Happiness In Slavery

“Inside the snow globe on my father's desk, there was a penguin wearing a red-and-white-striped scarf. When I was little my father would pull me into his lap and reach for the snow globe. He would turn it over, letting all the snow collect on the top, then quickly invert it. The two of us watched the snow fall gently around the penguin. The penguin was alone in there, I thought, and I worried for him. When I told my father this, he said, "Don't worry, Susie; he has a nice life. He's trapped in a perfect world.”
― Alice Sebold, The Lovely Bones

I got a call on the feminization line, which always pumps my nads. 

I’ve written about the feminization line before, in the entry, http://iamaphonesexoperator.blogspot.ca/2016/08/letting-go-hurts-like-good-sex.html

To give the Cliffs notes version, feminization is when a man wants to be dressed up in provocative or overtly feminine clothing, wigs and makeup and treated either like a slutty girl or a slave of some kind. These men range from being true gender benders who want to explore the female side of themselves, to being guys who just really want to be humiliated. Some are just guys with beards and body hair who wear lipstick and tutus and suck dicks at glory holes, and some are in an actual gender transition(although these ones are rarer) but still want to be sexually promiscuous. 

Feminization is one of my all time favourite things when it comes to being a phone sex operator. I really have a ton of fun dominating these dudes and calling them names. It’s like cardio, it’s so exhilarating. I have a reservoir of rage inside me that I have to keep a choke chain on at all times, and the feminization “ladies” let me howl like a bitch in heat. 

On this particular day, I met my bete noire of the feminization line…the live in sissy maid. 

The sissy maid is a creature that I have yet to fully master in terms of communication. A live in sissy maid is someone who was born a man and who has transitioned in some way to being a woman, and now lives full time with a master who they serve as a maid, and receives various corporal punishments and humiliations from said master. They typically are not paid, or are paid very little, thus making them even more beholden to their master. They are one of the few people who can say that they live a 24/7 BDSM lifestyle. They are full fledged members of the household that they serve, yet they have no real life beyond that. They never stop being sissy maids, they never aspire to anything else, because for a sissy maid, servitude is all that there is . They have no real goals for themselves, because they have already achieved everything that they want to be in life. 

On this particular day, I was called by a sissy maid named Ditzy. Ditzy was born a male. She came out as gay in her teens, but into young adulthood realized that she was in fact a woman trapped in a man’s body,  and she began her transition. 

Ditzy still has a dick, but she lives as a woman and has an impressive DD rack.  She says no one ever mistakes her for being a male. She described herself as looking like a “blonde Katy Perry”.

The man she once was is long gone. The only evidence of that person is now a secret inside the chromosome, and hidden under frilly dresses. 

Like most of the full time sissy maids that I have talked to, Ditzy was very soft spoken , dainty and graceful. She didn’t want me to call her names, or yell, like I usually do with the other feminization ladies. She was very asexual, and just seemed to want to tell me about her life…and ask some unusual advice.

And, oh, what a life. Turns out that Ditzy was “owned” by a teenage girl. A high schooler, in fact. 

This girl’s mom is a high powered lawyer who is divorced. She is deeply entrenched in the BDSM scene, in case that wasn’t obvious. The scene is where she met Ditzy. She brought her into her home to originally be her sissy maid, and than “gave” her to her daughter when her daughter was 13. 

Because , you know, 13 is the right age to have your very own live in transsexual maid. 

For years, Ditzy has done everything for this girl. She does her hair and makeup and nails, helps her pick out her clothes….Ditzy does it all. This girl basically lives the BDSM version of Cher from the movie “Clueless”’s existence.  

Ditzy had actually called me because she wanted to ask me some advice regarding her teenage mistresses love life. 

Seems that Kinky Cher had dated some boy at school, (a school at which Ditzy assured me Cher was very very popular at, by the way) and the boy had suddenly jumped ship and started ignoring her, causing hairline fractures to form in the surface of Kinky Cher’s shallow heart. 

Ditzy was baffled by this boy child who had done her mistress wrong…Kinky Cher was so beautiful, and had such a great personality…why, oh why would someone discard such a creature?

