Tuesday, August 30, 2016

Letting Go Hurts Like Good Sex


"Gary dreams about kissing someone so hard his mouth hurts. He dreams about kissing someone so soft his heart hurts, so long his neck hurts, so deep his throat hurts. Gary dreams about kissing someone so completely that nothing hurts."

-The Velocity of Gary 

"I Know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root:
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been here."

-"Elm", Sylvia Plath



“ I sure miss beating off to you baby. You make my dick stand up and tap dance.”

Ugh. 

This message is what greets me when I open my phone sex console. It is from Dan, a caller who has become the bane of my existence. 

 Callers and I can send messages to one another through the service. Some send thank yous or special requests. There is one mysterious man who has never called me, but has messaged me every few weeks since I started working. He only messages to ask when was the last time I masturbated using a fur coat. The answer, in reality, is of course, never. The answer, in the land of phone sex, is, often, and fervently. 

But, back to Dan. 

The story I tell callers about my life is that I live in Montreal , that I’m 21-23 years old, that I’m an exotic dancer who is stripping her way through school. Callers seem to like the idea of me being a stripper. I tried saying I was an escort, but, that seemed to make people more apt to be abusive. Stripping seems sexy and somehow restrained. I’m getting guys off, but it’s less dangerous, and seemingly less degrading. It’s less depressing, somehow. 

Dan says he is an exotic dancer.  He’s a failed musician who has been shaking his money maker for 10 years. Before this, he did porn. 

His road to porn is an uncommon one. After graduating film school, he co wrote a film that ended up getting into Cannes. While at Cannes, in the late 90’s, he went to the basement at the festival, where they had keep the porn stars and their booths. He started a conversation with Stephanie Swift, a former AVN Female Performer of the Year winner who is now a devoted Christian, and from there he got into the skin flick biz. He dated Jill Kelly, who was once a pretty big deal when it came to porno. He filmed scenes with her and her entire stable of performers with her production company. He worked for 2 years, never became a real “star” in porn, and then left to go back to try to to write and make films, with little to no success.

I can’t say for certain, but, I think maybe his history as a porn performer may have not done him any favours in regards to trying to being taken seriously as a legit filmmaker. 

Or, it might be because he’s dumb. 

Anyways, I got him to tell me the name of the film he made that went to Cannes, and did some snooping. I found out his full name. He happens to share it with a famous serial killer/rapist. That might also be something that has held him back from success….

Dan claims that he has a 10 inch dick. Many guys claim that they have big dicks.  I never ask, they volunteer this information totally unsolicited. I’m incredulous. After all, I claim to be 21 and a stripper living in Montreal. 

I think Dan might be telling me the truth about his cock. I can hear him jerking it when he is on the phone with me, and, it sounds like a ping pong match, or the tocking of a Grandfather clock. it’s nutty how loud it is. Some guys jerk off into the phone on purpose, to try to turn me on. It doesn’t. How can I possibly be turned on by what sounds like someone trying to shuffle a handful of wet lunch meat like it’s a deck of cards? 

To put it bluntly, Dan is majorly into me. Within minutes of our first conversation , I could tell he was all smitten with my ass.  He kept saying “You’re so cute, you’re so cute”….in this dopey ass voice. (We’ve never discussed drugs, but I have a sneaking suspicion that Dan is somewhat knowledgeable about the world of chemical influence)

Ever since, he has taken to messaging me all the live long day. This would be fine if he was a girlfriend experience guy. He’s not. He’s cheapskate. He’s only called a handful of times, and it’s always for only a few, pre-purchased minutes that run out mighty quick. GFE guys are great money makers, and Dan does not qualify. Instead, he takes to messaging me constantly and being needy without any of the financial payoff for me. 

He has it in his mind that we somehow have a startling amount in common. Anything we share in terms of commonalities he takes as a sheer sign of the cosmicness of our incredible, non union. 

We don’t have much in common. No more than any other two people randomly thrown together by circumstance. We both like the original Twilight Zone show. We both like music (although not the same kind-he’s a Billy Joel fan, I like The Distillers), we both like sushi. Somehow this is enough for him to need me real bad. 

He has asked for me to call him outside of work, he complains that I’m holding him “at arms length”. I’m holding him much, much further away than that. 

He’s an idiot for trying to get close to me. He wants to wrap himself around me like a parasite wrapped around my intestines that wants to suck me dry from the inside out and turn me into a husk. But I won’t swallow him. I’m close mouthed and tight lipped.  No sweet nothings vibrate my vocal cords for him. 

