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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.


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:


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.


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...


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?"


"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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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.


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, 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 ...
... I'm on my back and he's...
... oh my god, yes...
Uh... look, honey, he's fucking me so hard that my toes are pointing!
Yes, oh yeah...
... Oh, yes, my toes are pointing.
(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...

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


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.

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?

DSC01296.edit copy

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.


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


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.


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?


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.


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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