We both know what’s going to happen here…

card files

Hang on, I need to look up just how much I want to let you lick my boots.

Had another one today, another regular who, for some reason, felt compelled to dance around different scenarios before settling on the same one that we’ve been playing with for the last three years.

Yeah, I have a few of these guys. A couple of the more egregious offenders are definitely time wasters. I guess they like the sound of my voice enough that they want to prolong the experience, so they dawdle in the set-up. But for the rest of them, I know them pretty well, by phone-sex standards. I’d like to believe that I have built up a certain amount of trust and rapport with them. Why don’t these guys just SAY what they want?

Because the shitty thing is, I can’t press them to just SPIT IT OUT ALREADY, the way that I could if these were unpaid relationships. And I can’t just barrel on through to what I know they want to talk about, I can’t say, for example, “Listen, we both know that you really like to pull my pubic hairs out one by one, we can do that again.” If I get too specific and definite, I’m going to lose that willing suspension of disbelief that is part of any acting job. The callers will be pushed a little too close to the truth, that I have a card or cards for them in my index card box, that I don’t actually keep their vital stats and call history in my head, that it’s written down on paper. I feel like I need to spare them something that might feel like a humiliation.

Ugh. Maybe it all goes back to that stigma around using sex-work services. God forbid you should “have” to pay for getting some quality aural sex. Too much reminder that this is a business, and I am a service worker, and there goes the sex magic, all out the window.

Or maybe it’s part of not owning their fantasies. Still, after all of this time, if they suggest the direction they want to go, then they are responsible for all of the imaginary violence or blood or ass-fucking or pube-plucking. Whereas, if I say it, well, they’re just going along with what I want.

Goddamn, people draw weird lines around shit.

So, I tip-toe around their desires, pretending like I don’t know anything, that I don’t remember anything, but still trying to drop little crumbs of story to give them a hint that yes, I can handle anything they want to talk about. I’ve only been handling it twice a month for the past two years. And still they hem and haw and hesitate, until I want to scream.

Look, I want to say, we both know how you want to end this. There is nothing wrong with knowing the route ahead.

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