The last two weeks have been shitty for me, physically and emotionally. I won’t get into the details, but, I’ve been experiencing a lot of loss, and a lot of sadness. My body has been steadfastly wasting away. I feel sharp all over like a knife blade. I feel really alone, and this guy trying to get all up on me makes me irrationally annoyed. How dare he think we have a connection…how dare he think he and I have so much in common when he knows nothing about me and how I feel, and what I’m going through. 

There’s nothing really wrong with this guy. He’s just not very bright and really needy and really lost. But, he has the grave misfortune of thinking he can reach my bitter heart, which is a destination no one is allowed to journey to. The roads have been cut off. If you think you can get there, you’ll be at the wrong place, in the wrong time, and I’ll turn you into a victim for daring to trek to a place so remote.

So, I work, and I keep myself to myself these days, and no one really knows what’s going on inside. I take out my anger on callers.It’s nobody’s fault, and it’s everybody’s fucking problem. I jerk off my venom on to their faces. 

I try to stay angry, which is advice my mother gave me long ago. Anger has more energy, you can do more with it. I try to keep it roiling. I’m listening to a lot of Rammstein these days. But, turbulent times make for turbulent emotions, so, it’s not unusual for “Ich Will” to be followed by “Deuce” by The Cardigans or anything by Fiona Apple. 

My feelings are actually serving me well in one arena in particular. I took on some new listings a bunch of weeks back. When a client goes onto my service’s site, they can click on a  profile and call under a specific category. Anal sex, oral sex, submissive, etc. I took on a few specialty listings to lure in more callers. One of them is “feminization”.

This was a concept that I didn’t really know too much about before I got the listing. But, like most all things I do, I jumped into it full throttle.

Feminization guys are not all created equal. Almost all of them like to dress up in women’s clothing. And by women’s clothing, I mean pink tutus and frilly dresses and ball gowns, fishnets and Daisy Dukes. Some go classier and wear nicer duds, but they all like to be slutty looking. 

They aren’t trying to look like women. They are trying to look like men who are obviously wearing cheap, skanky, women’s clothing. A good majority even have full beards. Some go all out and put on shitty wigs and smear on makeup. I insist on glitter being worn.

Not all dress up. Most at least like to wear women’s underwear.It’s interesting that even with all the talk of gender equality that goes on, behind closed doors, it’s still considered degrading for a man to wear a dress. This fetish has survived all the debates and social justice warriors and privilege checking. Discuss amongst yourselves. 

Some of these guys are bi, even rarer, gay. Most are straight up “straight” guys with wives and girlfriends and families who want to act like the most cock hungry prostitutes you’ve ever heard whispered rumours about. They want gang bangs and blow bangs, and to be pummelled by cock and left ruined and covered in the semen of many strange men. And they want me to facilitate the entire event while making fun of them. I am the cocktastic hostess with the mostess. I call them “sissy” and “faggot” and tell them how worthless they are. They all like to have their cocks mocked as tiny. They don’t want to date men, and have no romantic feelings towards them. They want to be used up and humiliated. 

I tell them that I’d drag their asses down to the local glory holes and make them kneel on the nasty ground and suck as many dicks as they could that came through the wall, and then I’d make them walk him alone, they knees bruised up and their dress covered in strange jizz.

I tell them that I’d make them get on all fours on a bed and have a group of guys play “musical whore”. They’d all circle round like vultures or starving dogs until I yell “Stop!” and then wherever they happen to stop is where they get to put their cock on or in them. 

My favourite tactic is, I get them to go down to their local bars, gay or otherwise, go into the men’s bathroom, and with a Sharpie marker, write “for a good time, call….” and then I make them put their name and phone number. Almost all of them do it. I then make them tell me about whatever adventures this assignment has taken them on.

If there is an adult theatre where they live, another assignment entails them going down in their whore finery and strutting up and down the isles, preferably with a hanky in hand for them to wave. I make them shout “ yoou hoo! who wants a blow job?” and then they get to work, crawling around on those sticky floors, groping in the dark at other men, lit only by the flickering celluloid smut.

I make all of them give me good reviews on my site. This has given me a lot more traffic, feminization wise. I’m Queen of the Sissyfags, and I rule all their gaping asses. 

These guys expect nothing from me except for me to be a total bitch. 

One night, I was working late. About 2 am, the phone rang. Someone on the feminization line. I was surprised to hear the voice, it sounded like a woman’s. She introduced herself. Her name was Bill.

Bill is most certainly a lady, albeit one who has a dick and a set of glorious bolt on tits. She has done exercises to change her voice to sound just like a woman’s. She still goes by Bill, although sometimes she goes by “Andrea”. She lives as a woman, but likely will never get rid of her dick. It still works, and she does love to work it. Bill is a real go getter when it comes to cock, and enjoys a good straight man blow bang or gang bang.

