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Call of the Day: Larry’s view on marriage

I am going to be digging back through some of my old Facebook posts for what I label Calls of the Day, just little snapshots of some of my more interesting encounters. Let's start the new series with this one, fresh off the phone...

Loyal readers of mine from Facebook may remember this regular of mine, an older gentleman from Alabama who charms the fucking socks off me every time we talk. He likes me to "talk dirty" for about a minute, to unleash a burst of panty-sniffing, piss-drinking, ass-fucking profanity at him. He comes, and then we spend the rest of the call just... talking.

The first time he called me, we ended up discussing fertilizer and sunlight for his flowers (he's a dedicated gardener). Other times it's been the relative merits of Krystal Burgers to any other sliders available in his area, and how he'd love to have me rake his leaves naked and then he'd buy me some Krystal burgers for our date.  Things like that.

I'm always really glad to hear from him, partly because he really is an old man, getting close to 70. (I know, because his birthday is in a couple of weeks. Jeezus, I know his birthday.) He has told me about some of his health problems, and frankly, I worry if I don't hear from him once a month. But I also love to talk with him because sometimes... he just comes up with stuff out of what feels like NOWHERE, that makes me feel even better about who he is as a person. I don't need to feel good about my callers, but I like to.

Yesterday, Larry gave me this: "You probably wouldn't guess this about me, darlin', but I read and study the Bible." Oh, well, that doesn't surprise me too much. "Well, this might get me into trouble with a lot of other people, but I don't think the Lord's view on marriage is what everyone thinks it is." Really. "Yes, now, all it says in the Bible is that when a man cleaves unto a woman, they are married in God's eyes. The Old Testament Jewish wedding, they didn't have any rabbi up there running a ceremony, they just got together in a tent and did it." Uh-huh.

"So really, I could go out and have sex with 12 women in a row and I'm married to each one of them." Uh-HUH. I think your wife might have something to say about that, Larry.

I love Larry.

making strange men come

At one point in my play Phone Whore, I spin out the list of things that I like about doing phone sex, and I admit that I like making random strange men come. "I really do enjoy the power," I say with a wry smile that I never  have to fake in a performance, because it is totally true.

I have always really, really enjoyed the power of making people come. This pre-dates my involvement in paid phone sex by decades. It's definitely not only phone sex, either. I get the thrill in video-chat encounters and face-to-face fucking, too. But yesterday I think I isolated the thing that gets me going, and it is in the voice, whatever else may be going on.

I suppose this is another thing that makes phone work a particularly good match for me: I love to make people audibly lose it. It's not an ego-stroke thing for me. It's not even a pleasure-giving mission, although I'm always glad to help and I'm happy when people feel good. It's... Wait. Let me start over.

Yesterday I made someone come. I got to watch, but mostly I was listening. His breath quickened, harsh and uneven, and his voice trembled as he approached release, went higher, and higher still as he lost his verbal abilities, gasped and stuttered, and then simply cried out, pleading for me to say the words that would let him go. Because it was for me to say.

(This is also true in paid phone sex too, but that is mostly a function of my being the one to watch the clock and pace the encounter. With this person, that is our arrangement. He comes when I say.)

And so I said it. Come for me. Come for me now. And he did, in a flurry of inchoate sound that pierced me right between my lungs, a sharp joy that left me breathless, that brought tears to my eyes as I listened to the rapture of his pure, unselfconscious core. Afterward, while he was catching his breath, I tried to explain. Maybe I was explaining as much to myself as to him. "I'm not religious or spiritual or woo-woo, really I'm not," I said, wiping my eyes with a little bit of embarrassment, "but I think that is my way of worship." I don't know what I'm worshiping, exactly, but I know, if I'm lucky, I get to worship every day.

So yeah, I do like to make strange men come. Sometimes it's a new guy, or maybe it's a favorite regular. Maybe it's someone I know well, or someone I just met and want to be closer. Doesn't matter, and now I know why: Even though the personal connections are different, and the moans and groans are different... it's all one core. I get to hear it, I get to see it. It is my privilege and honor and, yes, power to add fuel to that sacred fire. If I listen carefully, the path is clear, and at the end of it all, for just a few pure moments, the sounds of their wordless frenzied bliss will rush in to fill my heart.


nice guys sometimes finish first

I'm glad he keeps requesting me. He's a nice guy, not that it matters. Asshole money spends the same as nice-guy money, and I'm not being paid to care whether he's nice or not, I'm being paid to get him off. But it's nice that he's nice. When I was balancing hot plates of pancakes and endless cups of coffee as a waitress, it did make a difference whether I set them in front of a gentleman who thanked me nicely and asked how my evening classes were going, or in front of an asshole who, no matter what I did, I could tell from his scowl, was going to leave me a meager tip in a puddle of syrup.

