Sunday, October 11, 2020

I am a phone sex operator: Death Is the Colour of Summer Flowers In Bloom

Death Is the Colour of Summer Flowers In Bloom

Death Is the Colour of Summer Flowers In Bloom

"It never got weird enough for me."
-Hunter S. Thompson


The man I am watching on cam is a mechanical engineer named Steven, but he goes by “BOODYBOY”. He is a caller who has lured me to a website called alt.com, where he would like to perform some sort of incredible feat for me to watch. He didn’t actually specify that it was an incredible feat, I’m just assuming it will be.

It is.

This man is very drunk. He tried to claim, with slurring words, that he was not, that he had simply had a few libations and was only “buzzed.” 

He appears on cam. He looks like a poorly shaved gorilla wearing a yellow hard hat. He is also wearing a fishnet body stocking with the ass torn out. I also own a fishnet body stocking. He looks way better in one than I do. 

His ass is enormous and glistens with some sort of substance. His ass looks like a gigantic mound of plasticine with a crack about three feet long. He sits at a computer, stroking his dick, which is stubby, like a half smoked cigar. He jerks it with his wrist twisted strangely. He looks like an ape masturbating at the zoo. In the middle of the room he is in, there is a huge dildo suctioned to the floor.

I’d like to take this moment to say that this man is from Florida. Maybe this piece of knowledge surprises no one. When I think of Florida, I think of a certain Hunter S. Thompson quote. 

Hunter S. Thompson, if I may digress, is one of my favourite authors, and I have chosen him as one of my spiritual fathers. If you ever feel lost and need some advice, then please look up and follow the Tao of Hunter S. He is the one. He will guide you. Easy with the substance intake.

Here is what he had to say about Florida: “But I also know Florida to be the most corrupt and profoundly degenerate state in the Union….more murders and rapes go unreported in Florida than in Corsica and Sicily combined. The state has no income tax, and essentially no law. Its cities are ruled by depraved sots and its universities are snake pits of cheating and random sex in public.  The libraries are filled with beer drunkards looking for skull sessions and beautiful girls who are proud and eager to oblige them. Oral sex is more common on the streets of Miami in the daylight hours than anywhere else in America.” 

Some of my most fucked up calls come from Florida. 

Anyways, back to BOODYBOY.

I called my roommate into the room to watch him on cam. I felt it was a moment we should experience together. BOODY got up from his seat where he had been jerking off, and walked over to the floor suctioned dildo. He then squatted over it in a way that suggested experience with this sort of physical action. He shoved the dildo into his ass, and rode it, letting out a hard, loud, short, and sudden yelp. He pulled his ass off the dildo, and when he did, a waterfall of lube came out of his ass. 

At that point, my roommate got up and left the room, shaking his head. I’m always doing that--corrupting people.

Despite his entertainment value, BOODY got his big stupid ass blocked by me. He was a belligerent drunk who would routinely call me multiple times in a row, having no memory of our previous conversation, despite the fact that it had ended only minutes beforehand. 

I don’t often block callers. I can put up with an awful lot of shit at this point. I take absolutely nothing personal. I’m just a stand in, an outline for other people to fill up with their desires. I’m a human brick wall that men throw their jizz, their longing, and their rage at, and it all just slides off of me and gets washed away back into the gutter where it all came from. 

Aside from BOODY,  the only other callers I have blocked from contacting me are Drew, from my previous entry “The Liquid Release”, and Dan, who showed up in “Letting Go hurts like Good Sex.”

To refresh, Dan is an ex porn star who is now an exotic dancer. I found out his real name, and he shares it with a very famous serial killer. I’m not gonna say which one, but I can assure you that his name does not rhyme with “Heffrey Clawmer” or “Ned Grundy”.

Anyways, most recently, Dan sent me a message. He always sends messages and rarely calls, because he is a cheap bastard, which is why I have no patience for him. He’s also extremely needy and seems to think we are way closer than we are, despite the fact that, though I am sorta kinda polite to him, I’m also really distant. 

The message he sent went like this:

“ I might get back into porn, but am hesitant about it. Your thoughts?”

Christ. What do I care? Dan is in his 40’s, and looks like Ron Jeremy’s little brother, with none of the alleged charisma (I’m not a fan of the Hedgehog of porno). If he gets “back” into porn, an industry that he never took by storm to begin with, nearly 15 years ago, he’ll probably end up a gang bang bukkake dude. 

