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. 

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 fiancé 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?

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

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Shut The Fuck Up: Crime And Punishment With Principal Ramona

Oftentimes, when you see ads looking for phone sex operators, you will see listings referring to “phone actress” jobs. If ever there was an attempt at a euphemism, that has to be it.

Anyways, acting is a big part of the phone sex operator job…mostly because you have to pretend that you want to be there (haha, I’m kidding. If you have serious issues, this job is a real hoot). 

Clients can’t see you, obviously, and you can’t see them, thankfully. It’s all about the fantasy. I’ve been every race and age. I’ve been a black female bodybuilder (I pulled that one off beautifully, I must say), I’ve been someones 80 year old great aunt (it’s good that it was me and not her, because her knees would likely not have withstood that pounding). 

I’ve been bad babysitters, stern bosses who care not for the HR departments guidelines on sexual harassment, barely legal blow job givers, naughty moms, frisky next door neighbours, cruel wives…you name it, I have used my vocal chords to embody it. 

I was once an actress for real. Growing up, I thought that that was what I wanted to be. I took intensive classes for years. Then, I became a grown up, and realized how hideous it is to be an actor. I live in Canada, so, being an actor here is much different than being one in the US. Here, there are far, far less jobs. People toil for years here and see very little for their efforts. The same can of course be said for actors in the U.S, but, the opportunities are greater. Hunger can really pay off in the States. Hunger here can just lead to a greater hole burned inside of yourself. 

I didn’t get much out of my so called acting career..a lot of embarrassing gigs, and very little money or advancement. 

Last year, I went to a casting party and decided that that was that, in terms of acting. Sure, I like the craft of acting, but, I don’t like the business. And, at this party, “the business” entailed trying to have a conversation with a directer who was furiously sucking his gums in some sort of cocaine induced war with his own mouth.  I realized that I was getting too old to hope that second rate directors would want to fuck me badly enough to cast me in their shitty movies that few people would see, and no one would like. After all, can’t I make my own shitty movies and be a predatory second rate director on my own? Isn’t that what feminism is all about, girrrllll?  

So now I write, primarily, as an artistic outlet. I know, I know, isn’t writing what all rapidly aging failed actresses claim that they always wanted to do anyways? When no one wants to fuck you anymore, pretend to be an intellectual. 

My most lucrative and least embarrassing acting gig has been as a phone sex operator. That is the truth. Most actors look for that juicy reoccurring gig…the one that keeps them in the spotlight and in peoples homes and keeps the bank account stellar. In the land of phone sex, you can also end up with reoccurring gigs…. one of my most prolific was a creation by the name of Principal Ramona.

Some clients are so so specific that talking to them is like collaborating on a specially commissioned erotic novel. An epic one, at that. Think multiple volumes. Like “Game Of Thrones” but dirtier and weirder.

Principal Ramona was the requested creation of a man named Rodney. Rodney was a 40 something year old man. About once a week he would call, and the games would begin.

In this fantasy, Rodney was in high school. Because we don’t do underage, we had to say he was 18. I say this is because he failed a grade, which gave me an excuse to call him a retard. Phone sex cares not for political correctness. PC culture is a desert for boners. 

The scene began with Principal Ramona requesting that Rodney make his way down to my office. The other students oohed and ahhhed at Rodney’s humiliation. 

He arrives in my office. I tell him to please take a seat. On my desk are some items. 

I say, “Rodney, we recently conducted a random locker search, and when we searched your locker, specifically, we discovered…contraband” 

The items on my desk include beer, and…..porno magazines. 

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

“They…they, aren’t mine…they belong to…Mark.”

“Rodney! I know you are lying!” I holler. “I can practically smell you all over this issue of Juggs!” (I’m not even sure if Juggs is still published. I always envisioned that this was a time travel sexual fantasy, where we were in the 80’s)

Rodney stammers, and stutters, and makes more excuses. I won’t have it. Contraband? In my school? You have to be joking. Principal Ramona did not become an educator to put up with this sort of tomfoolery.

With that, I remove a tazer from my desk. I don’t like it when it comes to this…but, hey, just because the courts did away with corporal punishment in schools doesn’t mean that they made the right choice. 