It does make a difference, that he's nice and that he likes what I do. We've gotten into a comfortable routine, too: a little bit of pain and a whole lot of begging on my part. Occasionally he brings in a second girl or sets me in the doctor's office, but usually it's just pain and begging, and sometimes me comforting him afterward, if he mentions the shame I know he always feels. It's a routine. A hot, nasty routine. As hot and nasty as it is, it's easy to settle into it.

But this is totally not a face-to-face unpaid relationship, right? If he wants to try something else, he doesn't have to ask me to change, we don't have to have that awkward conversation if he doesn't want to or if I'm not doing the new thing right. He could just find someone else. But he doesn't, and I'm glad, because it lets us play.

His most recent kick is to have me put on a Slavic accent and talk about the factory back in the "old country" and how he used to be my supervisor and I fled the country and he tracked me down here and I still Owe Him.

Disclaimer: my Russian accent in English sucks. Bad. He could almost assuredly find a Eastern European phone sex operator somewhere else, who could probably give better details than I can about gritty factory work and oppressive supervisors. But he's a nice guy, and he doesn't care about the details that much. He doesn't care that my accent fades in and out like a bad henna dye job. He puts on his own bad accent and we play.

Accuracy, in fact, is a little distracting when we only have 10 minutes. Yesterday, when he asked me who I had given head to first as a teenager, I instantly popped out with "Sasha". That's a diminutive for Aleksandr, TOTALLY a common boy's name in Russia, and if I were going to be doling out blow jobs to neighbors in cramped, cabbage-smelling coop housing, Sasha—any number of Sashas—would very likely be a top contender. So I said, "Sasha." And he said, in a voice that was a little out of scene, "that's kind of a girly name." "Aleksandr," I amended hastily, and we got back into it.

Now, if he were an impatient, hypercritical bastard—phone sex's maple-syrup-tip-dipping equivalent—he might have dropped me then, or at any point these last few months, for not getting it exactly right. But he's not that guy. He knows I understand the dynamic he's looking for, he likes my polyglot whimpering, and he knows that whatever thing he's bringing to the table for this call, I'll go right along with it. Because I'm that girl.

Slut Salon #2: the Stop-Hatin’ Edition

Yeah, this weekly phone check-in with my far-flung friends and fans is actually working out AMAZINGLY. Mona and Amy—both from Michigan, oddly enough—came out to last night's Slut Salon, and we had a great time!

As predicted by last week's salon participants, the conversation easily expanded to fill the new one-hour length. We started in New Orleans (background: I met Amy there when I joined the Krewe of Drunken Whores for a walking parade during 2011 Mardi Gras) and wound our way through Fetlife as an awesome online resource and community space for kinksters and sexually curious people (disclosure: Fetlife is a promotional sponsor of my tour, and they are AWESOME).

Pretty quickly we got to the question that I had wanted to discuss last night: who do you talk to about sex, and how does that work out for you? More and more I am struck by the feeling that I really do live in a sex-positive bubble, and that most people don't have space in their lives to discuss sex, even as adults. Mona and Amy had a lot to say on why talking about sex might be problematic for people, and what their own experiences have been in terms of being open with both old and new acquaintances, and what the various attitudes are, from envy to fear.

Made the jump toward the end to talking about woman-on-woman bitchiness around body size (that's called "fat hate" or fatphobia, y'all). Both Amy and I have had the experience of dancing and performing as larger women, and we talked about how other women's envy for one's perceived freedom from fear or restraint, in body size or sex or whatever sphere, often turns into horizontal hostility. "Why do you get to dance with your belly hanging out, or have as many lovers as you want, at your size? Why can't I do that? ... Well, if I can't have that freedom, no one can!"

So, yeah... this was almost an hour long and CHOCK full of good stuff. You can listen here...

Again, if you want to participate, take a look at my calendar here to see when the next Slut Salon is and then drop me a line at littleblackbookproductions@gmail.com to get the call-in details. There’s a four-person maximum, so sign up early if you see a date that works for you. I’m really enjoying getting to know you all!


There is no formula for which days will be slow. Some are obvious, like Super Bowl Sunday or Christmas (and even so, some operators will make bank on those days). But I can't even begin to guess at the variables going into the collective hormonal ebb and flow that made that Wednesday three weeks ago a bangin' phone party, and this Wednesday deader than a ... I don't know what. A really dead thing, that coincidentally is not making me any money lying there dead.