Naked, standing around with a bunch of other dudes, doing that weird, keep- it- hard jerk off that guys in those videos do, the jerk off that looks like they are shaking a handful of dice in their hands , avoiding eye contact with each other while they wait for their turn to stick it into a girl, or ejaculate into a bowl filled with other strange men's semen to get swallowed by some lucky lass who, on her knees, acts like she is oh so eager to take all those reproductive cells with all the centuries of ancestry locked inside of them, all of their potential dying, as they swim down her gullet. The first one to the bottom of her stomach is the winner. 

“Ultimately, you’re going to do whatever you like. I can’t really offer any advice. Why are you so hesitant?” I replied. 

Dan explained that he feels like he is too old to get back into porn. This seems like bullshit. He watches even more porn than I do, he must know that porn does not say no to the old, nor the unattractive. Porn judges you not, unless you like videos where ladies yell into the camera and tell you that you are worthless. He’s likely just trying to make conversation. 

He said he wanted to talk to me on the phone. I told him to call. He told me he wanted me to call himat home. I told him no way.

“You can block your number so I don’t see it. I don’t think it’s right to make money off me when I need a friend to talk things out with.”

He’s asked me to do this before, and I explained to him that I absolutely couldn’t and wouldn’t. I’ve also explained to him that we aren’t really friends. I told him he was making me feel uncomfortable.

“Sorry for the pressure,” he wrote, “I better stop sharing my life with you if all you can be to me is a PSO line. That’s not any kind of friendship at all.”

“You’re being kind of nasty to me today, which I don’t understand,” I wrote back.

“Well, I thought you wanted to be friends. I am sorry I misunderstood you. If you wish to communicate only through a phone sex line than that is how I must think of you. Business is business, right?’

This is a guy who buys a few prepaid minutes to talk to me so he can immediately jerk off and then scream into my ear as he cums. All he talks about is his 10 inch cock when I’m on the phone with him. He tries to squeeze in a few mind numbing minutes of conversation with me before his money runs out and then messages me all goddamn day. The last “conversation” we had involved me explaining to him that his country, America, has privatized healthcare (which has been modified somewhat through the addition of Obamacare), and that my country, Canada, like all other developed nations, has socialized medicine. He had no idea what privatized healthcare was, or that that is how you receive medical treatment in the country he lives in. When his minutes ran out, he messaged me to demand that I explain this more to him, via personal e-mail. When I didn’t, he became upset. 

Go fornicate with yourself, my good man. Soundly, and resoundingly, and with the nearest phallic object you can possibly locate. Later for you, you psycho killer named fucking zilch.

It wouldn’t matter if I called him at home or paid attention to him more. Like all extremely insecure people, once Dan gets what he wants, he likely doesn’t want it anymore. 

I never worry when I lose clients. The pussy industry is an industry that never runs dry. Pussy is a renewable natural resource that is always in demand, as both an essential staple of everyday life, and a luxury item.

So this is my life, or a little part of it. Entertaining to some, horrifying to others, I am sure. You might think that this is a life I am desperate to escape from. It isn’t. I am a lifelong collector of bizarre and unusual human experiences, and this job is a dream for a curator such as myself. My life has always been strange, and filled with moments of intense situations and emotions.

Yesterday, I had to euthanize my cat, GoGo. I had had him for 12 and a half years. With the exception of the first 5 weeks of his life, I was the sole witness to his entire existence. I was there for it all. I looked into his big, green, shiny eyes as he lay upon the steel table, and I watched the needle that held his amber coloured death get pushed into his vein and take him away from me forever. And I watched the life inside of his green eyes go out. It took seconds.

It was a profound experience, watching him die. It was profound to know that I gave him that death. My signature filled the syringe. 

The meaning of nirvana is “to blow out”, as one would do when extinguishing a candle. It is the moment when the fires that fuel samsara, this cycle we are all trapped inside, is finally put out, and the wheel stops turning, and the threshold opens, and nirvana is achieved and then moksha, release, comes. It is the breaking off of the final shackle.

I watched the little flame inside GoGo get blown out, fast and as final as blowing out a candle. Our connection faded like a trail of smoke ascending to the ceiling as I said goodbye to his tiny corpse, and touched his fur for the last time. I said a final thank you to him, to his shell, to his bones, to what was left of my little man. I wished I could breathe my life force into his hollows and bring him back to life, but I couldn’t.  Then I left the room, and paid for his death with the money I make working the phone sex line.

