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CALL OF THE DAY: “What are you wearing?” is not an open-ended question

“What are you wearing?”

I never had much patience for that standard phone-sex question. Without warning, it is awkward as fuck to provide narrative context for wearing anything around the house other than pajamas, jean skirt and a t-shirt, or just a robe and panties, but at least the panties are clean.

“What are you wearing?” is one of the most common questions to pop up in the first 30 seconds of a call. Doesn’t mean I’ve gotten over it, though. If the caller is someone I already have a card for, then I’ll know what I should be wearing; it’ll be right there on the card. But if it’s a new guy, I have no way of knowing what he wants me to say. A generic, lowest-common-denominator sexy is ridiculous, given the time of day, you know, hey, you reached me at home and I am just lying around in my black lace negligee and stilettos. I always want to say, but that doesn’t make sense. There’s a continuity editor in my head, and she gives me a fucking headache.

So, I never had much patience for that question, but after seven years I now have none. What difference does it make what I tell you I’m wearing if you think 44B is bigger titties than a 36DDD, or if you’re just going to tell me to take it off within 30 seconds? How much detail do you even want? Why on earth would I be wearing a latex catsuit and seven-inch-high heels around the house on a Tuesday afternoon waiting for you personally, Mr. Subby McSub?

This question was never easy, and now I just bite my lip in irritation as I tiptoe carefully around the potential narrative tangles and sartorial slips. Fortunately for me, there are regulars like Mr. Softcore, whose attitude is basically the phone-sex equivalent of “you look so beautiful without all of that makeup on.”

With Mr. Softcore, and Bilingual Papi and a few of my other regulars, I have let myself relax. A little. They think I’ve completely let my hair down, so to speak, and they love it. “What are you wearing?” they ask. Nothing, I say, my voice carrying the suggestion of a sly wink, or, I haven’t gotten dressed yet, what would you like me to put on? (Usually to that last one, they’ll say, “don’t bother.”) With these same people I am comfortable answering the other common question—“what are you doing?”—with very simple and true commonplaces: baking, writing, lying on the bed looking at the internet.

Mr. Softcore frequently says, as these natural-core fans do, that he loves that I am “just myself” with him. These callers want to believe that I am not myself with everyone else on the line, that I am being fake with everyone except them, that my natural nakedness and real-life activities are precious gifts. They are, actually, because these callers are the only ones I half-trust with the half-truths. For example, most of my subs have not been impressed, shall we say, when I mention my cowboy boots and not the leatherette thigh-high boots. (They should actually be a lot more scared of the cowboy boots, I think, but I digress.)

In phone sex, the PSO can “be oneself” only within certain established parameters of selfhood. My pastimes have to fit into certain categories of behaviors that match an only somewhat expanded definition of sexy and appropriate. And I can “be myself” or “be natural” because I tell these regulars—and they believe it—that I am whatever their version of naturally beautiful is. Bilingual Papi thinks I have a big round butt; of course he’s fine with me wearing some crappy old shorts or whatever. The toe-sucking mommyfucker doesn’t blink about me always wearing the same green satin pajama top and nothing else, because my toes are always painted candy-apple red.

And Mr. Softcore, well, he has waxed lyrical, on numerous occasions, about my perfect breasts and my perfect pussy. It is important to him, my natural perfection. If the clothing or the image were important, as it is to other callers, then I would have to “go to the extra effort” of dreaming up some clothes to wear.

As it is, for Mr. Softcore I only have to conjure up my “natural beauty.” It seems effortless to him, but for me, it’s just another outfit.

*****

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