I hit Rodney with the tazer. He falls to the ground and flails like a motherfucker. I hit him again. I take a roll of duct tape from my desk and tape his wrists and ankles together. I leave his mouth untaped. I want his screams to be heard!

I drag Rodney into the hallway. Teachers and students come out of the classrooms and stare in disbelief as I drag Rodney down the hallway. 

“Principal Ramona! What are you doing!

“Shut the fuck up!” I yell back. I will teach the children. They best know that contraband will not stand in this hallowed place of knowledge!

I get Rodney to the parking lot and throw his ass in the trunk my car. I have no idea what the make of this car is. It’s silver though.

I get behind the wheel and start driving. We drive and drive….I can hear Rodney banging around in the backseat. 

“Shut the fuck up!” I shout. 

We have a close call when I get pulled over for speeding by a cop. I get out of it with charm…and maybe a blow job (a lady like Principal Ramona never reveals her secrets). We drive and we drive. The hours chug by. The roads become rural. 

We drive and we drive. I don’t have a licence, so, this is a fantasy for me too. Finally, the car stops. We have arrived at my very secluded cabin deep in the woods. 

This is no ordinary cabin though. This is the tricked out psycho cabin of a total lunatic. The insides gleam with chrome, like the Ice Truck killers room he uses for dismemberment on the show “Dexter”. There is a dungeon.

Perhaps now would be a good time to reveal something important about Principal Ramona. She's actually a man. Not a transsexual, exactly. More like a drag queen. She has thighs like a shaved grizzly bear and eyebrows that go up into her hairline. She is all woman, with the meatiest dick tuck you have never seen.

I drag Rodney out of the trunk. I take him into my lair. All bets are off, motherfucker. I drag him into the dungeon. I have a gigantic wardrobe with many frilly outfits. I dress him up. I dress him up like Shirley Temple. He looks so fucking stupid. I smear lipstick on his face, and call hims pretty girl. I strap him to a chair. 

On the walls, I project pornography that I force him to watch. It isn’t just any porn. It’s porn that I have directed. It stars his virginal girlfriend, Rosemary, and none other than porn legend Peter North. 

If you don’t know who he is…look him up. I’m getting so old and have watched porn for so long that I consider myself an amateur porn historian. He’s been around a long, long time. His cum shots have been likened to opening up a beer can that has been well shaken. 

After this revelation, Rodney yells in horror while I laugh. And then he abruptly hangs up. He did this every single week.

Maybe you think that this guy is weak. This guy isn’t weak. He’s strong because he can be vulnerable. That’s not cliche, that's a fact. I have no idea why he needs this. I have no idea of his history. I only see this one part of him. But in this one part, I can see all of him. It’s like how one piece of the human body, one drop of blood, a sample of saliva, a cluster of skin cells, can, if you look closely enough, and with the right tools, tell you much of what you need to know about the entire organism that it came from. I don’t know what Rodney does for a living. I don’t know what kind of shows he enjoys watching. I don’t know what his favourite ice cream is….I only know that once a week he needs to live through this fantasy, that he calls me up and surrenders to something that is absurd to everyone else, maybe even to him as well, but he is compelled to do it because it gives him something…it feeds a need inside. It makes total sense to him.

That’s all I need to know, really. 

Evolution Is A Process Too Slow To Save My Soul

“Continue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling.”

-Philippians 2:12

I haven’t written in a while…I haven’t worked on the phone sex lines in a while either. 

This blog is about my life as a phone sex operator, but, I can’t really talk about being a phone sex operator without discussing why I made the choice to be a PSO in the first place. I have always written from a personal place, and, although being a phone sex operator makes me money, I’m in the game for another reason as well.  

I became a phone sex operator because I am an agoraphobic. Which means that I deeply afraid of crowds and open spaces….basically, the world. Working at home afforded me freedom and independence. 

When I was 12, I was diagnosed with depression….I had no way of knowing then that it would become the absolute scourge of my life. 

Whole years of my life have been blacked out because of depression, like a redacted document. 

Just a few weeks ago, I was so depressed that I became suicidal. I didn’t make any real attempts, although there were some shady nights with sleeping pills. But, my thoughts became blacker than they had in a very long time. The lights had been flickering for a while, and they pretty much went out. It was a despair that felt dangerous. I was at the edge, and all I could see was down. 