Ditzy seemed so sincere, so genuinely hurt for Kinky Cher, that I couldn’t bring myself to be as snarly and disinterested as I felt inside. 

I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the full force truth, which was that, firstly, he was a teenaged boy…of course he was flaky. This was not an event that would even warrant a footnote in either one of their life stories. 

There was also a very real possibility that he found out that she had a sissy maid doing her hair every morning, and he got weirded out. Teenaged boys want to fuck, but, they usually aren’t really into heavy involvement BDSM stuff. 

Instead, I gave Ditzy the semi truth…one that applies to basic human nature, but probably not so much to this situation in particular. 

I said that you can’t control the actions of others, and you probably can’t understand them either. People sabotage good things in their life, and there is no real accounting for why this happens. Sometimes they know this when they commit the sabotage, but they do it anyways. It’s best to not attach yourself to the actions too personally, and let them deal with the aftermath. 

Ditzy said that she felt he just couldn’t handle a strong woman. 

Yeah, sure, okay. I’m sure Kinky Cher is a real Gloria Steinem.  

The most disturbing thing she told me about her life with Kinky Cher was that her teenaged mistress doled out corporal punishments to Ditzy. 

Ditzy was punished and humiliated when she disobeyed, everything from being forced to stand in the corner like a bad child to being put into stress positions for hours at a time. Every Sunday, Ditzy was paddled in front of a group of people by Cher. The spectators included Cher’s friends, and Cher’s mom’s friends. The Sunday paddling was to keep Ditzy in line. Cher’s mom insisted.

You might think that Cher’s friends would be shocked by this display. Turns out  many of Cher’s friends also had sissy maids, and powerful, divorced moms involved in BDSM.

This circle was made of women who viewed men as little more than discarded sperm donors. 

I asked Ditzy what the name of this lifestyle was. She said it was simply called “matriarchal”. She claimed that there were circles like this all over the place, people just didn’t talk about it much beyond their own social scene because they were aware that it would be judged.

Ditzy explained that these women truly saw men as lesser than them. They weren’t beings you needed to get attached to, because you were better than them anyways (doesn’t really jive with Cher’s lamenting of her beau). Women were viewed as powerful Goddesses who lived a lifestyle where they worshipped only themselves. They flaunted their wealth like a gunslinger wears their belt. 

Kinky Cher was set to leave high school soon and go off to college, leaving behind her sissy maid. Ditzy seemed melancholy about this. She had basically helped raise this little freak, and spent every waking moment devoted to her. 

Personally, I can’t see Cher doing too well in a college dorm. This is a rich girl who lives in a fantasy land of insane dimensions. Her cosseted mind is going to tear apart when she goes from paddling her Katy Perry sissy maid to burnt hot plate noodles and communal showers. Cher doesn’t seem like a functional human being…even a Clueless style personality change wouldn’t help her. She will annoy the shit out of her fellow dorm mates.  I predict a meltdown. A screaming meltdown like only a horrified rich girl could pull off. When they take her away on a stretcher, she’ll be babbling away about floggers and safe words.

I asked Ditzy where she lived. She told me Los Angeles. This explains a great deal, I think. I have yet to visit LA, but I’m aware that strange things bloom in a place created with stolen water. LA is a city that is the embodiment of samsara, it is perpetually in a state of rebirth. People go there to discard themselves and  armed with hope, imagination and oftentimes a surgeons knife, they transform into who they want to be. Ditzy did that. She was an unhappy boy who became a beautiful woman who lives in a fancy house, which is what she wanted. 

Maybe you feel sad for Ditzy. Ditzy does seem alone, perhaps even lonely. She attends all her mistresses functions, but she doesn’t really socialize, not even with other sissy maids. They seem to be truly Stepford Wives. They are aware of each other, that pass each other, they smile placidly at one another, but they don’t really communicate or confide in any real way. Maybe they don’t need to. Maybe they understand each other perfectly. 

Shiny Horizons And Luxury Jeans That Hug Your Body Like They Mean It

A guy calls me and tells me his name is Alan. He wants to watch a porn video with me. The twist is that the star of the video is his girlfriend. 