Bill is an anomaly on the feminization line. The guys who call don’t want to be women. They want to live like men and have their dirty sex games be a private little sex secret.

“Is that really your picture?” Bill asked me.

“My profile? No, not that one. Check out ‘Girlvert’, that one has my real pictures. I’m like a petite, brunette, pixie punky kinda girl.” I said.

“Oh, there you are. You’re hot. I love your look.”

“Thank you!”

“I always wanted to be a woman like you. Small and delicate. I’m too big though. I’m too tall and my shoulders are too broad.”

“Well, I always wanted to be a Amazonian bombshell like you. I guess we all gotta settle.”

“Tell me-do you ever really get off on these calls?” Bill asked.

“No. Never. I really don’t. I pretend.”

“Can I try to get you off?” she asked.

“Um….well, you can try. But, I really don’t think you can. But you’re welcome to try.”

“Are you turned on by me?”

“Yeah, I am. I mean, I think you sound really hot. I like that you’re a tranny.”

“Good. Well, close your eyes.”

I closed my eyes and let Bill’s sweet voice fill my ears and my head.

“Imagine I am with you right now. I’m touching you. You can feel me across all these miles that separate us. I’m caressing your arms and your neck and your face…”

And I could feel her. I let myself sink into the feeling and drift away with it. Maybe it was because I was really yearning to be touched, and to be touched like that….softly, and nicely, and with the intent of no harm.  Slowly, slowly, act like you know me.

“And you can feel my mouth on your ear and on you neck. I know what you need, and it’s more than just sex. It’s to be seen, and touched and really loved.”

I really dislike it when callers use he “L” word. I don’t like the word “love” being used flippantly in these situations. I really think that one of the most subversive things you can ever do is pay someone, or force someone into a situation where they have to say “I love you”.

I was nervous when she used the word love, but, I was willing to let go for some reason. Likely because I wanted to. 

“I’m moving my mouth down your body, to between your legs, you can feel my tongue on you…”

I found myself lost in the feeling of it all. I wasn’t truly getting off physically, but emotionally and psychologically I was. Which was more than enough for me. Women especially understand that there is more than one way to get off. It isn’t always about the spasm, sometimes it’s about stimulation of other kinds. 

“And as I move my mouth back up your body, I kiss you. And I whisper to you, ‘I love you’….and I want you to say it back”

This whole experience had been doing something to me. I’d been feeling the tears building up behind my closed eyes, and as hard as I was trying, they were going to rush out of me. And they came with the words that she asked me to say.

And I said it. And I meant it. I said it, and no one could hear me but her, and no one could feel it but me. I said it , and it wasn’t to nobody. I said it to people I do love. I said it to those I have, and I said it to those I have lost, through death, through circumstance. I said it to the ones who dismissed themselves early in my life story. Maybe some will make cameo appearances in later chapters. Some I know never will, and some cannot. 


I said it because I have it in me to give, like the rivers of my own blood that pump through me, that will pump through me until I die, which will be the only time I cannot give or receive love, no matter how hardened I believe my heart has become. 

And so I cried, I cried to this stranger, who was a lady named Bill. I didn’t tell her why I felt so sad. I didn’t need to. We were beyond anecdotes, and only feeling emotions at that point. I never felt so dominated in all my life. I never felt so grateful for it. 


In Newtonian mechanics, the glass that is broken on the floor is no different from the glass that is standing intact on the counter. The equation has simply been reversed. The object is just in a different form. When you feel broken, you are really the same as when you are whole, you are just a different version of yourself. We are all subject to the laws of motion, no matter where they take us, no matter what they do to us. 

Bill and I eventually said goodnight and hung up. I felt spent. I doubt I’ll ever hear from Bill again. That’s okay though. She took a lighter to my heart, and melted off some of its frost, and even though it hurt a little, it didn’t scorch me in the least. She left me changed, but unscathed, which is all you can ask from another human being.


All I follow is my own desire, 
sometimes to feel, sometimes to be
at least a little more than intermittently
at ease with being loved. I am never
at ease. Not with hours I can read or walk
and look at the brightly colored
houses filled with lives, not with night
when I lie on my back and listen,
not with the hallway, definitely 
not with baseball, definitely 
not with time. Poor Coleridge, son
of a Vicar and a lake, he could not feel
the energy. No present joy, no cheerful
confidence, just love of friends and the wind
taking his arrow away. Come to the edge
the edge beckoned softly. Take
this cup full of darkness and stay as long
as you want and maybe a little longer.