It wasn’t any one thing, it was a bunch of things, it was nothing. It was my whole life, it was every moment that couldn’t be reversed, that I wanted to take back but couldn’t. It was all that things I wanted but had slipped away, or that I had squandered, that had been taken without my permission, it was all that I lost and couldn’t get back, it was all I never had and convinced myself I could get. 

All those horrible feelings,and yet a total void. 

I just knew that I had been struggling against this roiling tide for so long, and I didn’t want to do it anymore. I was so sick of being fucked up, but I had no idea how not to be fucked up. I feared that being fucked up was my permanent state of being. Who the hell wants to live like that? Who wants to be THAT person? 

I don’t know what I thought my life would look like by now, at the age of almost 32, but, I thought I would be better…I’d be more stable, more financially well off…happier, more together. I certainly thought that this whole “mental illness” thing that I’ve been grappling with most of my life would be a thing of the past. 

But, it’s still here. And somehow, I am too. 

I chose not to go through with killing myself for a couple of reasons…the first, was that I didn’t like the idea of my mom finding my corpse. I haven’t always been the best person, and, I have always wanted to get better. I knew if I killed myself, that redemption would be totally lost, and what would be even worse, is that I knew I would ruin my moms life forever. She didn’t deserve that. 

With this in mind, another realization formed in my head. I was like bird that had been shot through with an arrow, and I had to flap my wings with all my strength to keep from plummeting to Earth. 

I don’t believe in god, nor do I believe in an after life. I believe that there is nothing after we die. I started to think about what it would feel like to dive headlong into that nothing. On the one hand, it seemed peaceful and free of pain. On the other hand, it seemed terrifying to simply not exist. Being alive was painful as hell, but, the cessation of any feelings at all didn’t feel like a great alternative. In fact, it seemed like its own type of hell, one where I had left everything behind, everything unfinished and unknown , and yet had no way back. Any love that anyone felt for me wouldn’t stretch into that terrible permanent blackness, and my love would never be able to get out again and reach those I had left behind. 

There’s nothing worse than losing a connection with another person, especially if you loved them deeply. But, if I killed myself, I would be severing all those connections that I had, and ending any possibilities of future connections. Who was I to make that choice for myself and the people closest to me? 

So, my life isn’t what I expected it to be at this age. I doubt anyones is. I have had a difficult life. I have made it more difficult sometimes by being ashamed of who I am, which is a person who struggles with severe mental illness. I am ashamed of this because I am afraid that if people know this about me they will think that I am somehow not worthy of a place in their lives, or they will think less of me.

But…they shouldn’t. What kind of shitheel thinks someone is unworthy of friendship or love because they have something wrong with their brain that they have a difficult time controlling? That person sounds like a monster. That person sounds like what I tell myself, and it’s high time I knocked that shit off, because living with these ideas isn’t doing me any favours. 

There are billions of people on this planet, and who are any of us to decide how anyone should live their lives, or what success or failure is or looks like, or what makes a great life? It’s absurd to set any kind of standard when we have so many souls running around the planet having all kinds of different experiences and realities at any given time. 

It’s strange that in a world so vast, we get myopic. I can recall feeling jealous of people for what they posted on their social media.  I thought other people were better looking, more successful, happier…and then I realized that being jealous of the image people choose to show you is its own kind of personal hell. How can I feel envious of people I don’t know who show me the edited version of their life? Of course that is supposed to make people jealous, that's the point of social media, to brag and bolster yourself using a narrative you design. 

One of the basic principles of martial arts is that if you want to avoid being struck, don’t put yourself in a position to be struck. 

When I was really little, my grandmother and I watched classic movies. She had a big collection of photo books featuring pictures of old movie stars. I would sit looking at them for hours, and my grandmother would tell me all about the lives of the various beautiful people staring back at us. With very few exceptions, all of their lives were garbage. Sure, they were famous, beautiful, rich, beloved, immortalized on celluloid…and most of them drank or drugged themselves either to death, or close to it. Almost all had multiple failed marriages, many had serious mental illnesses, and all were subject to numerous tragedies. I used to marvel at how horrible their lives were. How beautiful the projections on the screen, how ugly their realities were. How could the bloom be so resplendent when the roots were so twisted and rotted?