I feel so sad for his loss, his existence is laced into my brain, and it will take a while for me to stop looking for him, or listening for his little paws coming to find me. I’m sad, but not depressed, not angry. I don’t feel cheated in the least by my myriad of losses. GoGo’s death only made me love this incredible mystery of life even more. I gave him the gift of release, and he gave me the gift of gratitude. 

I can’t ever feel shitty about being alive, no matter what. There is no greater experience than this, right here, right now. I let the sadness hit me like a freight train, and pass through me like a ghost. 

Whether I’m watching a dude ride a gigantic dildo with his enormous ass, or signing my cat’s death warrant, all of this life is mine, and I accept and love all of it, no matter how absurd or fucked up or sad it gets. It’s all I have that is entirely my own, so I want to protect it like a prize and make it shine. When the candle goes out for me someday, it’s all I’ll have to take with me. 

“This experience is my truth. I own it. I bear witness to my own life. I value this more than anything.” 

- Girlvert: A Porno Memoir, Oriana Small aka Ashley Blue 


"Drink wine. This is life eternal. This is all that youth will give you. It is the season of wine, roses, and drunken friends. Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life."

- Omar Khayyam, The Rubaiyat.

"When you let me fall 
Grew my own wings 
Now I'm as tall as the sky 
When you let me drown 
Grew gills and fins 
Now I'm as deep as the sea 
When you let me die 
My spirit's free 
There's nothing challenging me"

-"Ring the Bells", James

I am a phone sex operator: Death Is the Colour of Summer Flowers In Bloom

I am a phone sex operator: Death Is the Colour of Summer Flowers In Bloom: "It never got weird enough for me." -Hunter S. Thompson The man I am watching on cam is a mechanical engineer named Steve...



"When you let me die, my spirits free, theres nothing challenging me"

-"Ring the Bells", James.


Friday, August 11, 2017

Bodily Fluids On Designer Stilettos

Roleplaying is a huge part of this job, which is great, because who the fuck ever wants to be themselves (ammirite?) 

I have a special email for my made up self. You can do things like this. It’s legal. 

Anyways, I use this email when clients want to send me something personal. Some of them have this weird paranoia that the site I work for is reading every message they send. I highly doubt this. Even if they are, telling me you like to be fucked up the rear isn’t exactly information they care about, or are planning on doing anything with. Paranoid people just want the world to be more interesting than it really is..but in a made up Jason Bourne kinda way, not a newborn- babies- getting- pulled- out- of- toilets- in- China, real life kinda way. 

I digress!

So, one day, I was sent a message from William. He asked me if he could send me an email. William had composed an erotic story, based on actual events, and he wanted me to play the lead lady in a role play that would reenact these events. 

I was intrigued. One of the most interesting kinds of role play for me is when I get to play women who have actually, or do actually, exist in these mens lives. I have learned many things while working this job, and one of them is how much a connection can linger in someone’s life. The memory can truly last forever. Just as trauma can leave an imprint on someone that can stir them at various times throughout their lifetime, so can the memory of desires that are fulfilled. In fact, the more satisfying the encounter, the more the craving intensifies to keep reliving the encounter. Men especially seem prone to this. 

So, I received William’s story. It wasn’t the most well written of stories, (erotic is a tough genre to write) but its contents were fascinating. 

William wanted me to be the stand in for a woman named Kathleen. Kathleen was a chick who worked at his office sometimes. She lived and worked in a different state, but, for some reason, every few months she ended up in William’s office for a short period of time. Why, I don’t know, or care. I don’t know about working in an office, nor do I care to. 

William attached an actual picture of Kathleen. She was blonde, with brown eyes, and was perhaps in her late forties, early fifties, like William. She looked like the more real world version of an aging supermodel from the 1970’s, a sort of Cheryl Tiegs thing about her. 

So, her and William had this “thing” going on. A sly, Mona Lisa smiles and all that  coyness going on. But…alas, she was a married woman. Plus, they worked together. 

And then she got divorced. 

Kathleen ended up back in William’s office. She was driving him batshit horny with that Ultrabrite smile and her Breck girl good looks. 

And then one day, Ms. Kathleen strolled into Williams office, and announced, “ I am really turned on thinking about your hard penis and the power to make you ejaculate.” And then she walked out. How’s that for unprofessional conduct?

