-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.
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