Friday, September 16, 2016

The Silence of Your Absence

“She tears the hole up, even wider, lets all the darkness, up inside her.”
-Hole, “Garbadge Man"




So, full disclosure time-I haven’t been doing so well, emotionally speaking, and by not doing so well, I mean I’ve been doing terribly. Things had been steadfastly falling apart and royally sucking for a while, but, this week it all came to a proverbial head. Everything just sort of…collapsed at once. 

I had a whole other post planned, but, my heart just wasn’t in it. I feel scalded right now, as though my soul were covered in third degree burns. It’s so hard to write when you feel like an emotional burn victim. This time of year is very hard for me, and every other hardship that comes my way just amplifies my shitty feelings. 

I still work, but, it’s difficult to be sexy, or try to be sexy, when you feel the way that I do right now. The hard ons of strangers interest me even less now , which is a tragedy of proportions no one would be interested in quantifying. My hustle and flow are rickety at best.

Yesterday, the phone rang , and it was someone calling on the “submissive” line. His name was Michael.

He was one of those people who, when he talked, you couldn’t help but check out mentally. He was just so boring, it was like my brain needed to block my ability to hear in order to survive the conversation with him. 

“ I’m gonna guess that you’re a bit of a wallflower,” I said to him.

“Yeah, I guess…” he said , in that somnambulant voice of his. He had all the inflection of a dial tone. 

I had thought that he had called for me to dominate him, but, it turns out he wanted to talk to another submissive person. This was a first. Two submissives kinda cancel each other out, sexually., there is no real dynamic…you just kind of end up asking each other what they wanna do and nothing gets going.

The submissive thing isn’t an act for me, I should note. In the parlance of BDSM practices, I’m what you would call a “switch”, a person who likes to be both dominant and submissive, depending on the situation, I’m also into both men and women. Being a bisexual switch might make me seem indecisive, or even greedy, but, I figure, why pick a side when you can be MVP for all the teams?

Anyways, eventually, Michael told me what was up. He had been in a 24/7 BDSM relationship for 4 years with a woman , who was the dominant. They broke up 6 months ago, and she moved to another state. He was calling me because he wanted to talk to another submissive to figure out what he had done wrong, to figure out what he had done to make her leave.

“Did it ever occur to you, that maybe you didn’t do anything wrong?” I asked him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, maybe you didn’t fuck up. Maybe you did everything you could to make her happy. It sounds like you did.”

“Yeah, I mean, I always tried my best…sometimes I even did things for her that I didn’t want to do…but I did them anyways.”

“Well, sometimes people can be unreasonable in their demands. You went above and beyond, you did shit you didn’t really want to do…what more could you have given her? You are allowed to say no, you’re allowed to have limits. You’re allowed to say you don’t feel comfortable.”

“I am?”

“Of course! If you didn’t have limits, then that’s how someone could hurt you really badly, or kill you, even. You need to draw a line. That’s what safety words are for.” 

“ I never thought of it that way.”

“People just do shit, you know, and it so rarely makes any sense, and it so rarely has anything to do with you anyways. Some people just sabotage great things for no good reason, you know? Some people don’t know that the flare gun is supposed to be fired up, towards the stars, not into the hull of their vessel. Some people just can’t help but capsize their own boat.”

“Wow. You seem to know a lot about this stuff.”

“Yeah, not as much as I’d like to.”

When I got off the phone, I went into the living room, and told my roommate about the call.

“You know, how sometimes, when you talk to someone, and you give them advice, you’re actually talking to yourself as well? I think that that’s what just happened with that call.”

“What were you trying to tell yourself?” my roommate asked.

Okay…so, this week marks the 20th anniversary of my dad’s suicide. It’s been heavy, to say the least, and there’s been other factors in my life that have made it all less than peachy.

“I think….,I think I’m always blaming myself, you know? I think that because my dad didn’t consider me when he made his decision, I’ve always sorta felt like maybe I wasn’t good enough…like if I had been, then he would have pulled through, he would have found a reason to live…so, now, I’m always thinking I’m wrong, that I’m not good enough…that it’s my fault people hurt me, or fuck me over, or leave me…”

“So, everything has just been an echo of his death…” said my roommate.

“Exactly” I replied.

In Greek mythology, “Echo” is a nymph who was cursed by Hera to only repeat the last words ever spoken to her. She fell in love with Narcissus, but could not tell him how she felt about him, and had to watch him fall in love with himself, which ultimately killed him.