William was impressed with her candour. They made a date to meet up. But-with a caveat- William was not permitted to jerk off before the date. 

The date was four days away. 

With the willpower of a junkie mom trying to stay clean to get her kids back, William refrained from stroking his cock. The date arrived. 

Kathleen was dressed to the nines with stockings and Christian Louboutins. She greeted William by way of ramming her tongue down his throat. He made them martinis, and after she drank each one, she reapplied her bright red lipstick right in front of William. 

Kathleen sat on the couch and asked William to stand in front of her. She looked up at him and told him she was going to control his dick and expected him to cum “gallons of semen” for her on her command. William was cool with that. 

She made him get his dick out. And then she stared at it for about an hour. Every once in a while, she would lean over and make like she was gonna put her mouth on it, but, she didn’t. He could feel her breath on it, and she would touch it sometimes, really lightly. And then she made him walk around the living room to watch his dick bounce. 

On and on the craziness went. I read directly from the story he gave me. The dialogue sounded nutty, with Kathleen saying shit like, “ let me weigh your balls in my hands. Good, nice and heavy with semen! I will check your power of ejaculation, distance, and amount of squirt later.” 

I’m guessing that perhaps William is not remembering what exactly was said during this encounter. But, imaginary Kathleen talks like this, and, I love her for it. 

She asked him a bunch of questions about how he jerked off. He felt all humiliated, since a woman had never asked him about this before (who have you been hanging out with, William?)

She finally blew him for a spell, but stopped. She made it clear he would only cum when she told him to. She got out of her dress and made him follow her, naked and rock hard, all over his house. She went into his bedroom and sat in front of the mirror at his dresser and reapplied her makeup while he stood behind her, staring at both of their reflections and jacking off while watching her. Occasionally, she would reach over and stroke his cock.

 Kathleen decided she wanted him to jizz on her face. So, she got some baby oil, stroked his cock for a spell, and then lay on the bed and ordered him to straddle her chest and “sperm on her pretty face”.

Boy, did he ever. As Kathleen said, she wanted her “sperm covered face burned into his brain”. 

Their latest encounter was their wackiest. I should mention that William is a really nice, polite guy, with the most aw shucks nice guy voice. He has the thickest North Dakota accent ever, and he never swears, but repeatedly likes to say, Gosh, Kathleen.

Kathleen sent William a pair of her pantyhose. She told him that she had worn them. She sent him sexy pictures of her wearing them. She asked him to hold back on jerking off for the two weeks leading up to them meeting. She sent him sexy pics for those two weeks. 

The pantyhose she ordered him to wear under his suit on the day that they were due to meet. He arrived at her hotel room. She was in the bedroom, and had told him to strip down to just the pantyhose when he arrived. He noticed that on the coffee table in the hotel room were a whole bunch of Christian Louboutins in a little group. 

Kathy appeared, and did some of her patented weird sexy talk, saying things like, “I can see the vein of your penis throb and twitch! Look how it dances for me! I can see that large wet spot on your pantyhose, is that from your dripping precum? Great!” (William is an enthusiastic user of the exclamation point).

She grabbed him by the dick and lead him all around the hotel room, gently stroking him from time to time. Kathleen was wearing silk stockings, and she stroked his cock with them using her feet. She peeled off her stockings and slid her bare feet and legs over his cock. She put on a pair of stilettos and teased his cock through the stockings with the heel. And than she jerked him off for a while, using the heels of her stilettos. 

William kept begging her to cum, but she was not having it. She stroked him with her hand inside of her silk stockings. His dick was turning purple. She turned around and had him fuck the space between her inner thighs. She sat down and took out some lotion and rubbed it into her armpit and had him fuck her armpit. She lead him around a bit more by the cock, and finished him off with a hand job right over the coffee table and had him blow his load all over her fucking Christian Loubotin heels. Those shoes are like, 600 dollars a pair. This is a very libertine thing to do, putting jizz on really expensive shoes. My poverty screams inside my poor little soul. 

Gosh, Kathleen. 

William told me that Kathleen’s husband was mean. I’m not sure in what way, but, he was a jerk and they had a lousy sex life. She finally dumped his ass, and is getting her groove back. I think Kathleen is my hero. William lets her be herself. He loves it. 

William was the first client to give me an Amazon gift card. In the land of phone sex operators, this means you have arrived. I use his cards to buy hard to find books. 