-“The Prelude”, Matthew Zapruder.





Thursday, August 11, 2016

Requiem for Dolores Haze

“I loved you. I was a pentapod monster, but I loved you. I was despicable and brutal, and turpid, and everything, mais je t’aimais, je t’aimais! And there were times when I knew how you felt, and it was hell to know it, my little one. Lolita girl, brave Dolly Schiller.”

-Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

" I myself have been in a relationship with a boy since he was 8 years old. He is now 16 years old and we still have the same love, care, and joy....As life isn't fair, we are apart for the first time in 8 years, but only for nine months. He comes to visit me every weekend, and we talk and laugh, then a sad time comes and he has to leave.

If loving Robbie is wrong, then I don't want to be right!

Courage to all the other boys, men, girls and women that just want to love each other. You''re not alone! One day these fools will see that LOVE IS GOOD in whatever form it comes in."

- Letter from a convicted sex offender to NAMBLA bulletin (North American Man/Boy Love Association)  


As you can maybe guess from these quotes, this particular post will deal with topics that are decidingly icky. What can I say? I’m a phone sex operator, people pay me a dollar an hour to talk dirty to them so they can jerk off. Some who call are shitty. Shitty in that mouth breather, abusive, it’s my moms credit card so I’ll be as much of a dick to you as I like kinda way.  And some are shitty in that Amber Alert kinda way. 

As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I have three profiles of fake ladies I shepard over. They were given to me by the company I work for. They are called, respectively, “Play Thing”, “Candy Lipz”, and “Ur Princess”. Each profile features provocative pics of women I’ll never meet. Collectively, I call them “Denise”. I have a stash of naked pics of these strangers that I offer to callers for a fee. I am their pimp.

To be blunt, “Ur Princess” is the least good looking of the lot. She’s got a horrific dye job, is out of shape, and her pics are terrible. If she has a good angle, her cell phone cannot find it. And she takes the duck face to new and fearful extremes. She was always the least successful of the bunch.

I was always given the option of using pictures of myself on the site. I declined at first, thinking it was maybe dangerous, and, in all honesty, I was kinda fearful that I wouldn’t get any callers based on how I looked. I admit, I can be insecure.

But, I started to work for the site, and realized what a jungle the phone bone industry is. There’s a lot of profiles, and a lot of ladies who have been in the game longer than me with a bigger stable of devoted regular callers.

I also consulted with some of my regulars who told me that they like profiles where the girls hide their faces, because it makes them think that maybe it’s a real profile. Because shame, I guess. It’s the logic of phone sex callers, I don’t know if it translates to real world logic, but, that’s how it rolls over here in the land of the love lorn and jizztastic. 

So, I rolled the dice and replaced Ur Princess with my own pictures, face hidden. I used old pics I had from my web cam days for those perverts I left behind when I cavorted in front of a screen for money. Thanks for the memories, gents.

I named my new digital incarnation of myself “Girlvert”, after a series of pornos staring Ashley Blue. Look her up. She’s kinda gross, but fun. Her memoir is also called Girlvert, and I just ordered it on Amazon, courtesy of another caller. Thank you, Bill, wherever you are. I’ll always be your Kathy, the lady who works in the cubicle beside you, whenever you like. 

It worked. Not only because my pictures were better and not as cheesy, but also because I’m small, and there are plenty of guys who love small women. I’m 5’4, and a size 0. Guys wanna throw me around, or they want me to be mean to them, because it’s more humiliating for a wee lass to call you a stupid fag, I guess.

So, it’s been good. But, it has come with an unfortunate side effect. Being small, my body makes me look younger in pics. So it’s brought in a bunch of guys who want to fuck kids.

I hesitate to say pedophile, because that’s not actually the correct term. A pedophile is a person who is sexually attracted to people who have yet to go through puberty. A hebephile is a person who is sexually attracted to people going through puberty. There is a distinction. But, people who  haven’t gone through puberty or who are going through it are all kids, so, it’s all wrong.

I’ve always had to deal with these guys through the phone sex line, they sneak on through, but the volume of calls from these dudes has spiked. It’s disturbing, and kinda weird that I was worried at one point that I might not get any callers based on how I looked, when now I’m getting lots of callers who are attracted to how I Iook, but it’s because they think I look like a young girl they want to violate.

The rules for the site are, no kids, no rape, no shit, no watersports, no animals. There are phone sex sites that allow kids, or "age play". I nearly worked for one. They neglected to tell me that they specialized in it, until the day I was supposed to start. I told them I couldn’t do it. I felt like an asshole for turning down a job, which should tell you how desperate I was for a job at the time. I was told by the woman who ran that site that I would never find another phone sex service that didn’t feature age play.

