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A Phone Whore Asks… (aka Who’s Got a Mailbag for ME)

I’ve done Ask A Phone Whore columns, where I dip into the virtual mailbag and answer your questions. (That mailbag is open, by the way; you can throw your questions my way anytime, either here or on Facebook.) But I gotta say, I’ve got a growing collection of my own questions to ponder as well. I don’t think they can necessarily or definitively be answered. I mean, I might try in a future blog post. But mostly I just have these questions, and they burn, the mental equivalent of a post-fuck, unlubed asshole…

• When a guy comes at the end of his 7-minute call, and then calls again 15 minutes later, for another seven minutes, and comes again… why do I feel like I failed? I mean, he requested me for the second call. He obviously got something out of it both times. Why do I take the situation to mean that I wasn’t good enough to get all of the jizz out of him for the day? Isn’t it more likely that he’s a statistical outlier and just has a lot of come?
  

  SHOW ME THE MONEY

• Why don’t my regulars tip me around the winter holidays?
• When I tell a caller to squeeze his own balls or stick his finger in his mouth after it’s been in his own ass, or any other action that is most often performed by someone else as an act of power play… how can I tell that he’s actually doing it? And why does it matter whether he is or isn’t?
• If all that I do for a caller is repeat the lines he feeds me (“tell me to fuck Mommy’s ass”) and say “uh-huh-oh-yeah”—standard phone-sex stereotype, in other words—what about my performance, in that limited range, is making the caller request me? Seriously, this guy is a complete no-brainer.
• What is the ratio of guys fantasizing about being cuckolded to actual, consensually negotiated cuckolding? How does that ratio change when you throw sucking BBC into the mix?
• A couple of weeks ago I packed two suitcases and my toiletry bag while on the phone with the horrible Extreme Top. I found the activity diffused his awfulness, and kept me from getting physically wrought up, the way that I do when I’m just lying on the bed to take his call. He didn’t notice anything different. Yesterday I was just carefully disentangling my cell phone charger from my computer charger, trying to start getting ready to go out—he called, as is his wont, with an open call on a day when I was trying to be somewhere else soon—and he said, “What are you doing? I’ll wait until you’re finished.” I didn’t change my voice or lose track of the narrative or anything. What exactly, then, tipped him off that I was doing something else?