Because William sent me an email, I found out his real full name. I googled him. He went to jail back in the 1990’s. He stole money from the company he worked for. It’s hard for me to imagine a guy like William doing something like that, let alone spending time in the slammer. Just goes to show you that you can live so many lives, and be so many people while you are on this Earth. 

Some people think that the older you get, the less interested you become in sex. For some people, this may be the case. I have found, personally, that I feel more and more liberated sexually as I get older and I like weirder and weirder things. I think that this is because I’m just more comfortable with who I am. Life is hard, and one of the consolations of gaining life experience is learning to let go and be yourself and explore. 

I hope Kathleen and William get married. I hope they fuck each other until they are 85. And then when they die, they will have no regrets and will be buried beside each other forever. 


“What is my message? Sex is a wonderful, joyous, positive, transformative, healing, hot, horny gift of evolution. Its immense power demands respect. As adults, we decide for ourselves what sex means to sand how we may best utilize it to enhance our lives and relationships. Shame over our desires is useless, alienating us from love and connection. Mindlessly chasing our desires is equally destructive. Sex has only the meaning we give it, so we must claim our personal responsibility anew each time, without fail.”

-Nina Hartley. 









Wednesday, July 26, 2017

We Are Legion: A Guide To Telejohns


For Jesus had already declared, "Cum out of this man, you unclean spirit!" Then Jesus Asked him, "What is your name?" "My name is Legion", he declared, "for we are many."

-Mark 5:9, (this passage refers to Jesus' encounter with the possessed man)


When you do anything for any period of time, especially if it involves interacting with people, especially if you interact with people on an intimate level, certain archetypes start to emerge. While all of my telejohns are special and unique, like sperm under a microscope, I have seen certain repeat personas.

Cherry Vanilla: These are guys who are first time callers, who are young, usually college aged. They are bro flavoured, but they aren’t knuckle dragging neanderthals. They are usually really polite, though with a macho put on swagger that is kinda adorable. They never want anything freaky, just blow jobs into cowgirl, into missionary, or doggie, or both, ass slapping and than a gleeful pop shot on on the tits or ass. They always say thank you at the end of the call…like guys do when you blow them the first time…and than never, ever again. 

Errand Boys: These guys really baffle me. They call when they are in the middle of doing mundane shit. Grocery shopping, house cleaning….a guy once called when he was feeding ducks on his farm. You might think that these guys were going for a good old public jerk off session…but, they don’t get anywhere near touching themselves. They are way too preoccupied doing whatever they are doing. These calls typically end with the guy telling me he will call back because he is too busy. One time, a guy called me because he needed help assembling his barbecue. It was a hot mess. It felt like we were fucking married. 

David Frost: These guys are the journalist sort. They spend their time with me asking loads of questions. They typically are repeat callers if they like you. They will ask you questions for hours and hours. It’s a real challenge, because I have to remember everything I say and the majority of what I tell them is made up. These guys usually require me to do a lot of note taking. These callers are usually old skool sex work veteran johns who need an elaborate, emotional and intellectual intimacy in order to really get hard and get off. These are my personal favourite types of tele johns, because they really force me to step it up in the storytelling department. They usually are very smart, interesting men, and for them to find me appealing and continue to call is a compliment to me. That’s why they get called “David Frost’s”-because I respect them.

Barbara Walters: These are also journalist type callers, but their aim is to make you reveal shameful things to them, or to make you cry. They are pretty rare. They don’t seem to want to break you because they are mean, more like they need to know you are a human by making you as vulnerable as possible. There’s only been one that has actually made me cry. It was really cathartic. 

Bottle Poppers: These guys shake it too hard and too fast and explode all over themselves. 

Batemans/Bluebeards: The word “misogynist” gets thrown around a lot these days, which is super irritating, because I think people use this word without really understanding what it means. It’s not the same as sexism, which is the belief that one sex is inherently lesser than the other. Misogyny is the hatred of women. Sexism is “girls can’t do math”, misogyny is “die, bitch, die!”. The scariest thing about callers who are misogynists is that they are typically very inconspicuous. They often claim that they love women, that they love to pleasure women. They typically are into BDSM, because it is the perfect world for them to hide in. They claim to be dominant, but it becomes clear that they are into sex acts that are not so much kinky as they are incidents that qualify as aggravated assault. They have no respect for boundaries, and will call you weak if you object to anything they want. But, other than all that, they are really swell guys.

