm weaving in my head, giving my best sound effects and throwing together the most powerful teen-slut narrative ever, but if he's not playing along, if he has no room in his mind to play, hell, if that's not even his fantasy but he brought it up because THAT'S WHAT SOCIETY TELLS HIM HE SHOULD WANT... then no, there will be no orgasms with that.

I'm sure I told him something like "it's not dead, you just have to dig a little deeper for it." How else could I have said it? "We can revive it, you're just going to have to come out and play more often." That sounds like fishing, like a really obvious ploy to get him to call the service more regularly, and that's not what I'm talking about. I don't care who he does it with: with another PSO, with a wife or girlfriend, by himself with his virtual View Master.

This is an emergency, man. Your imagination is dying. Get in there, pull everything out, and PLAY.

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CALL OF THE DAY: look at my thighs, now look back at my toes…

He was the second in a row of two new-to-me callers. New callers are good, from a micro-marketing point of view, because for me—and I don't know how this is true across the industry or even in my company—but for me, real regulars, who a) talk to me only, b) call regularly, and c) have been with me longer than a year, are rare.

I get "regulars", but they're actually semi-regulars. Turns out they were just on a Cameryn kick for a little while and then they wanted to try someone "barely legal". Or they were just using me while their favorite girl was on vacation for a couple of months. Or they ran out of money, or their wife found the credit card bill, or they found a new channel on xhamster, or they got three new account to manage at work and now they're working 80 hours a week, and they stop for a while, or forever... the point is, there is attrition, which means I always want a trickle of new potential regulars auditioning me.

So, okay. This guy. The dispatcher says he's a "hot n sexy", which I always take with a grain of salt. There is a not-insignificant chance, with "hot n sexy" callers, that they've actually got something fairly specific and/or graphic, and the operators who have done them in the past have just never bothered to call back in to the dispatcher and update the notes in the system. I mean, I rarely do it myself. So, he could just be into plain ol' pussy-eating or titty-fucking, or he could whip out something a little different. Depends what the next clue from the dispatcher means...

"Thick."
Thick, like, BBW?
"It just says 'thick'. I have no idea, honey. Seven minutes, the cheap bastard. Go get 'im."

He asks me to describe myself, but he's not actually listening; instead, he comes at me pretty quickly with his question: "Do you know about cuckolding?"
Yes, of course.
"I want to catch you at it."
Okay, so you walk in the door...
"OH MY GOD HONEY WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" (yes, this is when he actually starts shouting)
I think it's obvious what I'm doing. I'm getting fucked better than I ever got from you. I'm on the couch on my hands and knees ...
"NO YOU'RE ON YOUR BACK!"
... I'm on my back and he's...
"HE'S FUCKING YOU SO GOOD YOUR TOES ARE POINTED"
... oh my god, yes...
"TELL ME THAT!"
What?
"TELL ME THAT HE'S FUCKING YOU SO GOOD THAT YOUR TOES ARE POINTING!"
Uh... look, honey, he's fucking me so hard that my toes are pointing!
"OH MY GOD,  YOUR TOES ARE POINTING."
Yes, oh yeah...
"SAY IT!"
... Oh, yes, my toes are pointing.
"YES, OH GOD, LOOK AT YOUR TOES, LOOK AT YOUR LEGS, LOOK AT THOSE THICK THIGHS!"
(Ah-haaah. That's where the "thick" comes in.)
He's digging those big strong fingers into my thick thighs, he's getting ready to come...
"TELL HIM TO COME ON YOUR FEET. I'M GOING TO COME ON YOUR FEET, TOO! I'M GOING TO COME ALL OVER YOUR TOES. OH GOD OH GOD YES..."
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Two things I learned from this call:

1) hooray for the erotic imagination, picking up ANY DAMN THING and making it hot!
2) the ability of that imagination to combine two or more erotic things into one fantasy means I will never stop being surprised. Probably. Hopefully.

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THANKS FOR READING! Browse around some more, I'll wait... So, did you like it? Show your love NOW by pitching in some funds to get me and my solo play Phone Whore to the 2013 Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Read all about it by clicking on the Indiegogo button below.

It’s in the cards: the administrivia of phone sex

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I reached 800 callers this week. That means that 800 different, individual men have called me for help in getting off, over the last three years and nine months. I realize that's not many, as far as the industry goes, but it's about as many as can comfortably fit in my card box.
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I started out with a box that my checks came in, partly because that's what I had on hand, and partly because I think I may have still had some wishful thinking that I wouldn't be doing the work for long. When I reached capacity on the check box and was just hitting my stride, that's when I went ahead and invested in a proper card file box, and the little alphabetized dividers, too. By now the dividers are getting a little frayed, but otherwise, very secretarial, huh?