He sends me the link and I start to play it. 

I was really excited about this because I’m a big fan of porn, and I thought maybe his girlfriend was someone I knew of. 

She isn’t. I’ve never heard of her. She’s one of those adult performers who isn’t famous or even that well known outside of the most die hard fans, but, due to the bottom dwelling nature of the business she is in, she still gets the title of porn “star”. 

His girlfriend has one of those names that is so obviously porn made that it almost warrants a face palm when you hear it. The first name is of the generic anybody’s baby-sitter in all white suburbia type. The second name is an adjective meant to imply the nature of the girl, a coy little word that defies the dirty settings I think she routinely finds herself in. 

She has long straight brown hair that has some chunky blonde streaks in it that I’m sure her stylist told her will highlight her face better. 

She isn’t fat, but, she has a thick waist and is untoned. She looks tanned in a way that comes more from a tanning bed or airbrush machine than the actual sun. 

There’s nothing especially interesting or attractive about her face. She looks like the type of girl who would have been really mean to me in middle school. She has a large gap between her front teeth, which is the most exotic thing about her entire look. 

She’s just a girl you could see anywhere, and probably pass by, but, instead she’s here, on the internet, lying on an old red couch between two black guys who are going to fuck her. 

Her eyes are hooded, but, not in a way that looks naturally sultry. I ask her boyfriend if she’s high. He says yes. She gets high for every shoot she does. She’s never sober when she works. He tells me that all porn performers get high when they work. If they claim otherwise they are lying. 

I ask what she was on for this shoot. He says he thinks it’s speed, but it may have been coke. I’m surprised by this, because she seems fairly languorous on film. 

Except for the giggling. She does a bunch of that. 

The two guys sit on either side of her, and she rubs their cocks through their pants. Her legs are spread,and she wears a pair of hot pink panties and a little pink shirt. She wears a lot of makeup. The three of them engage in dialogue related to fucking. Specifically, the two guys talk about how much they would enjoy fucking her. I have  a feeling it might be their lucky day. She giggles and seems incredulous yet flattered that they would like to partake in such activities with her.

The young lady stands up and removes her panties. Turning around, she reveals that she has a jewelled butt plug wedged into her anal orifice. The men are delighted. The plug is removed and inserted into the ladies mouth. She deems the device, and, therefore her own ass, to taste “sweet”. She giggles coyly. The fucking commences. 

One of the men has great difficulty getting an erection. The other does not. Her neck stiffens up as he tries to jam his enormous dick down her throat. The hard one fucks her from behind while she buries her head in the soft ones lap and tries to help him get hard. 

I’m gonna guess that watching the hard one pound the crap out of her pussy didn’t do anything to help out the soft ones game. 

At one point, she actually asks the soft one “what’s wrong?”.  You should never ask a soft one "what's wrong?". Nor should you hold them close and tell them it will be okay. Especially when there are cameras around. 

“I don’t know!” he replies, sounding like a frustrated, embarrassed guy who is trying to cover up the frustration and embarrassment he feels by injecting a bunch of volume into his voice. 

He gets up and goes to the corner of the room and jerks off silently while watching the other two fuck. 

It’s difficult to tell whether or not she is into it. I’m gonna guess no. She makes a lot of high pitched porno squeals and yelps and “oh yeahs”. Her eyes roll back into her head, but, I’m guessing that has more to do with drugs and anal sex prep related starvation than her sexual ecstasy. 

She doesn’t cum, but he does, down her throat. The soft one also cums, all without the benefit of penetration. 

I wouldn’t have masturbated to this video, even if Alan hadn’t sent it my way. He wasn’t masturbating either. We were just watching it together, two strangers, beholding his girlfriends pussy getting stretched open on a long tube of black dick. 

It was like we were watching a nature documentary together. Genitals for hire in their natural habitat. 

Her boyfriend told me that he was on set with her when she filmed this video. Afterward, he fucked her, along with the director, right on that same couch.  Alan claims that all the female talent in porn has to fuck the director, either before the scene films or afterwards. I asked what happens if they don’t want to. Alan says that they don’t get work.

