CALL OF THE DAY: Return to Duty
Today was my first day back on the phones since July 25, an unprecedented seven-week gap in my availability. Someone had to be driving the welcome wagonâ€”unless today turned out to be one of those fortunately rare no-call days, that would be a shitty way to return to workâ€”but I was dreading that first call. Not dreading so much as fearing it. Like, what if I forgot how to do it? What if I get Extreme Top? What if I spent so much time in the show (34 shows in six weeks) that I got hooked on the four “calls” in the script and lost my improv skills that are so crucial to the actual work?
The first call came in at around 10:30am. Of course it wouldn’t be an archetypal Return to Duty moment if something wasn’t being interrupted: in this case, it was hot coffee, an oven-warm piece of quiche, and freshly cut fruit. My billet host and my MontrÃ©al lover were sitting around the table, and even though I had done the usual sign-in and got my index-card box ready and reminded them to be quiet if the phone rang, we all froze for a split second.
“Hi, this is Cameryn.” As I said it, I felt the rhythm and tone settle into my vocal cords; okay, I remember this.
The owner normally works dispatch in the mornings, and today was no exception. She welcomed me back with more than usual warmth, and when I admitted to her that I was actually a little nervous, she laughed and said, “You’ve never said anything like that to me before! And don’t worry, you won’t forget.” We chatted for a bit about the tour, but I finally said, oh god, please, who is the caller? She said his name, and I didn’t even need the number, I had it memorized: Titty-Fuck Rosary. A request.
Now, he’s not my absolute favorite callerâ€”for reasons I talk about hereâ€”but he’s certainly pleasant to work with. He’s polite, he’s specific about what his current hot buttons are, and if his calls don’t tax my creativity in the slightest, he is often good for a repeat call. He sometimes doesn’t judge his own turn-on level accurately, but he never blames me if he doesn’t come during the first 20-minute session.
Today we went straight to the harder edge of his fantasies: I am a Third Reich dominatrix, with platinum blonde hair under the officer’s hat and 34LL tits sporting swastika pasties. (I don’t even know if letters have any meaning in bra sizes at that point, but whatever.) And he, being an N-word with a big N-word cock… well, obviously he must acknowledge my racial superiority, as embodied in my enormous Aryan titties that I am brutally fucking his huge black cock with. I will demonstrate his inferiority by making him spray all over my gigantic, creamy-white, Nazi tits.
If there’s one reminder that I can always use, it’s this: human sexuality, man. It is astonishing.