The phone rings. The sexy robot lady voice tells me a caller is on the line. Someone wants to talk dirty with me for a dollar a minute. No shit? Well, patch him through, you hot android bitch....
It is a man. He has a gruff, smoker type voice, like he rides horses and ropes steers for fun. I'm probably way off base with that one. He probably jerks off alone in a windowless office.
He tells me he is married. I never ask my callers their marital status, for a variety of reasons , least of all because I don't care.
I ask him how long he has been married. "Too long", he says, in a growly voice that makes me glad I'm not his wife.
He explains to me that she is "frigid". In my experience, this can mean a couple of things: 1) she actually doesn't like sex, or at least not sex with her husband and doesn't fuck him, or fucks him very little and with limited enthusiasm and creativity, or 2) he doesn't actually communicate what he wants sexually to his wife and his frustration with himself has turned into resentment towards her...hence the "frigid" label.
I'm just guessing, but I'm going to say its number 2, because he likes BDSM and anal sex. Men seem to have a tough time asking their wives for anal sex. I don't really know why. I suppose it can be a tall order for some ladies. I mean, all you have to say is "no, thank you."
I do implore all women to give it a go at least once in their lives...not while intoxicated either. Just try it, okay? It won't kill you.
Anyways, this caller was a BDSM man who liked to assume the dominant role. Sexually dominant men, I have found, either hate women and use BDSM to take out their anger on the entire gender by torturing them in a consensual environment, or they love the ladies and want the experience to be mutually beneficial.
This guy, luckily, fell more into the latter category. However, unlike a lot of sexually dominant men who are not misogynists, he didn't have much tact or social skills. I don't know if that was from lack of experience or if that was just his natural personality.
At any rate, he was very insistent that I get off as well. He really stressed this point. He didn't want me to fake it in any way, he told me, just let myself go.
"Great, sure", I told him, happy he couldn't see me rolling my eyes. I then gave him an operatic range of multiple faked orgasms, as he seemed to think that he could vocally command me to cum for him, despite his telling me he wanted me to let go and enjoy myself for real.
Look, guy, I'm not so sure you've heard of Pavlov, but, I'm not one of his bitches. The female body isn't designed to spasm vaginally at the sound of your creepy voice barking orders for me to get off.
No wonder his wife won't fuck him.
I never get off when working the phone sex lines. Occasionally, what I'm talking about with a client will make me feel a bit turned on, but, the feeling never sustains itself.
Only once in my time as a phone sex operator have I actually tried to get myself off with a caller. It was quite a long time ago now.
He was a regular, and he had a pretty sexy voice, and we had a good rapport, so, I decided to try. I mean, orgasms at work? Why the hell not?
So, I laid back on my bed, and tried to get down. I let him do a lot of the talking, for a change. At first, it was hot and I felt turned on...but, then, my brain couldn't seem to to fully get synced up with the rest of my body. My mind began to wander away from his words, and all the charged feelings that had begun to fill my body blinked out and slipped away.
I ended up faking it, like I always do.
He seemed really satisfied however. He couldn't tell at all that it wasn't real. After wards, I felt really shitty for having even tried to get off. I felt gross and hollow inside and just...empty. Maybe it was because I knew that this person was never going to mean anything to me, and because of that, I couldn't feel a connection to him, or to myself that went beyond the superficial. The body doesn't lie, after all, it has much wisdom, even if you aren't willing to see it, or hear what it has to say.
I recently read a memoir called "Breaking Night", written by Liz Murray. Murray is famed for going from homeless teenager in New York City to Harvard University graduate.
In her book, she writes about losing her virginity to her older boyfriend, whom she thinks she loves. She found the experience less than fulfilling, and writes,
"That's when I realized that sex was not necessarily a shared thing. Sex was something you do with someone else, yet you can experience it separately from each other. It doesn't necessarily bring you closer. In fact, it can highlight the parts of you that feel most separate. Sex could reveal to you your own isolation."
I don't ever want to get my actual desires tangled up in this job. I don't want wires to be crossed...the phone jobs can have my voice and my time, and my brain, but that's all I really wanna give.