Alan’s girlfriend is 25, and she’s been in porno since she was 18. She has no plans to stop. Alan is nearly 50, and they’ve been together for 3 years. 

I ask him how much money she makes. He says she does alright, but she isn’t rich. The two of them live together in a big house in L.A. He pays for a bunch of their stuff. 

I ask what he does. He asks me if I know of Guess jeans. 

I’m a girl of the 90’s, of course I know about Guess jeans. I used to rip out their lush ads from fashion magazines and plaster my walls with them, in the true covetousness nature of an adolescent girl in less than privileged circumstances.

I still can’t afford a pair of those goddamned jeans. But someday…someday I’m gonna waltz right into one of their stores and wander around for a whole bunch of time, acting like I can buy something. I’m gonna act like a real customer and everything.

Someday.

Anyways, Alan is the man in charge of art directing their infamous catalogues (although they have gone down somewhat in stock since using that rich ho for hire Paris Hilton as one of their models). He works a shit ton and makes a shit ton. 

 I have a feeling her and Alan won’t last. She’s in the porn game not because she’s especially pretty or sexy or even good at performing, or outrageous or unique…she’s in it because she’s willing to do it. Which is one of the reasons I do phone sex work.

I can never help wondering what the future holds for someone like her. I know not to sell her short, even though it’s easy to. I wonder if she wants things we’d never think she’d be capable of dreaming of. I know I do. I wonder if she’s full of hidden landscapes and shiny horizons, and someday she’ll look back on this strange, crazy life of drugs and fucking on film and luxury jeans, and shake her head and say, “I can’t believe I used to be that girl….”

"One more day like today and I'll kill you

A desire for flesh

And real blood

I'll watch you drown in the shower

Pushing my life through your open eyes..."

-"Pornography", The Cure

Use Once And Destroy

“You have a secret deep down inside…and I know

A horror to tell

A nightmare to hide”

-“Blood In Gutters”, Brody Dalle

“Hello Fuckpig”

I’m gonna go out on a big fat limb here and say that most people don’t start off their work day by hearing these words. I do so you don’t have to. You’re welcome.

“Hi!” I say back to my caller. “Good morning Starshine, the Earth says hello…”

“What?!” he snarls back at me.

“Not a musical fan?” 

“WHAT ARE YOU WEARING, FUCKPIG?” 

“My pyjamas!” I answer, with all the cheeriness I can muster.

He made a sound at this point that I can only describe as a sort of grunt. It sounded like “Mmmph!” He made this sound fairly often throughout the conversation.

“ Do you think you deserve to wear clothes, fuckpig?!”

“Yeah, sure. I wouldn’t wear them otherwise.”

“Mmmph! Well you don’t! Tear that shit off your disgusting body!”

“Okay. Done.”

“ Mmmph! That was fast”

“Well they were flimsy jammies, I tell you what.”

“Mmmph! Do you have any sex toys, fuckpig?”

“Yes. I have a bunch of dildos, all different sizes.” 

Alas, my bunch of dildos is a fabrication, a fabulist machination of silicone buggery. If I did own a bunch of dildos, I would arrange them in a dainty wicker basket, like a real lady. They would be all different colours and sizes and types, from the conveniently cheap to the decadently expensive. It would be like a dream Easter basket for gapers. 

“Take the biggest dildo you have and shove it in your ass, with no lube.”

“Okay. AhhhhhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHH!!!!!”

“Yeah, take it, fuckpig”

“You sound really weird, like you’re calling me from inside a tin can. where are you calling from?”

“Mmmph! NEVERMIND!”

“Okay, jeez. I just wanted to hear you better.”

“Get on your knees and suck my dick, fuckpig!”

“Alright. I’m sucking it.”

“Choke on it!”

“Sure. Oh man, I’m choking. I’m really choking on this dick."

“Mmmph! You ever been raped, fuckpig?”

“Nope.”

“ Mmmph! What about when you lost your virginity?”

