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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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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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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.

Call of the Day: anatomy of a first-time caller

It's my only caller so far today, a new guy, not only to me and to the company, but he's never done phone sex in his life, he says, and I believe him. Per my usual approach, I greet him and describe myself within 45 seconds; a 10-minute call gives me a little bit of room for that, as opposed to the lightning-round 7-minute package, but not much. He spends WAY longer describing himself than most guys do, not because he's being narcissistic, but because a) he pauses a lot and speaks slow, and b) he wants to give me a detailed physical description that, honestly, sounds legit.

Okay, down to 7:45. Let's play Top Three, where we each get to say the things we like to do or talk about and see where our interests overlap. My standards: deep throating, ass play (either way), girl on top. (These are all true, BTW.)

"I like all those. I also really like to watch women masturbate, and see what turns them on." He then tells all about his first wife being a "closet perv" and his second wife liking to turn the camera on herself and watching herself while she jacks off. He is enjoying telling the stories, but I'm not hearing any audible signs of him being turned on.

Um. We're down to 4:15. I just want to let you know that we have about 5 minutes left.

"Oh, okay!" Then he proceeds to ask me some other stuff, like, he's legitimately curious. I try to steer it toward a culmination, but he is ... information gathering?

Overtime, at -0:15. Honey, our time is up. I am not trying to run you up, but it sounded like you really wanted to tell me about some of this stuff. If you want to call me back, I'll be here for the rest of the afternoon, or you can call back and ask for me some other day.

"Oh, yeah, definitely. <my phone name>, right?"

Yep!

Twenty minutes later, he calls back, for another 10. I start out by clarifying: So this is the first time you've ever done phone sex?

"Yeah." I want to ask him why, at the age of 51, he decided to start now, but that's not going to further the discussion at hand, and he is already getting into something else, asking in a very polite way if I would consider talking to him and his wife sometime. "She's played around a little bit with a friend of hers, but she's still curious. Could I prepay and then you call her?"

Um, no, you'd have to be the one taking the call.

"Yes, of course, that's what I mean."

Sure, if she's into it, you could put me on speakerphone and we could talk. (In my head, I'm rolling my eyes. But I know, anecdotally, that those kinds of calls can work.)

Down to 4 minutes again. How did that happen? He just keeps wanting to talk about ... stuff. I wanted to let you know we have about four minutes left.

"That's fine."

Um, I just wanted to make sure, you do have your hand on your cock, right?

"Yes, I do!" So I lay out a couple of different ways he could get a good look at my pussy, and he is into both of them, but he's NOT MOVING ON IT and I'm not able to push any faster. He doesn't sound frustrated, either, he's just enjoying the talk.

DING. We've hit 0:00. So, I gotta go, but I hope you'll call me back sometime.

"Definitely!"

And if you're going to get your wife on the line, too, make sure that you order, um, enough time for all of it.

"Yes, of course. Thank you!"

I'm unsettled—I rarely get someone entirely new to phone sex, and usually everyone is pretty outcome-oriented—but it is what it is. He's pleasant enough, and remembers my name. Afterward I had to remind myself that it's not that he doesn't know how to "do" phone sex. Maybe this is how he's going to do it, and I just didn't recognize it at first.

Call of the Day: anatomy of a first-time caller

It's my only caller so far today, a new guy, not only to me and to the company, but he's never done phone sex in his life, he says, and I believe him. Per my usual approach, I greet him and describe myself within 45 seconds; a 10-minute call gives me a little bit of room for that, as opposed to the lightning-round 7-minute package, but not much. He spends WAY longer describing himself than most guys do, not because he's being narcissistic, but because a) he pauses a lot and speaks slow, and b) he wants to give me a detailed physical description that, honestly, sounds legit.

Okay, down to 7:45. Let's play Top Three, where we each get to say the things we like to do or talk about and see where our interests overlap. My standards: deep throating, ass play (either way), girl on top. (These are all true, BTW.)

"I like all those. I also really like to watch women masturbate, and see what turns them on." He then tells all about his first wife being a "closet perv" and his second wife liking to turn the camera on herself and watching herself while she jacks off. He is enjoying telling the stories, but I'm not hearing any audible signs of him being turned on.