It's not a day off, though, mind you, because I still can't leave the house. So I fill the day with other stuff. Calling up colleges and venues to book my show, knowing that any gigs I get aren't going to help me now, but hoping to stabilize the income stream down the road, at least. Doing dishes that stacked up from the last two days, when there were some calls that interrupted my housework. Reading, petting the cat, planning my actual vacation, occasionally stepping outside for five minutes of pale wintry sunshine.

long cat doesn't mind. long cat is long and very content with the silence. Even after more than a year with his phone-sex mom, long cat is disturbed by phone sex, starting with the loud ring of the landline and right on through to all the sound effects and moans I have to do. When he leaps off the bed with a chirp and stalks out the door, I imagine that his backward glance at me is fully loaded with disapproval. Too bad, long cat. Where do you think your Meow Mix comes from?

On slow days, the occasional phone ring becomes startling. It's easy for me to forget why exactly I'm lying here, card file next to my left elbow, phone within reach. I'm memorizing lines or Facebooking or emailing or playing online Boggle. When the phone rings, my brain explodes for one startling moment, and then I have a second ring in which to pull myself together. "Hi, this is Cameryn... yes, I'm ready."

Hastily digging out the customer card, or piecing together my traits for a new guy--my age, my tit size, my ass, my voice--I'm reminded what it is I do for money. I'm available to talk about sex on demand. But if for one day demand is low, then it's harder for me to jump.

Post-tour funk (you can’t really dance to it)

Post-tour re-entry has been a little rough, people, I'm not gonna lie. It's been about 6 weeks, and I'm just starting to wake up again and face the day-to-day realities of doing full-time phone sex: bad body posture from slouching around on my bed all day (damn, and I left my lap desk in Montreal); the self-denial of needing to stay in most evenings and be available for calls; the interrupted dinners and cold pork chops all over again.

I'm living a sedentary life again, and that is a challenge. I didn't even think about how active my life was on tour while I was doing it, because it just had to be done. And then, boom, 6 to 8 hours a day walking around down to zero again. I mean, never mind all the face-to-face people time that I'm no longer getting! It's a surefire recipe for post-tour funk.

The late-night hours have taken some getting used to, too, even though I was definitely living the night life out on tour. It's one thing to be up until 3am because you're hanging out with other performers at a bar, and another thing altogether to be up until 3am because you're hoping against hope that you can slip one last call into the pay period.

It's taken time to let customers know that I'm here again. I knew heading out on tour that I'd be losing some regulars, but I didn't know how many and how much that would affect my pay. Some have managed to find me again, either while I was traveling or now that I'm back, but most have moved on and found another girl to help them get their rocks off, which I don't grudge at all. I'm good, yes, maybe even great, but I have no delusions that I'm irreplaceable.

I knew it, but it's still a hard truth to face: phone work is a totally different venue for my performing skills. It just is. A show has reviews, and blurbs in the program books, and a script that's all dog-eared, and people who are still staying in touch to find out when I'm bringing Phone Whore back to their city, or what my next play is about. Phone sex is ephemeral, and most of my fans last as long as it takes to accumulate a load of crusty socks and run them through the wash...

So, in case you were wondering where I've been, it's not that I'm not here, because I am. It's that I'm working on being back.

SMUT SLAM = erotica + poetry slam + my dirty mouth

Oh my god, there is so much coming up in the next few months, and yes, I will tell you about all of that soon, but I wanted to get you started with THIS...

Little Black Book Productions PRESENTS


Wednesday, February 23, 2011 * 6:30 to 9pm
Kennedy's Midtown, 42 Province St. Boston
...(5 minutes from Park Street or State St. T)
Admission: $5, 21+ only

You know what a poetry slam is, and maybe you know about story slams, too.** Now it's time for Boston's first-ever SMUT SLAM, a fast-paced night of storytelling based on real life, real lust, real sex. The theme for this SMUT SLAM is "surprise!"

SMUT SLAMMERS sign up on the night to tell a 5-minute piece of smut/sex/erotica, based on their real lives and ideally relating to the them of Surprise!, and a lucky eight to ten names will be drawn at random. There will be a team of 3 to 5 judges - interested amateurs, storytellers, theater people, sex workers, and anyone who loves sex stories. At intermission, slammers and audience alike have the opportunity to challenge Cameryn Moore, the Phone Whore, in a lightning-fast IRON SMUT ROUND, where participants receive 3 randomly chosen words or phrases and then must use those in two-minute smut fictional narratives created ON THE SPOT.