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My format is this: On the front, upper left, their unique ID number. Next to that, their first name and initial. Below that, my stats, if they differ from my usual: actual age, eye and hair color, 42DDD (six inches smaller than my real band size), 5'9" (one inch shorter than my actual height, does 5'10" sound intimidatingly taller than 5'9", or am I just making shit up?). But if they want me to be 58 years old, or be a petite brunette, I write that down. Underneath that, what they want, with addenda, if it changes over time. Their state. Their birthday, if they tell it to me. Anything that might help me get a read on them and what they like to hear.

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The back of R.'s first card, before I knew how much was coming...

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The back of R.'s most recent card. He calls a lot.

Most of the callers only have one card each, but my regulars have two cards or more, paper-clipped together as time goes on. You can see the tops of the clips in the picture. The title of Most Cards is currently shared between two regulars, each of whom has six cards in their stack. A., one of my whiniest mommyfuckers, has racked up 216 calls, beginning May 16, 2009, while R, a cheerful butt-sniffer, has 215 calls, starting April 24, 2009.  That's an average of about five calls per month.

Back then, I didn't know that my regulars could be so, well, regular. It is obvious, from the way I started the first card that I had no concept of what this work would entail: at the beginning, my writing is huge and spacious, taking up lots of room. All of the cards I started in the first couple of months were probably like that. But there on those two callers' cards, by the time I'd taken their calls for a few weeks, I started shrinking my handwriting down, save space, save paper, and now the formatting is all the same: two columns per side, top to bottom, 12 or 13 entries per column.

Doesn't matter how tightly I scribble now, I'm running out of room. 800 cards take up a lot of room. At a certain point, probably in the next six months, I will need to buy another box, or at least a bigger one, and when I think about that purchase point, I have to force myself not to apply any significance or symbolism or measure of my intentions to keep going, to keep building my caller files. Or, you know, maybe, to not.

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OOOH, PICTURES! Mostly, though, I just use my words, as you will see if you poke around in this blog... Like it? Well, show your love NOW by pitching in some funds to get me and my solo play Phone Whore to the 2013 Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Read all about it by clicking on the Indiegogo button below.

CALL OF THE DAY: He’s a back-door man

He's one of my nicer doms, and one of my favorite callers, period. His preferred scenarios are the doctor's office (chronic orgasmic malfunction, you know, it takes a lot of treatment) or the supervisor's office in a Eastern European factory; our accents are SO BAD that if there's time at the end we usually end up busting up laughing at each other.

He really is a lot of fun to work with, but that's not the only reason why I like playing with him. It's the little glimpses of his real sexual life and thought processes that he occasionally lets slip. Once, during a particularly hard period for him, he told me that he was lonely, his voice so earnest and trembling that I nearly cried. He has sometimes expressed feelings of guilt about wanting to dominate women; I've told him that yes, there are women out there who want that, and as long as you're checking in with them, you're good.

Today we were back at the factory with our cheesy Slavic accents, but then he did something unprecedented: he asked me to stick a finger in his ass. Okay! Phwooop! And he came like a motherfucker (I don't think he had his finger in his own ass, it was just the thought).

Afterward he told me that he had never thought about that as something he could or should have done to him, as a dominant man, but last weekend he was with a girl and she was giving him a handjob and started playing around back there.

"OH MY GOD," was how he put it. "Forty-one years old and I just learned something spectacular."

YAY! I thought (I have always been an eloquent advocate for ass play, in all directions.) Have you ever had a girl lick your asshole?

"No..."

Okay, since you're exploring ass play, wash your ass well, find that girl, and tell her to rim you out. You can thank me later.

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THANKS FOR READING! Browse around some more, I'll wait... So, did you like it? Show your love NOW by pitching in some funds to get me and my solo play Phone Whore to the 2013 Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Read all about it by clicking on the Indiegogo button below.

CALL OF THE DAY: the articulate sissy

The dispatcher gives me his name and customer number, seven minutes, and for once I find the card quickly. "I think he likes ass play," she says. My notes read "PEGGING, DOUBLESTUFF, BBC." Yes, I would say he likes ass play. But he's not a regular and I haven't talked to him recently enough to remember straight off the top how he likes his ass play.