Um. We're down to 4:15. I just want to let you know that we have about 5 minutes left.

"Oh, okay!" Then he proceeds to ask me some other stuff, like, he's legitimately curious. I try to steer it toward a culmination, but he is ... information gathering?

Overtime, at -0:15. Honey, our time is up. I am not trying to run you up, but it sounded like you really wanted to tell me about some of this stuff. If you want to call me back, I'll be here for the rest of the afternoon, or you can call back and ask for me some other day.

"Oh, yeah, definitely. <my phone name>, right?"

Yep!

Twenty minutes later, he calls back, for another 10. I start out by clarifying: So this is the first time you've ever done phone sex?

"Yeah." I want to ask him why, at the age of 51, he decided to start now, but that's not going to further the discussion at hand, and he is already getting into something else, asking in a very polite way if I would consider talking to him and his wife sometime. "She's played around a little bit with a friend of hers, but she's still curious. Could I prepay and then you call her?"

Um, no, you'd have to be the one taking the call.

"Yes, of course, that's what I mean."

Sure, if she's into it, you could put me on speakerphone and we could talk. (In my head, I'm rolling my eyes. But I know, anecdotally, that those kinds of calls can work.)

Down to 4 minutes again. How did that happen? He just keeps wanting to talk about ... stuff. I wanted to let you know we have about four minutes left.

"That's fine."

Um, I just wanted to make sure, you do have your hand on your cock, right?

"Yes, I do!" So I lay out a couple of different ways he could get a good look at my pussy, and he is into both of them, but he's NOT MOVING ON IT and I'm not able to push any faster. He doesn't sound frustrated, either, he's just enjoying the talk.

DING. We've hit 0:00. So, I gotta go, but I hope you'll call me back sometime.

"Definitely!"

And if you're going to get your wife on the line, too, make sure that you order, um, enough time for all of it.

"Yes, of course. Thank you!"

I'm unsettled—I rarely get someone entirely new to phone sex, and usually everyone is pretty outcome-oriented—but it is what it is. He's pleasant enough, and remembers my name. Afterward I had to remind myself that it's not that he doesn't know how to "do" phone sex. Maybe this is how he's going to do it, and I just didn't recognize it at first.

Call of the Day: the taste of mother love

He's got a cameo in Phone Whore: caller #3, the mommyfucker. From remarks that the dispatchers have made, I know that I'm not his only phone mommy, but when I get a call from him, it's almost always a request. For a long time now, he's been wanting to hear about this marvelous symbiosis that we have, well, he doesn't use that word, but that's what it is: I drink his delicious jizz, as much as I want, which is always a lot, and he sucks up my pussy juice and (sometimes) breast milk by the gallon, that's what makes his cum taste so sweet.

Frequently, like tonight, I throw a party where I show off his prowess, er, I mean, LOVE, yeah, his love to my friends. They gather around the specially made coffee table in the living room, where he is lying on his back and I am kneeling over his mouth, and we show them how much we love each other by how much we come in and on each other, and at the end, I aim his cock at my friends and they get to see exactly how much love he has for me. His mother love flows over me and them like a barrel of creamy white paint thrown at the side of a barn. That, or he comes in my ass. Either way, you know, it's all good.

TANGENT: There's very much a flavor fantasy happening in here, something that is pretty common among my callers who want me to put any bodily fluids or waste in their mouths. This caller talks about how sweet my "juices" are, and creamy white; the way he describes it, I imagine the frosting on a Cinnabun. In actual fact, my ejaculate is clear and watery and, while NOT PISS, still has that slightly salty, coming-out-of-my-cunt-region bouquet. (On top of that, I would suffer total cell collapse from how much fluid he has me lose, but hey, that's one of the great things about fantasy: medical impossibilities!) Other guys who are into eating my shit talk about that chocolate coming out of my ass, which tells me that they have likely never put their nose within 10 feet of a scat scene.

Anyway, this caller has grown up a little since we first talked, almost three years ago. Instead of maybe 10 or 11, he's now playing a 17- or 18-year-old, as far as I can tell. And he's gotten bossier, too, feeding me my lines like a heavy-breathing prompter in the theater wings: "Don't you love to show me off, mommy?" "Tell me how your magic juices sprinkle out of you first, mommy, and then it gets thicker when I go deeper in." But he still gets desperate toward the end of the call—"mommy, I love you so much, oh my god, I love you, tell me how much you love me"—and I have to dig deep and come hard to make him happy.