I now work for a site that doesn’t feature age play and is considered the most successful, longest running service of its kind. I ball so hard, motherfuckers wanna fine me. What, bitch, what?

But, back to the kiddie diddlers. Normally when someone calls, I ask their name, what they are up to, where they are from, and then get down to what they want. It’s a routine I think of as a combination of local radio personality, strip club dj, and street walker leaning into your car window when you are looking for a date, honey.

When someone wants to get down in that bad touch kinda way, I tell them sorry, no dice, and then it’s usually followed by an abrupt click. 

But then there are the special ones. The special of the special. 

I had one of these particular people call me recently. When I told him no to his fantasy of roleplaying that I was an underage girl, he didn’t hang up.

“Yeah, cool, alright, no problem, yeah,” he said, in that quick, casual, way that tries to cover up embarrassment. 

“Do you wanna do something else?" I asked, less than enthusiastically. 

I’ve been down this road before with these sorts of guys. If they truly have a fetish for children, then they really don’t want anything else. They may pretend that they are “cool” with other things, but, it’s a lie. It’s who they are, it’s what they like. 

So he did what all these guys do and tried to push the limits as close to taboo as possible.

“How about we pretend that you’re in high school , but you’re 18, you know, a senior.”

“Okay. Sure. But I for sure have to be 18…like, I’m about to graduate.’

“Right. Yeah. And, uh…I’m your mom’s boyfriend. And I live with you, and your mom. And uh, theres like, a tension, you know? Like a tension between us, and your mom notices it, and , uh, she’s like all annoyed because of the tension, you know?”

“Yeah, I get it. There’s sexual tension.”

“Okay, so, you come home from school at like, 3pm, and then you have an hour alone before I come home, at 4pm, and then you and I are alone for another hour before your mom comes home, at 5pm.”

“Why does it matter what time I come home? Or that I’m alone for an hour? How about we just say we’re alone together?”

“Cool, yeah, okay.”

I’d like to take this moment to point out that statistically there is a link between sexual attraction to underage people and low intelligence scores.

We decided that the scenario would be that 18 year old me and “mom’s boyfriend” would be sitting on the couch watching tv with my mom still at work. I’d like to think we were watching paternity tests on Maury Povich and mom’s boyfriend was on his third can of Coors.

“So, what are you gonna do about your grades?” he started.

“What do you mean?"

“Well, your grades aren’t very good, you gotta get them better.”

“I try hard. I guess I’ll just have to study a lot for finals, seeing as I’m 18 and about to graduate.”

“Well, you need to get your grades up.”

Already this is a colossal fail. He isn’t my teacher, he’s my mom’s boyfriend, what can he do about my fucking grades?

“Why do you care about my grades anyways? You aren’t my fucking dad, you’re just my mom’s stupid boyfriend.”

“You gotta get your grades up. Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Talk to you like what? You’re a dirty old man, and my mom is gonna dump your ass because you’re always staring at me, so we better fuck and get it over with so you can leave already.”

“You need to stop going out with your friends and study more. You gotta get your grades better.”

“Why would I wanna stick around here? To hang out with you? Forget it. You’re dumb and boring.”

" Get on your knees and suck my dick.”

And so it went, this charade of a so called role play. It was awkward, to say the least. You may wonder why I didn’t hang up on him. Part of me was curious as to how long this would last, and where this guy would go. The other part of me knew that keeping him on the phone meant more money for me, so, fuck it.

“Let’s go to your bedroom," he said, at one point.

Now, in the world of phone role-play, teleportation is possible. And necessary. This guy didn’t seem to get that.

“So, we go up the stairs, to your bedroom, and we pass your mom’s bedroom, and then the bathroom…”

“How about we just say that we’re in my bedroom right now?” I interrupted.

“Okay. Sure. You know, I put a camera in your closet weeks ago and I’ve been filming you while you touch yourself.”

“Oh yeah? That’s illegal. My mom’s gonna be pissed.”

“Get on your bed, so I can rape you.”

“Nope. No rape. Only consensual sex.” 

“Okay, okay, sure, no problem. I’m gonna make you pee all over yourself.”

“Nope. No watersports either."

“Okay, sure, yeah, no problem, cool. Put your hair into pigtails.”

“Alright. They’re in pigtails.”

“That was fast.”

“Yeah. We’re on a phone, remember? You can’t see me”

“So I come up to you and start kissing your neck, and down to your little girl chest.”

“I’m not a little girl, remember? I’m 18.”