Amateur Gynecologists: Callers who fall under this category are that special blend of nerve rattling gross and drench your underpants with pee hilarious. They are not intending to be either of these things. They think they are sexy. These guys believe that they have a Ph.D in Pussy..they are Dr. Pussy, MD. Oh yeah…OH YEAH!. Except…there is no academic program that currently offers a Ph.D in Pussy, specifically. It’s all a lie. Just like these guys’ claims that they are good at pleasing women sexually. These guys are hard cringe in the dirty talk department. They use words that should never be used in the dirty talk lexicon, like “membrane”, or “vaginal walls" Who ever got hard or wet from the word “membrane”? These cats are graphic to the point of medical textbook. A typical call with this guy is usually begin with a proclamation, a warning, a heralding, if you will, of his incredible pussy pleasing skills. Then, I usually have to fake moaning for at least half an hour while he describes with surgical precision exactly what he will do to rock my world. By the end, I am screaming like a opera diva performing her last aria of the evening. I am Mimi in La Boheme, I am Madame Butterfly, killing herself for her beloved Pinkerton. The most memorable caller of this ilk that I ever had was a guy who sounded an awful lot like Doc Brown. I imagined a man with tufts of white hair sticking out his ears. He described doing things to me that I’m sure should not actually be done to someone unless they are under anesthesia. It sounded like uterus surgery with his bare hands, but, he seemed convinced that I should be enjoying myself. Right before my big fake climax, he shouted…”Go On Baby! PULL THE FUCKING TRIGGGGEEEERRRRR!!!!!”. I could not stop laughing. 

P.T Barnums: The ringleaders. It just isn’t fucking unless they have a whole show going on. They need a whole lot of things to be going on to even be close to getting off. They need to have something up their ass, they need their porn on, they need someone watching…they need a midget hanging from the ceiling. They can’t just wank, they need to wank with style. They need lots of shit in place. Their desire is a science lab, and if things aren’t mixed correctly, if the formula isn’t followed, than the mix is ruined. The chemistry has to be just so. It usually never works out, because they need so much shit to be going on that inevitably, something fails. The hooker doesn’t show up, the dildo in their ass isn’t big enough…the midget hanging from the ceiling has gas. They just can’t catch a break. 

Groomsmen: These guys say they want to marry me, and that we can raise a little family. For real, these are callers who propose. They usually do it pretty quickly, like within the first hour of talking to them. Some play it a little cooler, and just ask for you to come visit them. It usually becomes a saga. I once spent 8 hours on the phone with a guy from India, while he begged me to marry him. I couldn’t of course, being a young, blond med student from the US with a fiancĂ© and everything.  This shit gets tiresome. They cry, they beg, they get mad, they tell you you are the only one for them. Oy. 


Friend Of Dorothy: These guys are straight, okay? They aren’t into guys, okay? They aren’t…fags, okay? They like women, okay? They just….they just wanna, sorta, kinda know what it might feel like to, you know, be with a guy like, one time. Like, ONE time, when they are drunk, or something, you know, but…they just want to feel a dick in their mouth, just, like once, to be sexually adventurous, you know. And maybe…maybe, like kiss a man, or look deeply into his eyes…you know, for the experience. But, that doesn’t make him a “fag” or nothing, right? By the way, would you mind pulling their hair and calling him a fag while he cums looking at gay porn and thinking about that guy he works with?

Thursday, July 13, 2017

The Past Is A Trap You Have To Chew Yourself Out Of

“I have lost my body, but I have gained my mind.”

-Ron Kovic

“Men are often haunted. They seem to be normal, but they are not.”

-Werner Herzog, “Little Dieter Needs To Fly”

“I never met a pearl quite like you, who could shimmer and rot at the same time through."

-The Distillers



This is one of the stranger things that has happened to me on the phone sex line. I’ll never forget it. 

One day, a man called me. I’m going to call him Christian. He had a nice voice, he was charming and cute and easy to talk to. I asked him to describe himself. 

He said that he had black hair and dark eyes. He was white, and in his 30’s. He was in good shape, and he was 6’4. 

“ You would tower over me, “ I said. “I’m only 5’4.”

“I would if I could stand up", he replied, “but I’m in a wheelchair.”

Christian had been in a car accident when he was 23. The impact broke his spine, but not totally. Doctors had to surgically sever his spinal column halfway down his back. This left him paralyzed from the chest down. 