It’s all weirdly fitting, seeing that suicide is a some what narcissistic action….it takes into account nobody else but you. As if somehow your death won’t extend beyond you, that nobody else could possibly be effected. My father was the first man that I ever loved, and he drowned in his own hideous reflection of himself, distorted as it was by his own troubled mind. My last words to him were, in fact an echo of his last words to me…”I love you.”

He did, however, try to pull back, at the last second…he called his friend to take him to the hospital, but it was too late. So much in my life has been about things being too late. 

When I was a teenager, I went to Montreal and stepped inside a beautiful old cathedral. I’m not a religious person, but, I love religious architecture and art. In that place so holy, where so many lives had passed, I bought a candle to commemorate the life of my father. I lit it, and I let it burn in that sacred place until it went out, just as my memory for him burns always, somewhere deep and sacred within me at all times. 

Today, I bought a candle to light to commemorate him. I’m going to let it burn all day. I didn’t realize it until I brought it home, but the candle has two wicks. I lit them both. 


"Your absence has gone through me, like thread through a needle, everything I do is stitched with it's colour."

-Separation, W.S Merwin.

Take a look to the sky just before you die
It's the last time he will
Blackened roar, massive roar, fills the crumbling sky
Shattered goal fills his soul with a ruthless cry
Stranger now, are his eyes, to this mystery
He hears the silence so loud
Crack of dawn, all is gone except the will to be
Now they see what will be, blinded eyes to see

For whom the bell tolls
Time marches on
For whom the bell tolls

-Metallica, "For Who the Bell Tolls"

I did my friend and erotica author Erin Pim's sex podcast "Bed Post Podcast"...you should listen: http://bedpost.libsyn.com/episode-43-lea-lawrynowicz

Also...follow me on Twatter: https://twitter.com/LeaLawrynowicz
























Wednesday, September 7, 2016

Norman Bates' Mom Is Ghetto Fabulous aka Rhymes with "Trigger", Warning.

"I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine."

-Song of Solomon, 2:16. 



Okay, so, I realize that this is kinda a weird place to make this announcement, but, I’m just so fucking excited, I can’t hold it in: I’m Engaged!

Yes, yes, it is true…I am betrothed. It’s come as a big surprise after a whirlwind romance that began…on the phone sex line! I never could have imagined this to be. 

I’m getting ahead of myself here. Let me start, at the beginning, where most things begin.

One day, not too long ago, I opened up my PSO console, and saw a most unusual message had been sent to me….

But, before I get into that, allow me to digress. It has come to my attention that it is fashionable for people now to be extremely sensitive (anyone offended by that statement needs to know that irony never goes out of style). We must all now watch ourselves, lest we “trigger” people, context be damned. I’m not entirely sure what happens when people are triggered….someone told me that they explode into feathers. This is truly awful, and , I in no means want to cause anyone to get so worked up that they explode into feathers. Who would clean that up? Who are the good people who clean up people feathers? Their jobs sound terrible. I bet they aren’t unionized. Typical. 

The following contains the repeated usage of a very bad word. No, it’s not “cunt”, or even “faggot”. It’s the worstest word that ever there was.  I didn’t start the fire, it was always burning. I’m just relating my experience.  I just work here. So, if you feel as though your human seams are beginning to split, and that you may in fact be about to explode into feathers, for fucks sakes, turn away.

 Here is what the message said:

Subject: You’re my wife, and I can tell you anything, right?

look I know you're my wife but... I have to tell you something. There's a huge breasted nigger bimbo living inside me! When she comes out my body transforms and she takes over completely. The black lesbian bimbo's name is Maserati...I noticed that she usually comes out when I'm forced to listen to or talk about big boobs. You might have seen the huge bras and bikinis in my closet..... I don't know what to do. I attached a pic of her she saved on my computer...

your husband
gabe 

 So…obviously, he wanted to do a role play.

My response:

Hi Gabe,

I’m glad you came to me with this. I did in fact see the huge bras and bikinis that were in your closet. I was afraid to confront you about it, because I was afraid you were cheating on me.
But this is much worse.
I really think you need to call me, Gabe, so we can talk about this. I want to help you through all of this. I’m not going to let this Maserati ruin our marriage. Be strong Gabe, I know we can face this together.

Your Loving wife, Shawnee

I gave my “Girlvert” character the name Shawnee, in tribute to actress Shawnee Smith, who I have a crush on. 

