I wish some of my callers were braver
Last night I was at a dinner party at a friend’s, someone who is really chill with me using her landline to receive calls while I’m over there. The calls I got were thankfully not onerous or particularly challenging: a couple of cocksuckers, my devoted pussy-eater, and one of my less compliant Extreme Subs. They were so far from noteworthy that I can’t remember which one I had just finished when I stepped out of the room and had a moment of clarity: I am lucky.
I am lucky to have the sort of friends who have created with me the sort of social environment where it is totally okay for me to take calls while dinner is cooking or being served or even in the middle of me taking a bite from my delicious tostada with homemade refried beans. I am lucky to have those sorts of friends, where it is all good and Cameryn’s on call and “oh yeah” and understanding nods. It doesn’t mean that they will necessarily leave me any of the good food, I have to set up my plate beforehand if I want to guarantee anything left, but there is no judgment. It is what it is. I am very, very lucky in the way that my life is, and I am lucky to be here in it.
Because I definitely could have crumbled, numerous times. I have had some really fucking rough spots, some times when I was like, FUCK, why couldn’t I have figured that out 10 years ago. I have had heart-pounding encounters in sex clubs. I have had rage-inducing moments where my parents called out my supposed sex life, or my roommate ripped into me for the sex talk seeping through the floorboards. I have had scary conversations with my partners where I wanted to contract into myself like an emotional black hole and just pop out of existence from the pressure when I become a dot.
But last night, looking at the people in that room, I thought to myself, and I think I said out loud, I am lucky. There are people in my life that I can share my sex stuff with, and get those needs met. Every secret shame, every new toy, every problematic crush, every pervy thing that I want to do or watch or talk about… I have people to share that with. I’m privileged to be in a life that doesn’t immediately turn on me and kill me for my desires. I’m lucky.
It isn’t just luck. I’m also bold. This doesn’t just happen. One has to put oneself out there. One has to suck it up and SAY what one wants, and watch to see who runs off screaming, who pulls in close, and who holds back a bit, that’s not for me, or, I don’t know, but I still love you. I try to put it out there. That’s something. That’s not nothing.
At the party last night, I thought about my guys calling in to talk over stuff with me, the sorts of things that I talk about with friends and lovers FOR FREE, because we think these things are part of what makes us cool and wonderful and desirable. I thought about how scary it is for me to keep finding myself and sharing it with people. And I thought, at least some of my guys—a good portion of them—are paying for the privilege of exploring their sexuality while avoiding personal risk and scary talk and maybe people running off screaming.
I try not to judge my callers about anything, not out loud. I don’t know what their deal is. But the truth is, these fuckers have credit cards, and they are mostly straight-identified white guys. If they want to pay rather than open up to their girlfriends or wives about what’s the deal with the panties, that’s a valid option for them. It makes sense. There are reasons. There are always reasons. But at the same time I can’t help thinking that, for some of them, it is a… kinda cowardly existence. No, I’ll just say it: I think some of my callers are chicken shits. Some of them could take a chance and and step up to their own lives and talk about their desires with someone face to face. So far they haven’t. I wish they would. For their sakes, i wish they would.
Because out here on the edge, in the fresh air, I mean, yes, it’s scary. But the view sometimes is gorgeous.