“Right, cool. So, I get behind you and grab you by the pigtails and start fucking you from behind. and I pull your head back, and back, and I keep pulling your pigtails until you are looking into my eyes while I fuck you.”

“Ow, you’re hurting my neck.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just kidding”

“So I pull your head back until you are looking into my eyes. Are you looking into my eyes?”

“Yes, for fuck sakes, I’m looking into your fucking eyes.” 

Then he tied me up and the clusterfuck continued. He made more references to rape, which I had to kibosh, and he would try to describe things using the term “little girl”. The call ended after about half an hour of nonsense. I was a bitch the entire time, and he was a moron and didn’t jerk off. He thanked me for the “awesome” call at the end. I’m sure I’ll never hear back from him.

In my experience with these types of guys, there have been two kinds: one are only into kids, and are deeply ashamed of it, hence the click of the phone. The other kind are men who are so morally bankrupt that the idea of having sex with the underage is just another sexual adventure to them. These men usually like sex of any kind, whether with other men, or animals, or dead bodies, or trees wearing  fucking lipstick. These are the types of guys who ask me “why not?” when I tell them I can’t do age play. Even after I explain why, they don’t seem to get it. They seem to exist in a self made bubble of their own depravity, where things like laws and ethics just get in the way of their getting off.


 One of the saddest characters in all of literature is Dolores Haze aka, Lolita. Lolita truly is one of the best books ever written, though most people won’t pick it up because of the subject matter. If you must watch the movie adaptation, I beg you to check out the 1997 Adrian Lyne remake and not the Kubrick version, which is not really an adaptation of the book. 

People have come to think of Lolita as a concept, as a young, throbbing, pouty sexpot in control of her sexuality. If you read the book, you see her for what she really is-a 12 year old girl , who, due to parental neglect is sexually precocious as a way to gain attention. She is preyed upon by her stepfather, who thinks they are having a love affair, when in fact Lolita despises him. She is only really sexy because that is how her abuser, Humbert Humbert, sees her. He makes her into a literal prostitute for him, and she acquieses so she has a means to escape from him. His abuse turns her into a manipulative, hardened, angry girl. 

When I was 21, I dated a guy for about 2 months. I broke it off with him because he was too emotionally remote. I could never really open up to him, and knew I never would. I couldn’t tell if he didn’t have much of a personality, or if he was just extremely guarded. I think it was both. I remember thinking at the time that it felt like the core of him was a deep, bricked up well with a heavy cover over top of it. Inside the well is where I imagined his soul was. If anyone had the superhuman strength to push that cover off of it, I’m sure it would have emitted a horrified shriek.

Two years after I broke it off, he was arrested. His mugshot appeared in several national papers. About 3 months after I stopped seeing him, he lured a 13 year old girl via the internet to his apartment and sexually assaulted her for several hours. He filmed and photographed it all and then distributed the video to other child sex abusers.

The girl told a police officer who was visiting her school two years after. I have no idea what happened to him. I imagine that he was convicted, since the crime was recorded.

I met him at a fetish night, when I was dressed in a Catholic school girl outfit. Gross, right? But it’s universally acknowledged that Catholic schoolgirls are hotties, even though it’s considered beyond disgusting by our society to fuck the underage.

If it’s so disgusting, then how do you account for the staggering popularity of the “barely legal” genre of porn? The internet is riddled with videos of girls who are about two weeks past their 18th birthdays done up in pigtails pretending to be babysitters and naughty students just dying to chow down on dick. Lolita’s legacy lives on. I always figured this particular genre was porn’s sneaky way of marketing to an audience that they can never directly reach out to. Sure, plenty of non would be sex offenders watch and enjoy this type of porn, but, it’s probably not a big reach to say that there is a certain type that appreciates it the most.  

Sometimes I think about the girl that was abused by the guy I went out with. I think she’s rad as hell for putting him behind bars. I hope that she’s able to overcome what happened to her and go have an awesome life. I hope she knows that she isn’t just a horrific image frozen forever on some creeps hard drive, and that her fighting spirit and transcendence of victimhood make her alive in ways that most people will never know.

I like to think about her, and what she did, and I like to think about all the others like her….and also the ones who didn’t come forward, who had to live with what happened to them in secret. I need to remind myself of these people. After all, just like the predators, they walk amongst us too.



Officer, officer, there they are--
Dolores Haze and her lover!
Whip out your gun and follow that car.
Now tumble out and take cover.

Wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze.
Her dream-gray gaze never flinches.
Ninety pounds is all she weighs
With a height of sixty inches.

My car is limping, Dolores Haze,
And the last long lap is the hardest,
And I shall be dumped where the weed decays,
And the rest is rust and stardust.


