I’ve been living with my parents these last few months, in the basement, depressed, and feeling like a total failure. I’ve never felt as alone as I have these past few weeks though. 

One night, as I was trying to stay afloat mentally, my mom revealed something to me I had never known about myself. Three days after I was born, I started having seizures and was put in intensive care. I had been having seizures in the womb.The doctors were very concerned and said that I would likely have brain damage. My mother dismissed these claims, saying, “she’ll be fine.” I was. 

My mom has a picture of me when I was about 6 years old in her bedroom that I recently discovered. It’s in a heart shaped pewter frame. I was so struck when I saw it. I couldn’t believe it was me. I remembered being that age, fragments of it, anyways. I feel so old sometimes, so worn, that I forget I was a child once, with everything ahead of me. 

I’ve been trying to remember myself, the many incarnations I have had. The free spirit who moved to Toronto a decade ago to be a circus performer, who just wanted as much experience as possible….is the same person who lived through a rape and near death experience…who survived the death of a parent at 11…who was diagnosed with depression at 12……who went to ballet class at 6….who had several seizures at 3 days old….who is here now, at 32, starting over, coming back to Toronto, very different, but somehow the same. 

On a clear day, I can see myself for miles…the many, many directions my life has taken me. I see myself strong, I see myself weak, I see myself surviving, I see myself crushed under the weight of all life has given me. All that I am or have ever been is contained inside of me, still. Recovery is about accessing it. I can live through anything. I can be free spirited and carefree and happy again. I was once before, so, I know I can get it back. 

This version that I am currently concocting is different, of course. I have tried to make the most of this seriously hellish period by letting it learn me a thing or two. I want more than ever to be a good person, and to show love and gratitude to those around me. 

And, I’m back working.  I am a proud pro dirty talker once more. My name is Andi. I named myself after the main character in “The Shawshank Redemption”. Something about watching Tim Robbins crawl through several football fields worth of shit and coming out clean on the other side struck a cord with me. Aspirations, man, we all need them. 

And, I’m getting over this whole “shame” thing. So, my life is different from other peoples. I’ve had different experiences than them, so, yeah, we’re different. But, I probably have more in common with others than I realize. When I’m crying alone at 3am, I think about all the other people who are doing the same thing. I don’t know who they are. They could be anyone. But, I know they exist. 

I feel pretty scared still. I don’t want to die anymore, but, I know that I still have a way to go on the recovery front. There are lonely nights…there are nights I am terrified of what will happen to me. There are nights I cry and cry and don’t know what to do with myself. And then there are nights where I am granted a merciful moment, and all of that clears away…and the unknown doesn’t feel as scary, and I feel like…maybe everything is gonna be okay. 

As someone who knows me all too well once said about me..”she’ll be fine”.

Evolution is a process

Too slow to save my soul

I've got this creature on my back

It just won't let go

Ha ha ha

If I am only an animal

Then I can do no wrong

But they say something better

So I've got to hang on

-“Manimal” The Germs

Hell Is A Place Just Under Your Feet

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Jesus Was A Convicted Felon

Note: I was going to post this weeks ago, but, I got swept away by a parade of nonsense. The struggle is real.

This week is Easter, which excites me. I love Easter (or, as we Jews call it “The one who got away day"). Not because I am an atheist, but because I love Biblical violence. For a lover of such a thing, it doesn’t get much better than the global celebration through chocolate and bunnies of the execution, death, and alleged resurrection of the convicted felon known as Jesus Christ.

The story of Easter is one of my favourites, so, in honour of this, I have dredged up a Easter phone sex tale for this most holy of weeks.

This was a number of years ago now, and I was manning the phone sex lines on Easter Sunday. I wasn’t sure what kind of day it would be, considering it was a holiday…

“I’ve been up all night, doing crystal meth,” said a voice, very proudly, from the other end of the phone. 

Obviously, it was gonna be a good day. 

This was a morning call. The man calling, Gabe, informed me that he was naked in his kitchen, as he had some special plans. 