“Oh, that was really nice, actually. It was in my bed, with my first love. There were candles and everything. “Blue Velvet” was playing on the tv. It was romantic.”

“Mmmph!”

“Why do you keep making that sound? You sound like a pig rooting around for truffles.”

“Mmmph! When did you first know you were a disgusting slut?”

“Um….right now, when you told me.”

“You never thought you were a nasty, disgusting slut before now?”

“No, not really. Thanks so much for letting me know.” 

And then he hung up. I’m surprised that the call lasted that long.

Why’d I fuck around with that guy so hardcore? Isn’t that detrimental to me earning coin from callers?

By now, I am a worn out old battle-axe. I’m a phone sex cyborg who can analyze pretty quick just what a caller is all about and what his intentions are. 

Senor Fuckpig is a poser. A liar, a fake, a phony, a fraud a fugazi. He wants to be dominant because it makes him feel like a badass, but he’s really just mad and misguided. Why is he mad? Well, he probably has struck out a lot with women and rather than improve himself and his communication skills, he has decided that women are now all shit and he has to sexually dominate them rather than risk rejection. I’m not even sure he actually has any real interest in BDSM, or if it just seems exotic and interesting to him, so he’s co opted what he thinks is cool so he can be more interesting in his own mind. 

Talking to this guy is a waste of time. He won’t communicate in any real way, he just thinks domination is only about yelling at women and insulting them and making them do sexually humiliating things. So, I fuck around, because he’s just fucking around anyways. 

I used to play along with these guys, but, I quickly realized that they have no real control or understanding of what they are doing. They aren’t in touch with themselves, so, you can’t really please them in any way. They’re miserable, and nothing alleviates it. Fake BDSM is just a crutch, and it splinters under them with the weight of their own self deception. 

So, I was lying to Fuckpig when I told him that I hadn’t been raped. I have. A number of years ago, I was raped, beaten and almost killed by my then boyfriend. It happened more than once. 

When Fuckpig asked me if I had been raped, I admit, I flinched. I wish I could say that I didn’t. I wish I could say that I was steely and unflappable and unfazed. I wasn’t. It by no means broke me, but it by no means had no impact. 

You may think it’s foolish or weird or messed up that someone who has been raped would be a sex worker. You might think it’s terribly cliched, and, I’m sure it is. You may think that because of what happened to me, I would never ever want to go anywhere near sex ever again. 

But, that would be so easy, wouldn’t it? To either be the damaged lost girl who runs to sex work because she thinks it’s the only thing she has to offer, now that she’s been objectified to such horrific extremes,  or the victim prude who shuts off her sexuality entirely because some vital part has been ripped out of her by trauma. 

For a long time after I was assaulted, I was so shattered I couldn’t function. I became a hard core agoraphobic and my cat was my best friend. I wanted out so badly. I knew that this wasn’t my life. I knew that even though I looked like a total waste on the outside, inside, I still held something of value. I knew I was smart. I knew I could do things. I knew that there was something inside worth salvaging. 

I needed a job, something that could jive with how messed up I was. I had tried  to get other jobs, but was too fucked up to hold on to them. To complicate things, I have polycystic ovarian syndrome, and its flare ups can sometimes leave me physically incapacitated. 

I once had a fairly lucrative gig as a model, but, modelling requires you to take your clothes off often, and, I just couldn’t really do it at that particular time. 

So, one night, I watched Spike Lee’s "Girl 6", and everything changed. It’s a movie about a phone sex operator. It’s a movie I used to sneak downstairs and watch late at night when I was younger (as well as “Welcome to the Dollhouse”, “Gummo”, “Buffalo 66”, “Kids”, and “Ladies and Gentleman, the Fabulous Stains”) 

I wasn’t sure phone sex operators still existed at the time. I thought I maybe wouldn’t qualify for the job since I wasn’t a single mom from the 80’s. 

As I found out, it existed. It very much existed. I worked, and it gave me purpose and a chance to earn my own money. It was a major stepping stone back into life.

I can’t say that phone sex work gave me back my sexuality. I wear a pretty thick shield when I work, I very purposely don’t let my own sexuality get affected by calls. It’s a job, and I treat it as such. 