Later that night, I got a call…

“Hello,” I said.

“Hi Shawnee. It’s Gabe.”

“Oh, Gabe, I’m so glad you called me. I’ve been so worried about you.”

“I’m worried too. Are…are you mad at me?”

“No! No, of course not. I’m just concerned. Why don’t you tell me when this all started?”

“I don’t really know. I mean, when she comes into my body, I just totally black out. I lose hours at a time. I wake up and I don’t know what I have done, and what happened…”

I can’t fully illustrate how seriously we were both taking this role play. If you had overheard us, and didn’t know what the context was, you’d have thought we were really a couple going through some heavy shit. There was so much gravitas, it was so somber. I did my imaginary marriage proud.

“I think,” I said, “I really need to talk to this Maserati character. I think it’s the only way.”

“I’m scared, Shawnee…I’m scared of what will happen to me” he replied.

“Don’t be. I’m here, I’m strong, I need to confront this bimbo head on. I promise I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

“Well…okay….you, you need to talk about big tits. That’s what makes her come out.”

“Oh…okay, sure. Um. Yeah. Okay. Um….well, you know that woman I work with, Debbie? Well, she just has these giant tits, and the other day, she came into the office with this white top on and no bra. She’s gotta be a DDD. She was just…flopping all over the place. I mean, they were moving around like a pack of puppies in a sack….her tits were just falling out…I mean, those dogs were just running all over the yard…I’m talking titty central….”

As I said all this, Gabe was making these moaning noises on the other end of the phone. Not moans of the sexy jerk off variety, more like moans of a man distressed, of a man fighting his inner demons…and losing. 

And then he spoke.

“Hi, is this Gabe’s wife, Shawnee?”

The voice he used sounded eerily like Norman Bates mother. If Norman Bates mother's favourite movie was "Friday", and she regularly impersonated the characters in it. 

“Is this Maserati?” I asked.

“It certainly is” she purred.

“What do you want, Maserati? Why are you doing this to Gabe? You’re ruining his life!”

“No way, sugah. I want you, I want us to be together, I want us to run away together and get married, and leave Gabe behind…”

And, on and on the saga went. By the end, I had been lured by Maserati’s siren call. She had asked me to marry her. I accepted. 

“I’m gonna be your wifey for lifey, Maserati!” I crowed.

“You sure is, Shawnee! Imma take you out to all the barbecues and show off ma white bitch.”

“I love being your white bitch, Maserati.”

And so forth.

So, that’s how I got engaged. Sure, it’s to a fake black woman living inside of my imaginary husband, but a proposal is a proposal. 

A very short while after this phone call, I received another message from Gabe. It went like this:

This is Maserati. I’m inside YOUR head now. It’s time I took over that white body and turned it into MY nigger body. When Gabe calls and says the word “BRA” that will be the trigger and you won’t be able to help yourself. You’ll scream “I want to be a fat breasted nigger bimbo!” and the transformation will begin. Is that understood? 

Gabe called me that night, and….the transformation happened. I became Maserati. I’d like to think my blaccent was better than Gabe’s, thank you very much. 

I’ve had some experience with a blaccent before, shamefully. The previous phone sex service I worked for required me to be a black woman. I spoke in my normal voice until I was told, by black callers, mind you that I sounded “too smart”. So, I acquired a blaccent. No, I’m not proud. 


What did it feel like to be possessed by a bossy, large breasted black woman, you may wonder? I felt awesomely empowered, like I could punch down skyscrapers. I felt how Oprah must feel all the time, and, I now get why she thinks she’s Jesus.

This is, hands down, one of the absolute most bizarre interactions I have ever had as a phone sex operator. As a human, really. I have so many questions for this guy. I can never ask them  though, because, we only communicate through role play. I don’t get to grill him on why he likes this, or what it does for him. He writes me 5 star reviews, singing my praises, saying I’m the only person he’s called who has actually gone along with his fantasy. 

While I’m good with all this craziness, I’m always uncomfortable with the dreaded “n” word. I’m fucking white, okay? I know I’m not allowed to say it, not ever. Even when I’m alone, singing along with Wu Tang, I feel dodgy when the word comes up. It’s a Pavlovian response. I get white person guilt cringe when I hear it. I’m so white that I asked my boss if using the word was even allowed.