“I’m making an enema!” 

“”Are you, now?” I asked, as though he was a child, planning on making a holiday craft of some sort.

“I’m making it with milk, and peanut butter and chocolate syrup….and gyrhfhfhrh…”

“Wait, what was that last thing you were sticking in your ass?”

“Peanut butter..”

“Yeah, you said that already. What was the last thing?”

“I’m making an enema!”

The mystery ingredient will never be known. Anyways, he was really feeling it with the creativity that morning, and was using anything he could get his hands on to make his ass smoothies. 

Why he felt the need to make an enema, I’m not so sure. Meth can really bung you up, in terms of constipation….or maybe it was a glorious celebration of the Lord. 

When I was 17, I dated a guy who cooked crystal meth. That shit gets made in bathtubs from ingredients garnered at the hardware store by boys who wish that they were Sean Penn. 

I also once dated a guy who made shitty LSD. This is the reason why I don’t find movie stars interesting. Why would I be delighted by people who preen and pretend for a living when there are real deviants to adore?

One time I had to use an enema. I was on day 8 of a bowel stalemate, and I finally broke down and went and bought an enema. At the time, I was living in a rowdy party house, and, on the night I chose to use the enema, there was a party happening. This meant I had to try to shoot saline up my ass while trying to fend off a never ending stream of drunken people who wanted to piss like racehorses and puke in the sink while I tended to my southerly woes. Talk about a clench.

Speaking of which, Gabe was no big talker in the enema department…in no time at all, I was hearing him rocket fuel his ass smoothies all over his kitchen floor. I could hear the contents hitting and splattering on the linoleum. For some reason, I pictured my grandma’s kitchen, and remembered the buttercup yellow designs I saw so frequently while growing up.

Gabe didn’t laugh when he expelled onto the floor. He instead let out war whoops, as though he were a young Native brave charging into valiant battle.

And then his dog came into the kitchen.

Anyone who has known a dog can likely guess what happened next. Dogs are known to enjoy poo…their own, and others, so, before long, I was treated to the sounds of canine tongue lapping linoleum.

I asked Gabe what kind of dog he had, what its name was, being an animal lover and all. 

Her name was Katie and she was a golden retriever.

How the fuck did a depraved meth user end up with a golden retriever named Katie? Did he steal her from the last old lady whose corpse he raped? 

I bet Katie smelled like Vidal Sassoon shampoo and had eyes that when you looked into them, you felt Jesus’s love for all of mankind expanding in your heart. 

These actives continued for some time, when, all of a sudden….Gabe went quiet. Then, he said in a most solemn of voices….

“This is really fucking gross.”

And than he hung up.

This is what they refer to in Narcotics Anonymous as “a moment of clarity.”

My most favourite part of the Easter story is Gethsemane. After the last supper, Jesus asked his disciples to pray with him. They fell asleep. It was the night before his crucifixion, and he was all alone in the garden. He asked his father to take away the cup of poison, of wrath that he was about to drink. God didn’t, instead, he sent Jesus an angel to comfort him. Jesus accepted what was going to happen. He surrendered to the higher power because he had no choice. His pain is what made him, what helped him to transcend beyond being a man, into something beyond himself. His agony has been called exquisite, and it can make grown men weep. 

Once, when I was really high, I had a very vivid hallucination that I was an asteroid, falling from space, burning up in the Earths atmosphere. As I broke apart , I became a part of everything on the planet, I was connected to everything. I was destruction, and I was the beginning. Alpha and Omega, linked together.

 Afterwards, I remembered what my mom said to me when I was little, and I asked her what “God” was….she said it was everything, all the molecules that held the universe together, that you didn’t have to pray to it or signal it in any way, you were already a part of it. 

I wonder is Gabe if recounting the enema story in a rehab centre somewhere. I hope Katie ran away and found a good home..that bitch deserved better. 

I stopped taking drugs because I realized that the illusions that they gave me came at way too steep a price.  They blunted the edge of everything, which feels nice, like being a baby in a house with parents who proofed everything way too much. You can fall and fumble and not catch the rough edge of anything. But, you need to feel those edges, if only so you don’t push into them too hard. 