Thursday, August 4, 2016

The Destruction of Sour Girl

"You destroy me. You're good for me."

- Hiroshima Mon Amour

" You are like the life support system for a cock."

- The Doom Generation

"I have a meanness inside me, real as an organ."

Dark Places, Gillian Flynn


I feel like I need to take this post to give an update on a caller who I wrote about previously.

He isn't just "a caller" though. I could never truly be that reductive in my feelings towards him. He is, as that goddamned Lana Del Rey song I listen to sometimes when I'm alone says, "the bestest."

He is the unwashed phenomenon, the original vagabond, who strayed into my heart....my sacred gong, my gospel song, he is, The King of The Dipshits.

I wrote about him in a previous post entitled "Son of a Preacher Man and the King of the Dipshits".

He has become a regular caller, which I consider a badge of honour, since he is a veteran phone sex John.

To sum up, he is a 37 year old guy with a dick so small he jerks it off using only his index finger and thumb, like a dainty lady sipping tea at a most proper garden party. He lives with his mom, because his job stacking dog food onto pallets at a warehouse doesn't pay much, and what money he does make he squanders on porn subscriptions, webcam girls, and of course, phone sex services.

He is a man for whom life revolves around his woefully undersized sex organ.

"Do you do anything?," I asked him once, "like, do you read anything, even newspapers, or watch movies...do you have interests?"

"No," he said, in a voice too sassy for my liking.

"Hey! Don't get those women's panties you wear all in a twist because I tried to see if you were a human fucking being. You should be grateful to me for hoping you were more than a dipshit."

"Well, sometimes I read sports statistics online so that I can talk to people at work about something. But I don't actually watch any games. And I watch some t.v shows, like Game of Thrones, because it has girls I like to jerk off to."

"Did your mom dress you up like a girl when you were younger?"

"No."

"Why not? Then you'd have an excuse."

He does have a few hobbies. One is jerking off in the bathroom at Walmart, and then walking around the store with his pants filled with cum. He also likes to go to bars to ask strange women if he can buy their panties in order for him to wear them. They usually slap him, but sometimes they sell.

He once had a gym membership, but, that was because he liked flashing his tiny dick at the women who also went to the gym.

"What exactly is wrong with you?" I've asked, on more than one occasion. "I mean, to talk to you, it's clear you have some intelligence.  You are a retard, but, you aren't retarded...know what I mean? There is a difference."

"Thank you!" he said.

"I don't know if that's a compliment. Are you whacking off?"

"Yeah. I have been this whole time."

"Ugh. Are your pants around your ankles, you desperate fucking ape?"

"No, I'm naked."

"UGH! Christ. The thought of you naked makes me nauseated. Seriously, I'd happily puke on you. Would you like that?"

"No, but, I'd let you do it, if you like."

"Of course I like. Dignity, Schmignity, eh dipshit?"

It's usually around this point that he cums. I like to make gagging sounds while he climaxes, so he knows how I feel about him.

Through him, I have learned a little something about a practice known as "gooning". Gooning is one of those concepts that likely would not exist without Mother Internet to birth it.  It's when a guy edges himself (brings himself to the edge of orgasm without going over) for so long that he becomes hypnotized by his own dick. It's like a weird state of being that chronic and/or compulsive masturbaters enter where the world falls away and only them and their dick exists. They become one with the cock.

I have this other caller who is a sex addict, and he told me that sex addiction is divided into two groups of people: fornicators and masturbators, depending on their compulsion of choice. I suppose gooning is why compulsive masturbators can't or won't or don't stop. It's a way to shut out a world they can't cope with. It's their addiction of choice.

I'm not a doctor, but, I'd say that it's a fair assessment that Dipshit is a sex addict of the masturbator variety. His addiction to whacking off has completely stunted his growth as a person, which is what addiction of any variety can do. Addiction is escape, and if you start young enough, it can freeze you in whatever mental state you were in when your addiction began. Dipshit started his chronic masturbating when he was 12, and it's only advanced, while the rest of him has stayed put. He's told me before that he's masturbated so much that sometimes his dick bleeds. This doesn't stop him. He puts on some bandaids and keeps gooning.

"There's this girl who works in the offices at my workplace, and she's really pretty," he told me one day.

"Have you talked to her?" I asked.

"No. I mean, I don't really have much of a reason to. I rarely need to go to the offices. But when I have seen her, I always go off to the bathroom and jerk off immediately. Sometimes I see her in the parking lot, and then I jerk off while driving home."

"You jerk off while driving? I can't believe you fucking do that. You could kill someone doing that! Someone who fucking matters!"