I have a weird thing with people in wheelchairs. Allow me to explain.

I have written in the past about an ex boyfriend of mine who raped, beat, and almost killed me. He is the worst person I have ever met. I truly believe he is a sociopath. He is violent, manipulative, cruel….he lives to fuck people over. 

He once said to me, “you seem more alive than everyone else”. At the time, I took it as a remarkable compliment. Looking back, I see it more as an observation from someone who was dead inside. Someone who was like a destructive machine, one that seeks out the traits in others that they wish to destroy, like the game of an evil cyborg.  It’s ironic, because his actions against me brought me to the literal brink of death in more ways than one, many, many times. 

He is in a wheelchair. He is a celebrated wheelchair athlete. He is considered a hero. He earns a lot of money doing motivational speeches. 

I have had a really difficult time openly admitting to his brutality, because, most people have had a tough time believing that a man in a wheelchair could rape me. He’s an athlete who works out 8 hours a day, and he has no conscience, spinal cord injury be damned. 

It just goes to show you that you really can’t trust anyone who listens to Sublime.

Anyways, during the time I was with him, I learned a lot, to say the least. I met a lot of other people who were in wheelchairs, or otherwise similarly disabled. 

It’s taken me a very long time to grasp how quickly life can change. How a moment of joy can turn into the absolute worst moment of our lives. You never, ever can guess when one chapter of your life is about to finish, and another one is coming your way. 

The majority of the people I met who were disabled, had stories that began as either anecdotes of good times, or recollections of mundane events…."I was driving in a car with my friends, we were going to a party"….."I was on my motorcycle, enjoying a ride on the highway”…”I dove into the ocean”….”I was on at my grandparents farm, on a tractor”…"I went to the doctor, I had a pain”….

And then life as they knew it was over, and something else was born. 

A lot of these people that I met were athletes. They often had a certain public image that they were upholding. They had to get used to non disabled people crying in front of them, weeping about how brave and inspirational they were. They would usually smile and nod and be gracious. Then in private they would mock these people and their emotional transparency. They seemed resentful. I don’t blame them. 

So…back to Christian. 

He told me that the second thing he asked the doctor, when he was in the hospital after his accident, was if he would ever be able to fuck again. The first question was if there was any possibility that he could walk again. 

It’s a strange thing, trauma. It was a long time ago now that I experienced everything that my ex did to me. It’s taken a long, long time to process it all. I still have a hard time trusting people, especially in intimate situations. I truly believe that I have overcome a lot of what happened. I am aware that there are a lot of people who never ever overcome being sexually and physically brutalized. I consider myself lucky, very lucky, in so many ways. 

But, things can really burrow into you. They can go down into your bone marrow. There are things that I feel now that are a direct result of everything I have gone through in the past. It’s a struggle to shove that shit off of me. 

When Christian told me he was in a wheelchair, and I realized that I was going to be having phone sex with him….something pinged deep inside me…like the last signal from a missing person, far away and faint, and from unknown places no one can get to. The past pushed up against me, and it made me uncomfortable. 

I am stubbornly determined to get through all that I have experienced. I wasn’t gonna let this guy freak me out. 

Okay. It freaked me out. But, I didn’t tap out. Fuck that noise. 

Christian told me that had had to completely rethink sex since he had become disabled. It wasn’t about just sticking it in anymore. It was a whole new world of sensation. 

For one thing, spinal cord injuries can impede blood flow, so, erections are difficult to get, despite feelings of arousal. Most guys who are disabled rely on Viagra, or other medications for erectile dysfunction. 

The neat thing about Christian was that he said he could still have an orgasm without having to get hard. He still had sensation, which was very lucky for someone with his disability.

He was a kinky guy, and his injury had only deepened his desire to explore the wild and adventurous side of sex. I suppose after you’ve survived going through a car windshield at 70 miles an hour, you become more open to new things.

He told me he wanted to strip me and tie me face down to a bench. He wheeled around the bench, and I imagined him going in and out of my limited sight. He described whipping me with a belt, pouring hot wax on my skin (one of my personal favourite things, btw), letting it dry, and peeling it off so I could feel hot trails on my body. 

Then he described inserting toys into me. I faked cumming for him before he wheeled himself so that his lap was right in front of my face, he shoved his cock down my throat and then had me blow him until he came himself. 

He seemed happy with his call, and I was proud of myself for getting through it. 