To illustrate the disconnect, the following are activities I have engaged in while getting people off on the phone sex line:
- Giving my cat his insulin
-Cleaning said cats litter box (won't do that again-too noisy)
- Looked up random shit on Google
- written e-mails
- written this blog
-cooked an entire meal (Indian Dal-my first, not bad)
-read a cookbook
-read my new Vanity Fair magazine
-fucked around on Pinterest (still not so sure why I have an account on there)
-changed a tampon (this was an emergency situation)
In reality, this job means more to me than I sometimes care to admit. No matter what is happening in my life, no matter what chaos is surging around me, I always need to get in my 35-45 hours per week on the line. The schedule gives my life a sort of shape that its been lacking for a long time. I guess you never really know where you find your salvation. This job has given me an anchor and an exit...the exit is supposed to lead to a financially more stable, more free existence. But, I'm wondering if maybe this job has opened up other avenues that I hadn't previously thought were possible. Places in my psyche I haven't gone into before. I'm not sure where those avenues will lead, or what I'll discover, but, I'm willing to follow those dark roads in my mind, and see where they will take me...where I'll end up.
I'm good at that.
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
Tuesday, April 12, 2016
Son of a Preacher Man and An Ode To a Dipshit
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Monday, April 4, 2016
Dirty Talkin' 101:The Basics
I have a caller who likes to send me erotic writing. I always have a few clients who like to do this, but this guy sends it to me in a rather noticeable volume.
The thing about erotic writing, is that it is a lot like jazz music or improvisational comedy. What I mean is that , like those other two artistic forms, it is either wonderfully transcendent , or cringe inducing bad. Ever been to a bad improv comedy show? Reading bad erotica can weirdly produce the same kind of bodily reaction. The kind where you are so embarrassed by what you are beholding that you get this funny feeling in your pelvis like you are going to pee all over yourself from sheer shame.
Erotic writing should produce a funny feeling in your pelvis, and maybe it is a little bit shame based, but it is enjoyable, naughty shame, not "I want to die, right now," shame.
This caller is not a bad writer, but, his word choices leave something to be desired.
Oh, how my heart dies just a little every time I see a reference to a "throbbing manhood" or "delicate flower"...
"Flower"? Really? I do not have a daffodil or a posy between my legs, and I don't think any human woman does. Flowers are for funerals and weddings and bees to do their noble business. Writing about driving your cock through my flower is not sexy. It's perverse and hilarious, but not sexy.
I just imagine a man, possibly an unwell derelict (no judgment) , lying face down in a bed of flowers in a public park with his pants around his ankles, humping the dirt, or literally fucking the petals off of a daisy he picked.
In case you were wondering the word to use when talking dirty 'bout a lady's nether regions is "pussy". That's it. It's not a "crease" or an "axwound" or any of the other choice phrases that have been whispered or shouted into my professionally receptive ear.
Conversely, a man's nether regions are a "cock". Not "manhood". Manhood sounds like something King Arthur would say to Lady Guinevere. Unless we are role playing courtly love, then nix the talk about "manhood".
It's also not good to use the word "dick". A dick is someone who cuts you off in traffic. Many conservative politicians are dicks. That word doesn't belong in the bedroom unless someone cums on your face without express permission.
Cock and pussy. That's it. Don't try to reinvent the wheel here. Trust me, if the mood is right, and everyone is feeling it, those words are just dandy.
Now, of course, there is always the fabled "cunt". Scholars have debated for centuries about whether or not the c-word is good for dirty talkin'.
As a swear word or insult, it is miraculous. As far as word weapons, it is the tomahawk. This means you really need to know how to throw the thing around.
"Cunt" can most certainly be used as dirty talk, but it must be used skillfully and sparingly. One false move and it becomes a tomahawk word weapon again, and tomahawks are terrible sex toys.
I like to think of the word cunt as the oboe solo in the symphony. You must know when to call upon it to make beautiful, Gershwin esque sexual music.
The thing about erotic writing, is that it is a lot like jazz music or improvisational comedy. What I mean is that , like those other two artistic forms, it is either wonderfully transcendent , or cringe inducing bad. Ever been to a bad improv comedy show? Reading bad erotica can weirdly produce the same kind of bodily reaction. The kind where you are so embarrassed by what you are beholding that you get this funny feeling in your pelvis like you are going to pee all over yourself from sheer shame.