"I'm very careful when I jerk off and drive."

"Says you. You're an authority on nothing. Haven't you ever seen that fucking Werner Herzog documentary of distracted driving? It's fucking HAUNTING, dipshit! HAUNTING! A guy plows down an Amish buggy because he was too busy texting! The AMISH, dispshit!"

"I don't  text and drive though."

"IRRELEVANT!"

"Do you think I should talk to that girl?"

"Yes. Yes, I do."

"What should I say?"

"Tell her how you feel. Corner her. Stalk her. Woo her."

"I'm nervous."

"I think you should do it."

"Okay, I'm gonna".

A couple of days later, I got a call from Dipshit at a suspiciously early hour in the afternoon.

"Why are you home?" I asked.

"I got sent home from work early."

"Why?"

"I talked to that girl."

"And...what happened?"

"Well, I waited until I could corner her, while she was walking down a hallway. Then I went up to her, and said that I thought she was really pretty and that I fantasize about her a lot."

"And what did she do?"

"She gave me this look, and said, 'Excuse me?' and then she asked my name and employee ID number. I gave it to her and then I turned around and walked head first into a pole."

I can't tell you how long I laughed about this. I feel like I blacked out in the process. It was cosmic.

"What did she do?' I asked, when the laughter finally subsided.

"She asked if I was okay. I said I was, and then she asked for my ID number again. A few minutes later, my boss called me into his office and told me to go home early and that we would discuss what happened tomorrow."

"Whoa. Shit, man."

"Do you think they'll fire me?"

"Likely, yeah."

"Do you think I'll get arrested?"

"For what? You didn't touch her, did you?"

"No! I would never."

"Okay, then, you didn't commit a crime. You were just dumb, which you cannot get arrested for, unfortunately. "

He called the next day, and he was in fact fired. He didn't seem that upset because he had the rest of the day to jerk off.

"You should try escorting now," I told him.

"Really? " he asked.

"Yeah. I mean what do you have to lose? You need to pimp yourself out now."

"I don't have a big dick or anything."

"I know. You can eat chicks out for money. Get a sugar mama."

"What if the chicks are fat, or ugly, or old? I don't want to go down on them."

"You know what's wrong with you? You have no fucking fortitude or work ethic. Who are you to be picky? You could webcam now too. You could dance around naked for money."

"I don't think I could do that."

"What if one of the guys watching is a rich Saudi prince and he wants to adopt you? You could be seriously missing out."

I made him write a Craigslist ad for his sexual services. I don't think he posted it. Typical.

Since then, Dipshit has turned down the chance to work at McDonalds. He claims to be holding out for something better. His mom is furious at his freeloading, but still enables him by giving him money.

We have this running joke where he "threatens" to come to Canada and find me. He better not, because if he ever did, I'd break his face. Not because he stalked me, but because he'd let me. He'd let me do anything I wanted to him, which is why I appreciate him and his kind.

When I was really little, everyone always remarked about what a sweet girl I was. I'm not sweet anymore. Sourness crept in over time and it has left a permanent residue I can't wash off. I'm a dirty girl sticky with my own volatility that leaks out of my pores. I have to work at not being a total cunt. I'm a sourpuss at heart. I hide weapons in my vagina. I had to teach myself compassion. I had to destroy the sour part of me. It's not totally gone, even though I've changed a lot. I've calmed down all the rage, but I'll always have a sharp edge when you touch me....if I let you touch me. I'm okay with it, I've learned to like my bad personality. It's a good thing, like always carrying a switchblade you know how to use, and aren't afraid to use, if someone fucks with you.  Sour girl will always cast a shadow, but I like the darkness she gives me, I appreciate the shade when I'm feeling less than sunny.

I vent my sourness on callers like Dipshit. He lets me use him as an emotional punching bag, and I'm grateful to him for it. I watch violent movies and violent porn like Facial Abuse, and I degrade men on the phone sex line, and that's where I let the sourness live. Then I pack it up, and go meditate or chant, and let the light back in.

Sometimes Dipshit asks me if I would know him if I saw him. I have no idea what he looks like, but I imagine that he has a puffy white boy fro, glasses, and a turned up pig nose. I also imagine that he always wears mechanics coveralls, as though that is his uniform of choice. I'm probably way off base on all counts.

No one knows about his secret kingdom of masturbation, in which he is ruler. Not even his mom, though she may just be in denial.

I do see you, Dipshit...I see your deepest and darkest. Of course I know you.


And I'm amazed at the gamut
Oh, I'm amazed at the clarity
Yeah, I'm amazed at the rage in me

-"Knot" , 7 Year Bitch.