Don't worry. The audience is in for a good time at SMUT SLAM! Sit back and enjoy. All we ask is:
- No interrupting.
- No heckling.
- No necking.

Get complete rules at the Facebook event page!

Search-term syntax and finding the Phone Whore

... or, How the FUCK did they find me with THAT?!

I did this once before and it amused me to no end. Now that I'm trying to get back on the blog-horse, after 6 months on the road (more about that in subsequent posts), I thought I'd try it again as a nice re-entry point.

WordPress, you see, can tell you the terms that people use when they stumble across your blog.  And I gotta say, although I can't figure how to use this for marketing purposes, it cracks my shit up. Let's take a look at the breakdown for the last 7 days, shall we?

38 variations on Cameryn Moore, Phone Whore.
After doing 73 shows in 18 cities, with posters all over the fucking place, I should hope the name is sticking in people's heads at least a little bit.

10 cuckolds. These are some of my more involved specialty calls, so of course I've written about these. Excellent search combos include "what it's like to be a cuckold" (well, embarrassing, right?), "sissy cuck toilet slave at a party" (you know what they say about parties: clean up as you go along!), and my personal favorite of this crop, "swingers Jamal cuckold" (there's a story right there, in three words).

8 searches for "toilet slave", including the obvious variant "shit pig". If I were really into scat as part of my sexual identity, I think I'd probably go with shit pig, rather than toilet slave. It feels so much more empowering, you know?

7 for "office fuck". Are they looking for tips for making that happen?

And the rest are one-hit wonders like "free streaming mature perversities", "cream pie housewife", and "selebratie tits". That last one I don't know if they meant "celebrity tits" or "celebrate tits". Either way, baby, I got 'em and I DO.


Starting this week, I'll be digging back through 6 months of my show Phone Whore and bringing out the highlights reel. I mean, for those of you who follow me on facebook, you know a lot of it, but it's different when you're not limited to 420 characters. And stay tuned for exciting news about my radio show and more public appearances, and PLANS FOR NEXT YEAR'S TOUR. Yep. I'll be doing it again, and maybe this time you can catch me!

First weekend on the Fringe

Everything held together, Phone Whore premiered in Montreal and did great, the pissy weather held off until today, and now my head and feet are aching from too much walking and not enough sleep. I have some pictures on my computer, but I need to sort through them. Here on my homestay desk I have a heap of coins that still feel like play money. Receipts are stacking up; time to do some filing. And today I go and open my Canadian bank account. Woo-hoo! That's show biz.

Meanwhile, on the phone-sex front things are going slow. I have been working round the clock for so long, and evenings are when most of my regulars call. Have called. Used to call. I'm plugging in and putting in that 5 hours a day, but those are daytime hours and really I'm just covering the lines. And when you throw the travel days on top of that, well, it's just going to be slow and my boss isn't very happy. Sigh. I really do need something better than rain outside right now.


I may be keeping my photo diary on facebook, so make sure you friend me over there!

a semi-real moment in an unreal life

I love the calls where I get to be myself.

I mean, I'm never myself entirely. I'm always my PSO name who, depending on who I'm talking to, may be anywhere from 29 to 58, with 0 to 2 kids (possibly nursing), a time-share in a dungeon, a husband and two lovers, and/or an 8-inch fully functioning dick.

But some callers, like the guy I just finished, they are so ready to talk and take whatever I dish out, I can let my personality setting slide pretty damn close to the default. Because I don't have to keep track of my vocal pitch, or whether I'm laughing too much, or whether my pussy is shaved or not. I don't have to steer clear of my fingers in his ass, or pinching his balls, or getting him into an old pair of his girlfriend's panties.

I don't even need to worry about whether he prefers "dick" vs. "cock", because he really is into anything. I just get to curse him and pound the armrest of the easy chair and pull out all the good stuff from my virtual sex-toy chest. I tell him in detail about all the tastes he's getting--sweat and pussy juice and that flavor that can only be found two inches deep into my ass. I pin his arms down with my legs, tease his cock that's trapped in a pair of green satin panties, and by the end of the call I'm laughing loudly, in my normal laugh, while he catches his breath and jokingly grouses about having to wipe his own come off of his neck.

I'm not coming, but DAMN, I'm having fun.


Just so you all know, I am going to be posting notes and photos and vids from my tour at this blog. So sometimes you'll get stuff like today's note, you know, lotsa good raunch, and occasionally you might get a picture of me wearing a fedora and putting some Fringe staff member in a headlock. Just saying. Things could... get a little random up in this joint.

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