But, I will say that it gave me a glimpse back into something I was missing. I love sex and sexuality. I’m endlessly fascinated by all things fucking. It thrills and captivates me, not just the having of it, but the way in which it can be experienced in so many ways. It’s such an important part of who I am ,and it always has been. I got it back because I wanted it back. I needed it back in order to fully function and be myself.

Phone sex allowed me to be creative, and be good at something and earn a pay cheque while doing it. I was safe in my home, but I’m still engaging in life in some way. I know you have to be pretty fucked up to be saved by phone sex, but, I am fucked up. I’m okay with that. 

The thing I realized is that nothing died when I was assaulted. Parts of my spirit were shut off, rearranged, displaced and altered, but nothing outright stopped existing. I just needed to find them again, resurrect them, breathe life back into the fragile parts that needed it. It took massive leaps across huge chasms inside me to get back all that was damaged, but, I discovered it wasn’t impossible. 

I used to fantasize for a very long time that there was a magical, special road to recovery. If I just followed it, I’d be fine again, better than ever maybe. I would vanquish the past, and never look back or be affected by it ever again.

I’m still affected by what happened to me. I always will be. I know that now. I still struggle with agoraphobia, and I am in fact just now pulling myself out of a lengthy bout of depression and PTSD related anxiety. This by no means signals that my life will be some sort of horror show. It’s complicated, I recognize that. I’m grateful that I always have phone sex to come back to to earn money and have these wild experiences after I come out of these bouts. 

I have noticed that we live in a culture very much obsessed with reduction. Nuance and context gets bled out in order to fit the soundbite.  Rape survivors are treated, like every other group, as a monolith. We require trigger warnings and are vulnerable in extreme ways to, apparently everything. We need slut marches to “raise awareness” of….I think what we’ve gone through? I’m not entirely sure…those events especially confuse me (thanks for twerking in your underwear down the street, but I’m not sure how it opens a dialogue about rape).

The first phone sex job I had allowed for everything except kids. Very rarely, I would get calls that requested a rape fantasy. I didn’t like these calls, as you can probably imagine, but, in truth, I doubt I would ever like them. I didn’t let them bother me too much because I knew that they were fake. Just like watching a movie with a rape scene or hearing a rape joke doesn’t really bother me, because it’s fake and I can very much distinguish reality from fantasy. I also know that people use the word, like Señor Fuckpig, in an attempt to get a rise out of me. It's pretty sophomoric. 

I’m sure there are some rape survivors who have a difficult time with these sorts of things. Perhaps they are just in a different place in their life than I am.

There’s so much talk now about consent and rape culture and slut shaming…and it’s all so meaningless. It’s language made of vapour. It’s sound and fury signifying dick all. 

That’s the thing about surviving rape. It’s a fairly lonely thing because even though people pay a lot of lip service to the idea of preventing rape or talking about it, it really feels like no one is really getting it and understanding the dimensions of what it truly means to sally forth after monumental trauma. We all ultimately have to find our own way out of the hell we have been tossed into. 

You may notice that I say the word “survivor” and not “victim” when talking about my rape. That’s a very conscious choice of mine. I feel like the word “victim” connotes a death of some sort. I didn’t die when I was assaulted. I almost did, and I felt dead inside afterwards, but, I wasn't. 

I realized at some point after that I was very lucky to have lived because so many don’t.  I think of people who were raped and murdered, and I know the terror that they died with. I know the fear that surged through them when their lives were snuffed out. The last thing that they saw was humanity at its absolute worst. They were denied the journey that I have been allowed to take…the one that restores your soul. There’s nothing fair about that. There’s nothing right about that. There is nothing that takes the sting away from that. 

I think about these people who died, who didn’t live through their terrible night,  and it fills me with such expansive sorrow.  I wish I could save all of them. I wish I could bring them all back to life. But, I can’t. I can only save myself.

"It won't begin until you make it end
Until you know the how the where and the when
With a new face you might surprise yourself."

- Faith No More "Last Cup of Sorrow"