He thanked me, told me I was very sexy, and that was that….

Except it wasn’t exactly. 

Plot twist time. 

I have more than one profile. I had three different ones at the time. The callers never knew that if they called one girl one week, they might be calling the same girl the next week, even through the profile name and picture might be different. So…”Stacy” could very well be the same person claiming to be “Naomi”, who could also be “Vanessa”. 

So, a few weeks later, on a different profile of mine, I got a call. It was Christian. Same name, same voice, same description. I didn’t let on that I was the same person he had spoken to weeks previous. 

“I’m 6’4” he said. 

“You’re so tall!” I said. “You’d tower over me!”

“I would” he said.

There was no mention of the wheelchair. Okay, fair enough. 

He told me he wanted to tie me face down to a bench. He described himself walking around the bench, and he described how I would be able to hear his footsteps as he circled me, and that I would hear his steps echoing as he left the room and returned again. 

Um…okay. I strained to hear if I could actually hear him walking around. sometimes I can hear a callers footsteps through the phone. Nothing. 

Then he described untying me from the bench, picking me up, throwing me on the bed, and fucking me. 

I was…confused, to say the least. 

He hung up. 

Plot twist time…again.

A few weeks after that…I got a call from Christian again. He called the original profile he had first called me on. 

“Hey, it’s Christian!” he said. 

“The wheelchair guy?” I asked tentatively. 

“Yes. One in the same,” he said. 

And we went on with the call. He was disabled, this time. 

One of the things I learned during the time when I was hanging around my ex boyfriends friends was that there seemed to be an unspoken rule that it was taboo for disabled people to fantasize, sexually, or otherwise, about being able bodied. I heard many a disabled person claim that becoming disabled was “the best thing” that ever happened to him.

My ex wasn’t an honest person, but, one of the few times he was honest was when he told me he hated hearing other disabled people say that. He told me he wished he could walk again, that he would give anything to not be disabled. 

I saw a lot of bravado coming from people in those days. It was obviously a shield. Medical technology has come a long way…but…if you break your back or your neck and you become disabled, you aren’t gonna walk again. That’s heavy. Letting yourself indulge in dreams of something you know you will never ever have again can fuck you up, mentally. I get it. No one wants to be Lot’s wife. If you turn around and look at all that burning wreckage behind you, no matter how strong the pull is, you risk being turned into something immovable. 

So, was Christian a guy in wheelchair who dreamed and fantasied sometimes about being able to walk? 

Or, is he a guy who can walk who fantasized about being disabled, complete with a backstory? 

I was exposed during my relationship to people known as “chair chasers”, people who fetishized the disabled. They typically had a caregiver complex, where they got off on caring for someone, and they liked being seen in public with a disabled person. 

I don’t think that Christian qualifies though. He “was” the person in the wheelchair, and he was dominant in that role. 

I have thought a lot about this encounter, and, I have never come up with an answer as to what I think was really going on. 

Was he a person whose body was broken by circumstance, and he wanted to live in a private world of imagination where he was whole again and he could do anything his body wanted? If so, my heart aches for him. I don’t feel sorry for him, but I know that urge to imagine a limitless life. It can feel so good to know you can see yourself as anything you want to be in your own head, the place and space where no one can get in unless you invite them. 

Or…was he a guy who can walk who dreamed about pretending that tragedy had struck him when it hadn’t. That of course does make me feel sorry for him. I have a  much harder time understanding someone dreaming about having catastrophe strike them when it hasn’t.

Is he a guy who is so boring and ungrateful for the life he has that he needs to pretend to be someone who survived a car wreck so you can get off while lying to a stranger on a phone sex line? 

I mean, I do pretend that I’m a slutty Asian girl for money, so, I should probably be a little careful when flinging stones in my lovely proverbial house made of glass. 

Some things in life are serious and carry a great deal of gravitas, no questions about it. Some things in life are fucking stupid and ridiculous, no questions about it. Some things exist simultaneously in both states. These are the things that fascinate me the most, because most things fall into this category. It all just depends on your vantage point, whether or not something is sacred or profane. 

That’s how I see this situation. Part of me says, “holy shit! This is some Twilight Zone bizarreness, a peek into the complexities of the human mind, its many facets so like a diamond, reflective in its prism, showing all the faces one person can make.”

And, part of me says, “It’s just a guy, fucking around.” 


"Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream?"

Edgar Allen Poe