Call of the Day: Who’s my daddy?
This last Sunday morning was a bad morning. My Boston lover had been in town last week, but I had gotten my period unexpectedly in the middle of it, so all my plans for fuckery and general romantic sleaze—including a long-anticipated threesome—went right out the fucking window. I had hoped for the flow to stop before Boston daddy had to go home, but Sunday morning arrived with no abatement. Then I was cooking brunch for Boston Daddy and Montreal Foster Daddy and one of my hosts, a really delicious omelette, and of course the phone rang. Make it a chef’s scramble, I hissed to my foster daddy as I scurried out of the kitchen, phone in hand.
“It’s your favorite guy,” said the dispatcher with a heavy layer of sarcasm.
Shit. Extreme Top.
I have written about Extreme Top here, and here, and here. Look, I never promised that my Calls of the Day would be Callers of the Day; honestly, Extreme Top calls enough, and pushes enough of my buttons, and talks SO FUCKING MUCH, that I could do Calls of the Day only about him for months and not run out of material. But you all would end up hating me for it, so I haven’t and I won’t.
ANYWAY, the call came just in time to ruin my omelette presentation, and when I found out it was Extreme Top, I let out a huge sigh and the dispatcher asked, “Now what?” I told her that my lover was leaving in the next 15 minutes and I wanted to say good bye properly; thanks to my period and being in a festival, I don’t feel like I got enough quality time with him on this visit, and I won’t be seeing him again until late November. I think she could hear the lump in my throat, because she relented and offered to call me back in a minute or two, so I could say good bye.
So we did, and I got more and more teary-eyed with each kiss, but eventually Boston Daddy was strong for both of us and walked out and closed the door behind him, and I took the second call for Extreme Top. I covered my eyes with my hand and tried to pull it together; he wants my voice to sound young and submissive, but not crying. Not right away, at least.
“How are you doing, baby?” he asked.
Fine, I said. I’m fine.
“I want to make you come hard,” he said. “I feel like last time you got off easy. I want you to come a lot today.”
Extreme Top wants me to call him Daddy; it is part of the fantasy that he spins. My lovers in Boston and Montreal also like me to call them Daddy; this is part of the different games I play with them. They’re my good daddies, because they love me and actually want me to feel good. Extreme Top is my bad daddy, because he is an asshole customer and pretty frequently interrupts my brunch plans, too.
They are two sides of the same coin, though, as little as my good daddies want to hear it. They all share three things in common: they want me to be a slut. they want me to come. And my really big orgasms sound the same for them all: “daddy daddy daddy daddy,” over and over and over and over, until I run out of breath.
I didn’t want to come for Extreme Top that day. I always have to work hard for him, it’s really hard on my voice, and that day I was so far away from my sexy core, owing to my period and being tired from the festival and Boston daddy’s departure and the failed omelette, that I had to dig really, really deep. (Ah, yes, I reminded myself, this is acting!) Somehow I managed to find the muscle memory, and I worked myself up to it.
But when I started saying “daddy daddy daddy” in the middle of my pretend-orgasm, I felt my body go through the physiological shift too—clenched muscles, arched back—and I remembered that Boston Daddy was on the road, and Montreal Foster Daddy was sitting out there on the other side of the closed door, and I had only 11 days before my really hard-core touring starts, and after I leave I wouldn’t be with either of my good daddies for a long time. They are both really supportive and loving, and that’s exactly what I needed when faced with an international flight and a European tour. But it’s Extreme Top who gets to hear me give in.
Against all rational thought, I got angry. Why does Bad Daddy get that? He doesn’t deserve it!
I know, I know, I have to give Extreme Top what he wants. He’s the paying customer. It’s acting with him, more than with almost any of my other client, bsecause I despise him so much. I don’t mean it at all when I say “daddy” the way he likes me to say it, and I can live with it, most days. But not that day. That day I wished that his fantasy life and mine didn’t intersect in that particular way. I wanted to yell at him, stop just stop, I can’t do this today.
That day, I “came” five times in 35 minutes for a man whom I hate, and I mock-screamed “daddy daddy daddy daddy” until my throat hurt, which didn’t take long because that lump in my throat stayed with me during the whole call. And as I said “daddy” over and over, lying on my back, staring up at the ceiling, the tears leaked out of my eyes and trickled down to the back of my neck.
He thought I was overcome, gasping after I “came”, but really I was just trying to keep from weeping out loud.
I want my daddies, not you.
If you liked this post, be sure to browse around some more. I’ve been blogging about my work in phone sex for almost four years, since six months after I started in April 2009. And if you live in the UK, you’ll have a chance this year to hang out with me while I’m on call! Okay, not really, but that’s what my award-winning solo play Phone Whore feels like, and I’m bringing it to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival Aug. 1-25, and then to five other UK cities through mid-September. Follow those links to read all about the tour and my show, and if you do make it out, come up and say hi!