Sometimes though, when I’m chanting or meditating, or just feeling lost, I can close my eyes and become the asteroid again, breaking apart, falling to Earth…returning home.

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Trace Evidence Left In The Fire Swamp

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past”

-“The Great Gatsby”, F. Scott Fitzgerald

A guy called me and told me , very matter of factly, that he had a quicksand fetish. I think he was so matter of fact because that’s the type of swagger people develop when they have been laughed at or mocked in the past for liking weird things. 

This guy didn’t even give me his name. I’ll call him Bob. 

I misheard what Bob said at first. I thought he said he was into quicklime. If you read detective novels, or watch police procedural shows, you will know that quicklime is a powdery white substance fictional villains use on bodies to destroy the identity of corpses. 

In reality, calcium oxide does the opposite. It would actually help preserve the body, not destroy it. We’ve all been duped. 

Regardless, Bob corrected me and told me he liked quicksand. I breathed a little sigh of relief that there would be no corpsey cadaver sexy funtime hour, and then promptly became confused. 

He had a role play in mind. I would be a girl in leather pants whose car breaks down at the side of the road (a great place for all vintage pornos and horror movies to begin). 

In this scenario, my phone doesn’t work. Or I have no phone…and there is no one around….and I don’t know how to fix a car…and I’m dumb and helpless, so terror will visit me, which I deserve, let’s face it. 

So Bob is lurking about, scaring me, and, since I am playing the part of useless twat in hot pants, I get scared and run into the woods. Did I mention my car broke down by the side of the woods? Marsh lands, specifically. Ain’t that just the luck?

I run, and I stop to catch my breath and gauge where the man who is terrorizing me may be. I can’t see him. Maybe I’ve escaped. Good, I can go back to my broken down car with no phone on the deserted road. 

Wait a second….what’s this?  What?! WHAT?! My feet are sinking! Oh no…is this…quicksand?! Quicksand?! Oh my heavens! Oh my word! Help! Help, I say. 

Oh those stylish leather pants I just had to wear will be the death of me! Literally! 

I hear a rustling in the bushes. I look up. Bob is crouched, watching my folly. And…what’s this? He’s jerking off! He’s jerking off to my folly! 

Despite my distain and disgust, I appeal to him for assistance. I reach out towards him and beg him to help me out. He won’t, that rogue. 

Just than he yells out “You shouldn’t have ignored me at that party, bitch!” 

Um….Uh…..Sorry? Yikes. Much like quicksand, this story is deeper and murkier than I had at first thought. 

I sank further and further down into the quicksand. Bob periodically yelled out something about what a bitch I was and how no one would save me. Bob came, letting out a sudden yell as he did so. 

“That was great”, he said after wards.

“That was weird”, I replied. “What’s with the quicksand thing?”

Bob scoffed, like the answer should have been obvious. 

“The Princess Bride,” he said.

Oh. OH! Okay…still not making heaps of sense here. 

For those not in the know, in “The Princess Bride”, there is something called the “Fire Swamp.” Specifically, there is a scene in the Fire Swamp where Wesley and Buttercup are walking through the Fire Swamp. Well, Wesley is carrying Buttercup’s fine ass through the Fire Swamp. He puts her down, and she is sucked down suddenly into a pit of lightning sand, which is one of the three primary dangers of the Fire Swamp (the other two being fire spurts and rodents of unusual size.) 

Wesley dives down into the pit of lightning sand to save Buttercup. They emerge together, suddenly, both gasping for air. It’s weirdly erotic and intense. It’s like they are cumming together.

This guy is obviously a member of the millennial generation, because he gets a hard on for nostalgia. Of course, he takes it much further than just wearing a Goblin King t-shirt. 

I am also a millennial, and I also get seriously jazzed for nostalgia. While I was pretending to find my demise in the rapidly sinking earth, I was actually thinking about “The Never Ending Story”, specifically the scene where the young brave Atreyu’s beautiful white stallion Artax succumbs to the dreaded “Swamp of Sadness”. I had to use a lot of willpower not to shout out “Artax, you’re sinking!” while roleplaying. 

I was also reminded of the part in “The Wizard of Oz” when the Wicked Witch of the West is melting, and she exclaims, “Oh, what a world, what a world!”