You learn a lot as a sex worker, and one of the things I have learned doing this job is that polite society and political correctness don’t exist behind closed doors. There are closed doors all over the world, hiding all the nastiness we dare not speak of. People don’t just take off their clothes when they fuck, they also take off the masks that hide their real desires. You’ve never really seen anyone until you’ve seen their fuck face, with its teeth bared and its eyes dark with lust. 

Gabe is not the only caller who likes to use the word “nigger”. Far from it. Another truth I have gleaned from my time here as a phone sex operator is that big black cock is the key that unlocks many a white mans heart. 

If I had a dollar for every time a white guy called me and told me he wanted to get pummelled by black dick….I’d have enough money to buy something fairly expensive. 

They pretty much all like to use the “n” word. But then again, so do the black guys who call me. “You wanna suck this nigger cock, white girl?” they ask.

The etymology of the word itself is so innocuous-dervived from the Spanish “negro” and also Latin “niger”, which simply mean “black”, its hideous and violent history have infused it with such intense power that it truly is the Incredible Hulk of bad words. Everything else is smashed by the potency of it. Even the colloquial variation “nigga” doesn’t diminish its caustic nature. It’s a word that lacerates even the most passive of bystanders. 

It’s the power we have given it that makes it so attractive to some. Its ugliness is Medusa like for some people-they simply can’t resist staring it straight in the face. When a guy is alone, his hard cock in his hand, getting high off the dopamine his own body is surging through his bloodstream, all bets are off, and he’s as bad as he wants to be. 

And then there is Shawn….

Shawn is one of my semi regulars. He is a black guy, in his forties, who used to work on Wall Street. Now he lives in Los Angeles where he continues to work, successfully, in finance. 

He’s a smart guy, very nice, and great to have conversations with. He is married to a black woman. Once a week, a younger black man comes to their house and fucks her senseless while Shawn watches.

Shawn tells me his cock is small. His cock is about 6 inches, which is not small, according to me, and Masters and Johnson. 

He tells me for a black man he is considered small. This man who comes to his house has a cock akin to a third leg. 

When Shawn starts jerking off, his voice completely changes. He drops the bass on his voice and takes on an affect that I can only describe as “street thug”. The “mothafuckas” and “ain’t shit”s start flowing freely. He sounds like a totally different person. He wants me, when he’s like this, to verbally degrade him. He seldom uses the n word, but he likes to talk about how inadequate his dick size is for a black man. There are plenty of black women working for the service I’m on, but he selected me, a white woman, to do this to him. He brings up my race too….it’s part of the deal.

Then he gets off, the spell is broken, and he goes back to his normal voice.

It dawned on me one day that most of my callers come from the U.S. This might not seem like a particularly startling revelation, but it made me put all this  n word usage into a different context. 

I’m Canadian. While we share a lot of similarities with the U.S, mainly because we are both multicultural, first world nations sharing a border in North America, we have a vast amount not in common. Our approach to firearms, for example. And also, our approach to race.

I’d never be so naive as to say that racism doesn’t exist in Canada. Sure it does. But, it’s fair to say that the U.S, at this particular moment, is experiencing an extremely volatile time when it comes to race. Tensions and emotions are super high. I can’t say for certain, but, maybe using the n word right now has even more meaning for some people. It’s even more dangerous because literal lives are being lost because of peoples prejudices. Maybe, even though it is bad and impolite in the extreme, it still feels good, in that illicit way, to “go there”, to push that button so clearly marked “don’t touch.” Maybe it's a way, like jerking off, to release some sort of tension and frustration at the atmosphere people find themselves in. 

Maybe we don’t really shut out the world when we close the bedroom door. Maybe some parts of the outside seep through. Maybe they stick to us, and we drag it in, unknowingly. Maybe sex is a way, at least for some people, to work shit out. I can’t really say what that shit might be, it’s so different for everyone. 

People often like to keep politics separate from sex, but, sometimes, like forbidden lovers, they collide and get tangled up in each other, despite their best efforts to stay apart. 


"They say we N -- I - Double G -- E -- R 
We - are - much more,
Still we choose to ignore,
The obvious.
Man this history don't acknowledge us,
We were scholars long before colleges.
They say we N -- I - Double G -- E -- R 
We - are - much more,
But still we choose to ignore,
The obvious.
We are the slave and the master,
What you looking for?
You the question and the answer."


-Nas "N.I.G.G.E.R: The Slave and the Master"


Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/LeaLawrynowicz