Erotic writing should produce a funny feeling in your pelvis, and maybe it is a little bit shame based, but it is enjoyable, naughty shame, not "I want to die, right now," shame.
This caller is not a bad writer, but, his word choices leave something to be desired.
Oh, how my heart dies just a little every time I see a reference to a "throbbing manhood" or "delicate flower"...
"Flower"? Really? I do not have a daffodil or a posy between my legs, and I don't think any human woman does. Flowers are for funerals and weddings and bees to do their noble business. Writing about driving your cock through my flower is not sexy. It's perverse and hilarious, but not sexy.
I just imagine a man, possibly an unwell derelict (no judgment) , lying face down in a bed of flowers in a public park with his pants around his ankles, humping the dirt, or literally fucking the petals off of a daisy he picked.
In case you were wondering the word to use when talking dirty 'bout a lady's nether regions is "pussy". That's it. It's not a "crease" or an "axwound" or any of the other choice phrases that have been whispered or shouted into my professionally receptive ear.
Conversely, a man's nether regions are a "cock". Not "manhood". Manhood sounds like something King Arthur would say to Lady Guinevere. Unless we are role playing courtly love, then nix the talk about "manhood".
It's also not good to use the word "dick". A dick is someone who cuts you off in traffic. Many conservative politicians are dicks. That word doesn't belong in the bedroom unless someone cums on your face without express permission.
Cock and pussy. That's it. Don't try to reinvent the wheel here. Trust me, if the mood is right, and everyone is feeling it, those words are just dandy.
Now, of course, there is always the fabled "cunt". Scholars have debated for centuries about whether or not the c-word is good for dirty talkin'.
As a swear word or insult, it is miraculous. As far as word weapons, it is the tomahawk. This means you really need to know how to throw the thing around.
"Cunt" can most certainly be used as dirty talk, but it must be used skillfully and sparingly. One false move and it becomes a tomahawk word weapon again, and tomahawks are terrible sex toys.
I like to think of the word cunt as the oboe solo in the symphony. You must know when to call upon it to make beautiful, Gershwin esque sexual music.
Monday, March 28, 2016
A Skank by any other name.
The website that I talk dirty for has put me in charge of 3 profiles.
Customers for the site look through a bevy of profiles and select a lady fair that they would like to talk to, and call her up. What they may not realize is that girls are in charge of multiple profiles, so, there is always the chance that the saucy Asian woman they talked to last Friday is also voiced by the same woman pretending to be the chubby white brunette girl they are talking to today.
The profiles don't have real names, they have slut titles like "Candy Lipz" and "Your Princess". It's up to me to name them, and I named all of them "Denise."
When I was coming up with a name , I thought initially about calling myself "Daisy" after Daisy Buchanan, the unobtainable dream girl from "The Great Gatsby. I was trying to be clever or some such nonsense.
Anyways, when I thought of whores, I kept seeing Denise Richards in my mind. I dunno why. I'm not saying she's a whore. In fact, I admit that I've had a really baffling, longstanding crush on Denise Richards. And, you gotta feel for Charlie Sheen's baby mama, working so hard as she does in all her B-movies, strapped to a notorious Hollywood nutcase for the rest of her days. I suppose this is my homage to her.
Plus, there is a very dirty song by Eminem called "Drips" that references a very dirty girl named "Denise from the cleaners" , so, Denise just felt right.
I make up backstories for Denise, depending on who I talk to. But she's always from Montreal, she's always in her twenties, a student, and she's always a total whore.
That's usually what callers want, a total nympho. She's a slave to the shaft, a courtesan to the cock. She rides dick into the sunset , while gobbling the knobs of strange men. The stranger the better.
I regale my callers with tales of advanced debauchery that I stitch together from porn I've seen, stories I've heard, some stories I've lived, and others strictly invented.
They like Denise the nympho to be fucked up, but not damaged, and totally insatiable. Using photos of other women, my brain and my voice, I enact a sort of phone sex version of Cyrano de Bergerac.
Blowbangs, gangbangs, bukkake, oh, my. But because this is all in fantasy land, there are no diseases, or pregnancies, or feelings hurt.
Sometimes Denise is married, but she resents her husband. He doesn't fuck her, so she cheats on him constantly.
