CALL OF THE DAY: humiliation and motherfuckers

This still from the 1998 documentary The Humiliated oddly captures exactly the emotions my poor mother-persona is supposed to be feeling during this call.

This still from the 1998 documentary The Humiliated oddly captures exactly the emotions my poor mother-persona is supposed to be feeling during this call.

He’s looking for a woman who is “older and nasty”. (I think that I’m currently the queen of that category at my company, and I’m okay with that.) According to my card box, I’ve never done him before, but when I get on the phone with him, the sense of déjà vu is overwhelming. The way I have to offer suggestions and pull his preferences out of him reminds me strongly of a caller I’ve done a lot and don’t like; I wonder if this guy has two accounts for some reason.

Both voices are youngish, under 35, and both affect the same sort of studied nonchalance, a veneer of lightness over quivering excitement that tells me, yes, I’m going to ask you for something vile in a moment, look how depraved I am, and look how little that bothers me. Their casualness makes such callers bad phone-sex partners. They refuse to claim or articulate or initiate their desires. It’s all the same to them (but it’s not), they couldn’t care less (but they obviously do care, or they wouldn’t be wanking to it).

Everything I say is landing on indifferent, rocky ground. Somehow in the face of this “eh, whatever” fuckery, I manage to establish that I am his mom, and he’s in his late teens, another similarity between him and his doppelganger. The conversation is going very awkwardly indeed, and then this guy drops the pretense and drops the line that almost convinces me it’s the same guy: he calls me a bitch and says “Grandma lets me fuck her in the ass, I think you should, too.”

There it is, the desire to humiliate. Peel back enough layers of jadedness, and that’s at the core of this fantasy. It knocks the breath out of me for a split second, but only that long, because I recognize it from his evil twin, the regular, and I quickly upshift into that cringing, turned-on-in-spite-of-myself tone that I know will lay lighter fluid on the flame and hopefully get him off early.

Humiliation calls are unpleasant for me, even when I’m the one administering the humiliation, because I have no emotional understanding of that as a turn-on. It’s a gap in my sexual education, one that I have tried to fill in, but still fall short, so when I’m receiving such calls, they’re extra destabilizing, because I have nothing to ground my acting in.

I try not to do armchair psychoanalysis with any of my calls, but of course I wonder. That’s part of what this blog is about. I marvel at the twists and turns of our sexual imaginations. I wish once again, with all the devout force in my soul, that our society encouraged discussion around fantasies, and also self-examination, so that I could believe that anyone whose fantasies dovetail with problematic parts of, for example, gender politics and sexual relations and power dynamics, that those people are staying self-aware.

And I breathe deep after the call, and remember that some people do find this a turn-on, to receive the humiliation. The other side of the dynamic must be true for other people, the giving of it. Sometimes these people find each other, and that is probably a magical thing. Most times they won’t, and then they call me.

If I can give them a reasonable approximation of that experience, seven minutes’ worth of it, then I’ve done that job and I don’t care what Grandma said about me.


Who knows what lurks in the hearts of men? I do. Become a patron of mine on Patreon, and I’ll keep trying to tell you about it.

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