This generation loves nostalgia out of boredom and fear. There isn’t a great deal of interesting art being made so, we’ve regressed. There is a lot of shit being made, but, it’s all very safe and dull.

For example, the reason that “The Ghostbusters” remake sucked so hard is that it was obviously politically motivated, whereas the original was just fun and interesting. It had no agenda except to be a good story. What’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with being a good movie that brings people joy for generations to come? When you make a movie that obviously is making a political statement first, you drain the joy out of it. You make it a university lecture on gender politics that people are attending because they need the credit. So, people go backwards to find the things that were just fun and enjoyable. Movies they didn’t have to sit up straight to watch. 

When I was looking at scenes from “The Princess Bride” on Youtube, and reminiscing fondly about the movie, I made the error of scrolling down to read the comments. There were a bunch that just banged on about how the movie was sexist. Right. Okay. Sure. Call me when you become interesting, generation.

There is obviously darker shit at work here with Bob, which is that one, this is obviously a revenge fantasy for the “bitch” who didn’t talk to him at the party, and two, this is, let’s face it, a snuff fantasy.

He never specifically said I died, but, the obvious outcome of being sucked into a pit of quicksand would be death. 

I have had snuff fantasy callers before. I had a guy who wanted to strangle me to death in a hotel room once. I haven’t had a lot of snuff callers, but they are memorable. There are phone sex companies that cater specifically to violent and snuff based fantasies. I considered joining them. I thought maybe the money would be pretty good. Maybe that sounds callous, but, I entered this business for mercenary purposes. 

I looked at the websites profiles however, and it seemed too disturbing, even for me. There were profiles of girls proclaiming to be crack whores that you could readily abuse and destroy. I was concerned that even though it wasn’t real, that I would somehow get affected by being exposed to that level of violence. 

I never found out who the girl was that Bob was so angry at for ignoring him. He wasn’t much of a talker. I’ve had revenge callers before as well. Men who have outright stalked women that had scorned them. It’s sad and scary. 

I guess though, if you have violent thoughts, acting them out on a phone sex line and feeling the release of it that way is better than acting upon the urge itself. I’m not a violent person, but, I know what it is like to have rage and hatred course through your veins like fast acting poison. 

I’ve mentioned in past posts that I was raped and almost killed by a former boyfriend. I used to have violent fantasies about hurting him. I know I would never do it, I know it is natural to feel this way, but, I never dreamed that there would ever be a point in my life when I would feel that way about another human being. I imagined that with one swift act of vengeance the past would finally stop being a burden to me, and that feeling was intoxicating.  Living with that feeling was extremely uncomfortable, yet there was something about it that made me hold onto it for a long time. It was like a dagger in my gut I just couldn’t pull out for fear I would bleed to death from the wound. 

There’s a big gulf between thought and action. Thinking doesn’t make it so, and doing means it can never be undone. But…I wouldn’t say that violent thoughts don’t do something to your mind. Your brain is a physical specimen, it shifts with the ideas that roll around inside of it. Something is altered, even when these thoughts leave. 

Edmond Locard was the pioneering doctor behind forensic science. He created Locard’s exchange principle, around which all forensic science rotates. This principle says that someone who commits a crime cannot leave a crime scene without leaving something behind and taking something with them. Thus, trace evidence. 

There is nothing wrong with thoughts, even violent ones, as long as they don’t punch through that wall that separates them from reality. But, take it from someone who knows-if you plan on indulging in them, be prepared to clean up the crime scene left over in your mind. 

"Wherever he steps, whatever he touches, whatever he leaves, even unconsciously, will serve as a silent witness against him. Not only his fingerprints or his footprints, but his hair, the fibers from his clothes, the glass he breaks, the tool mark he leaves, the paint he scratches, the blood or semen he deposits or collects. All of these and more, bear mute witness against him. This is evidence that does not forget. It is not confused by the excitement of the moment. It is not absent because human witnesses are. It is factual evidence. Physical evidence cannot be wrong, it cannot perjure itself, it cannot be wholly absent. Only human failure to find it, study and understand it, can diminish its value.”

-Paul L. Kirk.