The pics of the women are not professional. A good number are selfies. I often wonder where these pics came from, if they were just floating around the internet, the refugees of a hacked account, or if they were the results of an amateur dirty shoot facilitated by Craigslist. If they are, than I can guarantee that whatever fee the model got in no way matches the amount of money other people have ended up gleaning from the photos.
There is no nudity in the publicly displayed images. I have a cache of more explicit photos that I can sell to clients at a fee I choose.
The prettiest profile gets the most calls. The rougher looking one, who clearly has fake boobs, "Candy Lipz" , gets the dirtiest calls. The short, flat chested, bleached blonde with dark roots who is the skaniest looking one of the lot gets one of two kinds of calls: 1) guys want her to beat them up , or 2) guys want to beat HER up, or otherwise degrade her.
Candy Lipz has some videos to sell. One is her in a wooded area, being filmed by a shaky camera , with tons of wind noises as the only soundtrack. The sky is grey in the video, and she wears only boots, underwear and a coat. It's pretty creepy, to be honest. The camera follows her down a trail to a secluded spot under a tree where she takes off her bra and masturbates for a while. She's prettier on camera, and she performs well, but, it's clear it is a performance.
There is also a video of her sitting in a kitchen topless sucking on an unpeeled banana. There are pictures of her dressed sexy in some little kids room. I wonder if the kid is hers or the camera guys. I wonder which is more disturbing.
My favourite video is the one titled "exercise", which features her stretching and doing jumping jacks and pushups in the middle of the woods. In that one, the cameraman talks to her, but the sound is all fucked up, so, it sounds like she it taking orders from a horny alien drill sergeant. It doesn't help that she actually seems weirded out in that one.
I often think about what it would be like to meet these women. I wonder what their reaction would be to how their image is being used. I wonder if they would be horrified, or surprised, or just wouldn't care. I wonder when these pictures were taken, and what they were thinking when the photos were being taken. I wonder if the camera guy who took them scared them at all. I wonder if they took the selfies for a lover they no longer have.
Maybe they regret getting nude and masturbating on camera. Maybe they don't. Maybe they love sex. Maybe they are moms who hope their kids never find out. Maybe they've forgotten the whole thing. Maybe they think it is funny. Maybe they've shaved their heads and joined a cult. Maybe they regret nothing. Maybe they're happy.
Sometimes callers call me thinking I'm the girl who used to run the profile. They find out that taht girl is gone now, and I've taken over, and sometimes they get upset.
"Where did she go? " they ask.
I dunno what to tell these guys. I mean, shit, it's a fucking ruse, dude. Santa isn't real, and wrestling is fake too. Sorry 'bout that.
Customers for the site look through a bevy of profiles and select a lady fair that they would like to talk to, and call her up. What they may not realize is that girls are in charge of multiple profiles, so, there is always the chance that the saucy Asian woman they talked to last Friday is also voiced by the same woman pretending to be the chubby white brunette girl they are talking to today.
The profiles don't have real names, they have slut titles like "Candy Lipz" and "Your Princess". It's up to me to name them, and I named all of them "Denise."
When I was coming up with a name , I thought initially about calling myself "Daisy" after Daisy Buchanan, the unobtainable dream girl from "The Great Gatsby. I was trying to be clever or some such nonsense.
Anyways, when I thought of whores, I kept seeing Denise Richards in my mind. I dunno why. I'm not saying she's a whore. In fact, I admit that I've had a really baffling, longstanding crush on Denise Richards. And, you gotta feel for Charlie Sheen's baby mama, working so hard as she does in all her B-movies, strapped to a notorious Hollywood nutcase for the rest of her days. I suppose this is my homage to her.
Plus, there is a very dirty song by Eminem called "Drips" that references a very dirty girl named "Denise from the cleaners" , so, Denise just felt right.
I make up backstories for Denise, depending on who I talk to. But she's always from Montreal, she's always in her twenties, a student, and she's always a total whore.
That's usually what callers want, a total nympho. She's a slave to the shaft, a courtesan to the cock. She rides dick into the sunset , while gobbling the knobs of strange men. The stranger the better.
I regale my callers with tales of advanced debauchery that I stitch together from porn I've seen, stories I've heard, some stories I've lived, and others strictly invented.