Today, I feel like I struck gold. Same scene as usual, same rivers of cum and fountains of jizz, same chorus of amazed friends, gathered around the table to witness our magical bond. In the middle of it, he said: "Can I climb up into your pussy, mommy?"

Of course you can, baby. I've been waiting for you to ask.

Call of the Day: Oh my god, SHOES

He usually calls during his lunch break, a young-sounding man who talks less than almost any other caller that I've ever had. He responds mostly to direct questions. (You like watching Mommy through the bathroom door, don't you? "Yeah.") Occasionally he will blurt out a command ("Unzip my pants, Mommy"), but mostly it's just... "Yeah."

So I'm surprised that somehow, after two years of irregular, infrequent calls, I've figured out his button, because it's very, very specific, and symbolically charged in a way that I can't quite pin down: white sneakers, worn with a nightgown and robe. And I mean, seriously charged. Today he was in my ass, doggy-style, after 20 minutes of build-up, and he suddenly said, as he has often in the past, "I like your shoes, Mommy."

I know you do, baby, you helped me choose them, remember?
"Will you take them off?"
Well, in this position I can't really reach them. You're going to have to take them off for me.
"Should I untie them or just pull them off?"
Just pull them right off, honey, it'll be quicker. ... There you go, there's the first one.
"Can I throw the other one?"
Of course you can, sweetie. As far as the kitchen, or just on the floor?
"On the floor."
Okay, just THROW it on the floor.
"Yeah."
You have to tell me when you come, honey.
"I just came, Mommy."

Call of the Day: Two Girls, One Plate, and a Steaming Douchecanoe

Extreme Top. I've talked about him before, and what a foaming douchenozzle he is, from a customer-service point of view. Let me reiterate: I am not bothered by the content of his calls, but his attitude. I usually can handle it. Mostly. But this last call put me right over the edge.

** he said he was drunk.

** "you've gotten to come a lot lately, now you need to make me come" (as if it was my greedy-pig fault that for at least the last ten calls he has ordered me to come as many as 20 times in a 45-minute period. You do the math. That shreds my vocal cords, the way he likes me to come.)

** "C'mon, honey, make daddy come" (as if there is a magic sequence of words that triggers his ejaculation, because FUCK THE MONEY I would say it within 10 minutes of the start of every call)

** "Make me come, baby" AS IF I CAN DO ANYTHING ABOUT WHAT IS OR IS NOT HAPPENING ON THAT SIDE OF PHONE.

** "Honey, I really want to come." (I AM SURE YOU DO, but if you are shoving coke up your nose by the shovelful and/or getting drunk, you can't call a phone sex line, put your PSO on hold in the middle while you reload, and then BLAME HER BECAUSE YOU CAN'T FUCKING COME. I CANNOT FIGHT CHEMISTRY).

** "Make me come, baby" (I want to kill you and soak up your blood with a donut, IT WOULD BE THAT SWEET, GAAAAHHHHHHH.)

Do you understand? He was not doing this in the context of the scene, the fantasy. He was badgering his service provider, laying the entire responsibility on me for an I-can't-rub-one-out situation that is entirely his making.

After about 20 minutes of me talking about what a disgusting fuckpig I am—the usual stuff—he decides that he wants me to "degrade" my teenage daughters, sexually and scatalogically. Again, this is usual territory for him, and I know what he likes. Oh, yeah, I make them eat it up, my piss and shit, make them wallow in it, he's digging it, oh, god what a bad mother I am. "Baby, that's got me so hard." I think, well, they've eaten it from the source, what else can I do with it? I put it on a plate and make them eat it from that. You can almost hear the record scratch.

"Okay, now you're just getting weird."

...

"You're getting a little off-base."

Maybe I was a little snippy with my next comment: could you give me a little more guidance, then, daddy?

As soon as I heard him start to raise his voice, more than he usually does, that's when I lost it. I broke character, fell out of my terrified teen voice, and said, in my normal voice, except louder and more angrily: FUCK IT.

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