CALL OF THE DAY: Bilingual Papi and the Welcome-Home Buffet

I always suck the bones CLEAN. (And chew the ends. What? I'm talking about short ribs here.)

I always suck the bones CLEAN. (And chew the ends. What? I’m talking about short ribs here.)

Ever since the second year of my employment in phone sex, I’ve always toured, for at least six months out of the year. It wasn’t a terrible problem during the first three years, I just worked bare minimum hours on the days that I had shows, and adjusted for the time zone changes, and told my boss what days I need off in order to drive 13 hours to get to the next festival, and it was all fine.

When I started touring to the UK, though, things got a bit more touch and go. In 2013 I was gone for six weeks, and some of my guys went off their rockers just from that. Last year and this I toured the UK for four and a half MONTHS. This stressed my boss out, as well as my regulars; my boss started reminding me, two months before I left, to tell my guys that I would be gone all summer, and she kept asking me, during those reminders, if I really had to go. Yes, I would say patiently. This is my thing. You know that I am not trying to do this as a forever career. “I know,” she’d say, plaintively, “but I need you.” My regulars would say something similar, only usually more crudely.

So leaving is always fraught with guilt, and returning is always a bit of a come-down, especially after four and a half months of hair-raising excitement on the UK festival trail and then the seasonal crushing of that evergreen little hope, that someone will discover me and I will never again have to lug around my own stage kit or pretend to deep-throat another cock.

As you might imagine, I’m in a bit of a fragile state upon my return to North America and to phone work.

In this state, I find myself hoping and hoping that the first days back will be gentle. That I will get callers whom I like. That I will not get Extreme Top until I’ve been back for a week at least, or maybe even a month. (Although with him, the more time that passes between calls, the more anxious I get in a background sort of way. The dread only grows.) I don’t want any of the abusive calls, especially when I’m still recovering from my bout with the Fringe Crud. I want something nice, so I was relieved as hell last week when I signed on my first day, and within minutes the dispatcher rang me up and gave me the name of my first caller: IT WAS BILINGUAL PAPI, YAY!

I can’t think of a better caller to come back to, and HE was apparently so excited that he had ordered a 30-minute call, instead of his usual 15 or 20. That in itself told me that this was a special occasion for him. And while the basic sexual content was the same as it ever was—mumbling something sweet to him while his cock was in my throat, followed by rigorous pounding butt sex—he went all out in laying the scene.

It was food-based, of course. I think that might actually be one of his semi-kinks; he really does like to bring food into the encounters when he can. For this welcome-home session, he laid out a whole buffet on my backside, including his favorite cake (Black Forest), some juicy ripe strawberries, champagne cascading down my spine and over his cock, and Texas-style barbecue beef short ribs.

Yes. Barbecue short ribs. <insert “boner” joke here> <insert “insert” joke here>

Now, this appeals strongly to my own gastronomic tastes, and I too am a fan of food + sex. But one additional benefit of having food in phone sex is that we can completely ignore the logistics of it. In a face-to-face encounter, there would be so much laundry and “who’s going to do the dishes” and “you should have gotten the ribs from Jock’s” and “oh god, don’t put sugary things anywhere near my cunt”. But on the phone, he can feed me those short ribs and then smear his cock with the barbecue sauce and make me clean it all up, and I can say, nothing too spicy, papi, and he can laugh and say, “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll kiss the spice out of your mouth afterward,” and that will totally make sense.

In real life, kissing doesn’t help. Only a glass of milk does. But on the phone, it totally makes sense.


I’m already gearing up for next year’s tour, plus a winter of hard writing. Become a patron of mine over on Patreon and help make the good work go!

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