They like Denise the nympho to be fucked up, but not damaged, and totally insatiable. Using photos of other women, my brain and my voice, I enact a sort of phone sex version of Cyrano de Bergerac.
Blowbangs, gangbangs, bukkake, oh, my. But because this is all in fantasy land, there are no diseases, or pregnancies, or feelings hurt.
Sometimes Denise is married, but she resents her husband. He doesn't fuck her, so she cheats on him constantly.
The pics of the women are not professional. A good number are selfies. I often wonder where these pics came from, if they were just floating around the internet, the refugees of a hacked account, or if they were the results of an amateur dirty shoot facilitated by Craigslist. If they are, than I can guarantee that whatever fee the model got in no way matches the amount of money other people have ended up gleaning from the photos.
There is no nudity in the publicly displayed images. I have a cache of more explicit photos that I can sell to clients at a fee I choose.
The prettiest profile gets the most calls. The rougher looking one, who clearly has fake boobs, "Candy Lipz" , gets the dirtiest calls. The short, flat chested, bleached blonde with dark roots who is the skaniest looking one of the lot gets one of two kinds of calls: 1) guys want her to beat them up , or 2) guys want to beat HER up, or otherwise degrade her.
Candy Lipz has some videos to sell. One is her in a wooded area, being filmed by a shaky camera , with tons of wind noises as the only soundtrack. The sky is grey in the video, and she wears only boots, underwear and a coat. It's pretty creepy, to be honest. The camera follows her down a trail to a secluded spot under a tree where she takes off her bra and masturbates for a while. She's prettier on camera, and she performs well, but, it's clear it is a performance.
There is also a video of her sitting in a kitchen topless sucking on an unpeeled banana. There are pictures of her dressed sexy in some little kids room. I wonder if the kid is hers or the camera guys. I wonder which is more disturbing.
My favourite video is the one titled "exercise", which features her stretching and doing jumping jacks and pushups in the middle of the woods. In that one, the cameraman talks to her, but the sound is all fucked up, so, it sounds like she it taking orders from a horny alien drill sergeant. It doesn't help that she actually seems weirded out in that one.
I often think about what it would be like to meet these women. I wonder what their reaction would be to how their image is being used. I wonder if they would be horrified, or surprised, or just wouldn't care. I wonder when these pictures were taken, and what they were thinking when the photos were being taken. I wonder if the camera guy who took them scared them at all. I wonder if they took the selfies for a lover they no longer have.
Maybe they regret getting nude and masturbating on camera. Maybe they don't. Maybe they love sex. Maybe they are moms who hope their kids never find out. Maybe they've forgotten the whole thing. Maybe they think it is funny. Maybe they've shaved their heads and joined a cult. Maybe they regret nothing. Maybe they're happy.
Sometimes callers call me thinking I'm the girl who used to run the profile. They find out that taht girl is gone now, and I've taken over, and sometimes they get upset.
"Where did she go? " they ask.
I dunno what to tell these guys. I mean, shit, it's a fucking ruse, dude. Santa isn't real, and wrestling is fake too. Sorry 'bout that.
Thursday, March 17, 2016
And so it begins...
I found the notebook I use to record all the calls I receive as a phone sex operator in the garbage.
Well, to be more accurate, I found it in a cardboard box by the street corner , with a bunch of shitty novels. Whenever some leaves a box of books they don't want on the street, I always have to rummage through it like a bag lady. Books do that to me, books are my crack.
Anyways, while I didn't find any new and exciting reads, I did find a brand new notebook, to log all the phone sex johns I get. It's a Cirque de Soleil notebook, with a quote on the front that proclaims , "Everything is Possible."
The first caller I get is a guy from Brooklyn named Joe. He sounds like a character out of a Martin Scorsese more from the 70's or 80's. He calls under my listings in "Women home alone" and "Anal", so, I have a pretty good idea of what's coming.
Joe is an ass man. He's always loved "the ass" he tells me, but, recently, he's taken his obsession to a whole new level. He's been fucking this new "broad" and she can't seem to get enough anal action, and it's made his appetite for the act grow.