There are many ways to get your butt filled, many tones that a domme could adopt, and you don't want to fuck that up, no. There is a big difference between loving Mommy with a non-threatening, totally loving strap-on and angry Madame with 50 well-hung bikers pounding down the door. So I had to do a little exploring, without letting him know that I was exploring.. Some of you have asked how I figure out what callers want, especially in a shorter call? What follows is one approach...

So what are you doing on this fine evening, Joe?

"Lying on my bed talking to my mistress." (Ah-hah. I can take a slightly sterner tack...)

And what are you doing with your hands?

"Playing with my man-clit." (Going across the gender lines; someone is going to be my little slut.)

I see. And do you have anything there with you that I should know about?

"Well, I have two 8-inch dildos attached to a floor stand, one at pussy height and one at mouth height. I've got on a shoulder-length red wig, and I'm wearing a yellow bra with D-cup tits in it and matching yellow panties."

And there you have it: 20 seconds of conversation, yielding up material for hours. I jot a few more notes on the card, to save myself the stress next time. It helps when they're sissy-boys. They always want to show off.

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CALL OF THE DAY: “look at my tee-tee, Mommy!”

We only talk every two or three months, when he's on a business trip and staying in a hotel. I would love to see the face of the hotel staff member who walks by his room right when he's getting really ramped up, because he's a mommyfucker on the very young end; I would place him at 2 years old, based on the pitch of his "play voice" and the vocabulary he uses. He tells me, in a very petulant tone, what he wants to do ("mommy, I wanna look at your butthole!"); I can almost hear him stomp his feet if I don't respond the right way. He also likes me to baby-talk to him about his dick ("mommy, look at my tee-tee!" "I know, baby, you're having so much fun with your ding dong, aren't you?").

When I first started talking to him, I actually felt challenged, because he never followed through with any particular train of thought. It felt like he was just blipping around, poking at different body parts, saying things because he liked the way they sounded, demanding things to assert himself, not because he was particularly attracted to them. That irritated me, until the day I realized that ACTUALLY the way he was behaving was a pretty good portrayal of a two-year-old, whether he was being intentional about it or not. So I thought I'd try just interacting with him as if he is really two years old, and that seems to work out just fine.

I think I've written about him before, because he is such a joy to play with, laughing unselfconsciously after every call and thanking me so warmly for what I do. I guess that's what let me feel comfortable enough one day, during our post-orgasm cool-down, to ask him, outright: have you always had this fantasy of being such a little boy? "Always. I had a very strange childhood. I didn't get a lot of unconditional love. So now, you know, it's just so wonderful to go to a place where it doesn't matter what I do or what I want, I can have it."

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DID YOU LIKE THAT? Because there are totally more blog posts lying around, go ahead, take a look, I'll wait... Good stuff, huh? Show your love NOW by pitching in some funds to get me and my solo play Phone Whore to the 2013 Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Read all about it and DONATE at the Indiegogo page HERE.

CALL OF THE DAY: the working-class butt slut

He's not a regular, more of a potential regular. We've talked twice in the past six weeks, and I think he digs my style enough that he could start requesting me. I hope he does, because he's a fun one, entering into both the conversation and our scene with irresistible gusto. And his voice is so distinctive that I don't even need to look at his card to remember his thing: he likes his fucking ass pegged. Fucking hard. He likes to be a fucking slut for me, just spread his fucking legs and take a big fucking strap-on.

Those are his words, not mine.

He has a total working-class New York accent, see, plus he says "fucking" literally every other word. This is a refreshing change for me. Most of the guys who call up wanting me to fuck them, they go the sissy-boy and/or submissive route, and they change personalities mid-stream. I can hear it in their voices when they go into their sub headspace.

This guy, though. He's not a sub. He's not even a bossy bottom. I don't think he even knows those words. He just wants to get fucked, and he'll tell me how to do it. He stays brash and trashy and he doesn't miss a fucking beat. He'll spend the first five minutes of his call talking about union politics where he works, the fucking scheduling and the fucking shop steward and the decent fucking overtime. He's been working at that warehouse for close to 20 years, he's got some seniority there, I guess, so he makes, he says, "good fucking money", and he also received a settlement last year for a workplace injury, which means he need to be careful during our calls not to "throw my fucking hip out again". He lets me know the money things matter-of-factly, in the context of explaining how he can spend money on phone sex. And then we spend the rest of the time talking about what dirty fucking sluts we both are.

It's nice to know that I can still get calls like his, calls that surprise the fuck out of me, for whatever reason. I actually enjoy that experience. It points out where I'm still drawing lines in my own head, and right there, during the call, I get to feel them erased.

