CALL OF THE DAY: when a call goes bad

I hate myself for wanting this, and I hate you for giving it to me.

I hate myself for wanting this, and I hate you for giving it to me.

It started out a normal, nothing-special, 10-minute call. He wanted an older girl with big tits. That would be me. I found his card, and scanned it quickly. Only two calls on it, back in December, 7-minute jobs, and again, nothing out of the ordinary, “BJ and titty-fuck”. Yes. Why else does a caller ask for big tits? Either they want a motherly type who’s not going to flip out about their cock-sucking propensities, or they want to use those tits in the most appropriate fashion.

I described myself to him, the usual way: taller, with big tits, long legs, and short, wavy, dark-blonde hair. He asked about my boyfriend; I said I have a few.

“How big is your boyfriend?”

Oh, maybe 7, 7 and a half inches. Not a elephant cock, but a little bigger than average. What have you got?

“I’m big, 9 inches.”

Wow, so that is an elephant cock! I said. That would look really nice between these tits. Some guys just get swallowed up by them, but nine inches would fit perfectly. He laughed, but it wasn’t the laugh of someone enjoying himself, and I felt myself shifting inside. What is going on here?

“You get a lot of guys in there?”

What, in my tits? A fair number. The guys I attract do like them. One of my boyfriends definitely likes to titty-fuck them.

This was by way of introducing what I thought would be his preferred approach. So I started giving him a blow job, but then he said he wanted to fuck my ass. Excellent, I said, 9 inches would go great in my ass.

He started laughing again, meanly, and I said, what? He said, “you should be an actress,” and kept laughing.


“You should be an actress.”


“There you are talking about getting your ass fucked, you got me believing it.”

Um. That is what you called for, isn’t it?

“Oh, yes, I just believe in calling a spade a spade.”

And I got you stroking your dick, didn’t I?

“Yes,” and more laughter. “I’m just a moron for doing that, aren’t I?”

What? No! I don’t think you’re a moron.

“You just got a whole bunch of morons wanting to get in your ass.” I tried to say that I don’t think any of my clients are morons, but he wasn’t listening. He was just laughing.

I don’t think you’ve come yet, have you? He said no.

I said, We only have a couple minutes left, I have to let you know. We had exactly one minute and 40 seconds left, but you never get that precise with a caller you don’t know really really well, well enough to know that they know that you are watching the clock.

“Oh, great, and now I’ve got a time limit.” He laughed some more.

You sound annoyed or frustrated.

“I’m not annoyed. I’m just laughing at the situation.” More laughter. It was a really evil, nasty laugh, and it was really grating on my nerves. “Where are you from? Houston? New Orleans?”

I don’t know why he said those cities, I don’t have any kind of accent. Oh, I’m not really from anywhere, I actually travel around. I wish I could tell lies more convincingly; “traveling around” does sound weird, but it’s true. I’m really not from anywhere.

“What do you do when you’re ‘traveling around’, go to all the titty bars?”

I took a deep breath and could almost taste the fumes of scorn emanating from the phone. No, I said, I don’t go to all the titty bars. He laughs again. I can’t remember what I said next, but somewhere in the middle of it I realized that I’m not hearing him any more. He hung up.

I should have called back to tell my dispatcher that the caller wasn’t happy with the call; I think in my confusion and anger I just forgot, but she called a couple of minutes later. “He called and said he didn’t like the call.” I know, I said. He went nine and a half minutes to figure it out, too. “What happened?” When she asked that, my irritation went even higher. I don’t know! I was doing a normal call, I was giving him all the attention I normally give a call. Suddenly he started getting angry and I don’t know why! “Okay, well, next time call me right away, okay?”

Next time. She knows damn well this hardly ever happens to me. I can count on one hand the number of times that someone has had a bad call with me over the past six years. I’m not saying that I haven’t had horrible calls, like Extreme Top on his bad days or some other ones that I’ve complained about here, but those are only horrible to me. The guys in those calls were doing fine.

This guy… he seemed annoyed that I was doing my work well. He seemed weirded out that I would be talking joyfully about butt sex. He didn’t seem to believe me about the size of my tits—which I say are 42DDD when ACTUALLY I’m a 48DDD—but he’s the one who threw down that he’s 6’3″ and has a 9″ dick. Like I’m supposed to believe that! But I didn’t start laughing at him. I went along with it, because it’s phone sex and that’s what you do.

This guy seemed almost resentful that he was paying money for someone to be interested in what he wanted to do, and he took his resentment out on me by giving really back-handed compliments about my performance quality. That is entitlement and whorephobia right there.

I reminded myself that it’s all about him and his self-loathing, not me. But ow, damn. Respect your sex worker, you fuck.


Like it? Then consider throwing down a few bucks a month to help me keep doing it!



No Comments
Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.