It gives me more fucking room, in my sexual imagination, you know? And that's a fucking sweet deal.

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THANKS FOR READING! Browse around some more, I'll wait... So, did you like it? Show your love NOW by pitching in some funds to get me and my solo play Phone Whore to the 2013 Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Read all about it and DONATE at the Indiegogo page HERE.

CALL OF THE DAY: “do you know about the Castro?”

He doesn't request me or call very often, but his set-up is so specific that I have no problem remembering. Also he has what I think is an Australian accent.

ANYWAY, he spends the first few minutes talking about a girl—any girl, for a little while it was his best friend's younger sister, then it was Jennifer Love Hewitt—and then the rest of the time he talks about all the sex he has or wants to have with men to show her how much he loves this girl. I haven't figured out if this leap in logic makes it a fantasy of humiliated submission or of reverence, or maybe it's both. Or it's just a device to get to cock. It doesn't matter, I suppose. In our service relationship it functions very simply: by sucking cock "on behalf of" a girl, he's letting me know, and reminding/reassuring himself, that he's totally straight.

Lately he's been fixated on this girl on his co-ed soccer team; in the second-to-last call we had, he talked about how he was so turned on by some FB pictures of her that he had to call up a male escort. He only lives about 40 minutes away from San Francisco, so the escort told him to come to a club in the Castro. "It's a neighborhood in San Francisco that is all gay men. Do you know about the Castro?"

Um. Yes, honey. I know about the Castro.

But you wanna know the detail that, in my mind, puts this guy firmly into the untethered-to-reality category? The last call I did with him, he said that the escort called him back to invite him over for an actual date. Yes, baby. Because when a male escort is off the clock, he will naturally want to unwind with an insecure, horny guy who can only come when he's got a dick up his ass and "Jennifer, I love you" on his lips.

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THANKS FOR READING! Browse around some more, I'll wait... So, did you like it? Show your love NOW by pitching in some funds to get me and my solo play Phone Whore to the 2013 Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Read all about it and DONATE at the Indiegogo page HERE.

CALL OF THE DAY: Tastes like sugar and maternal love…

He is a mommy-fucker, one of my regulars, but I don't always get the extra dollar for a request, because frankly, I don't think he's that particular. Also, he's gotten used to me not being on at night while I'm touring, so when I took his call last night, he sounded surprised and a little embarrassed, like he was expecting someone else and got me, and now I'd know that he was talking with someone else.

LIKE I GIVE A SHIT. Really. Because as regular as he is, he is also irritating like a, well, like a motherfucker. I am happy to share the burden. Heather doesn't have to be the only one who has two mommies.

This caller often has problems coming in the time that he purchases--I am 95% certain that he is addicted to masturbating, and has just been squeezing his meat Too Damn Hard for years--so he ends up either sounding frustrated when I have to hang up, or he purchases another 10 or 20 minutes and I feel like an enabler. His very particular needs include me describing "my" emotions minutely; he wants to hear how happy it makes me to feed him my pussy juice, or how turned on I get from watching my friends suck his cock. I can play any range of emotions on the phone, from sadistic disgust to cunt-clenching ecstasy, but he whines for it.

What he likes to hear about the most is this strange sort of alchemy that occurs in the time between when he ingests my pussy juice and breast milk and when he comes. The substances I feed him from my body make his come sweet and copious (of course), and this happens RIGHT AWAY. I squirt all into his mouth—cups of it, quarts—and let him nurse while I take his cock in my asshole and ride, and that same sweet gush makes his very next load taste as good as the frosting on a cinnamon bun. In every call, at least once, he talks about my "magic juice". That's right, MAGIC.

it might as well be, though, right? Why not? It's phone sex, we can do anything! This glorious romping through a magically (sur)real bedscape is part of what's awesome about what I do. But when it comes to biological functions, I just have to grit my teeth with some of my callers; the sex educator in me gets a little miffy. My shit is not chocolate. My breasts will not lactate just out of nowhere. And baby, my squirt is not magical sticky sweet nectar, it isn't, I don't think anyone's is. It's hot and watery-thin and musky-smelling, and there's a tinge to it, it's not clear and pure.

And yet, when I tell him that it is, that it is the equivalent of grade A crystal-clean maple syrup, and he gasps from being so aroused, I have to applaud him, the miraculous acrobatics of his mind, that he is able to keep this mother figure on a pedestal and in the gutter at the same time.

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