Discussing anal is always kinda tricky on the phone sex line. The company I currently work for doesn't allow for any talk of shit, or "scat", which I must say, I am eternally grateful for.
l don't know how to make shitting sexy. I just don't. It's completely beyond my capabilities as a woman, a sex worker, and as a human being. You could throw glitter on a turd, wrap a feather boa around it, and it would just be a turd with a boa on. How can I work with that? Why would I want to?
I know scat is a "thing" for some people, but, all I know about the subculture is that some eat the shit, some don't. If you eat it, you have to blink to signal you are full. That might be an urban myth.
That's all I know, other than that scat lovers must get sick a lot. But, to be fair, that is just conjecture on my part.
Anyways, back to Joe: he inevitably ends up using words like "poohole" and saying he just loves to "clean a girl right out".
The rest of the conversation involved some skilled maneuvering on my part, where I had to struggle to keep Joe on the line, so I could get his money, and possibly acquire a new customer, yet keep him from venturing too far into the brown side.
I was successful. He's the sort of guy who yells so loud when he cums that I have to hold the phone away from my ear. He yells like someone just stamped on his bare foot with a steel toed boot.
After wards, Joe asked me where I lived. Montreal, I lied. He asked me why I don't have a French accent. I tell him because I'm not French Canadian. The rest of the conversation was spent on my enlightening Joe about the Quebec Separatist movement, the 90's Referendum, and the Parti Quebecois.
Another caller on my first day was a guy named Patrick, who claimed to be 6'5. He told me a story about how one night his wife and him went out and invited their Uber driver to come up to their hotel room with them.
The driver went for it, and Patrick and his wife took turns blowing the driver together, which is something they like to indulge in. A sort of couples hobby. A cock built for two.
Patrick said that he jerks off over phone sex lines now because his wife is currently pregnant and doesn't want to have sex.
That's why I'm here, Patrick...that's why I'm here.
Well, to be more accurate, I found it in a cardboard box by the street corner , with a bunch of shitty novels. Whenever some leaves a box of books they don't want on the street, I always have to rummage through it like a bag lady. Books do that to me, books are my crack.
Anyways, while I didn't find any new and exciting reads, I did find a brand new notebook, to log all the phone sex johns I get. It's a Cirque de Soleil notebook, with a quote on the front that proclaims , "Everything is Possible."
The first caller I get is a guy from Brooklyn named Joe. He sounds like a character out of a Martin Scorsese more from the 70's or 80's. He calls under my listings in "Women home alone" and "Anal", so, I have a pretty good idea of what's coming.
Joe is an ass man. He's always loved "the ass" he tells me, but, recently, he's taken his obsession to a whole new level. He's been fucking this new "broad" and she can't seem to get enough anal action, and it's made his appetite for the act grow.
Discussing anal is always kinda tricky on the phone sex line. The company I currently work for doesn't allow for any talk of shit, or "scat", which I must say, I am eternally grateful for.
l don't know how to make shitting sexy. I just don't. It's completely beyond my capabilities as a woman, a sex worker, and as a human being. You could throw glitter on a turd, wrap a feather boa around it, and it would just be a turd with a boa on. How can I work with that? Why would I want to?
I know scat is a "thing" for some people, but, all I know about the subculture is that some eat the shit, some don't. If you eat it, you have to blink to signal you are full. That might be an urban myth.
That's all I know, other than that scat lovers must get sick a lot. But, to be fair, that is just conjecture on my part.
Anyways, back to Joe: he inevitably ends up using words like "poohole" and saying he just loves to "clean a girl right out".
The rest of the conversation involved some skilled maneuvering on my part, where I had to struggle to keep Joe on the line, so I could get his money, and possibly acquire a new customer, yet keep him from venturing too far into the brown side.
I was successful. He's the sort of guy who yells so loud when he cums that I have to hold the phone away from my ear. He yells like someone just stamped on his bare foot with a steel toed boot.
After wards, Joe asked me where I lived. Montreal, I lied. He asked me why I don't have a French accent. I tell him because I'm not French Canadian. The rest of the conversation was spent on my enlightening Joe about the Quebec Separatist movement, the 90's Referendum, and the Parti Quebecois.
Another caller on my first day was a guy named Patrick, who claimed to be 6'5. He told me a story about how one night his wife and him went out and invited their Uber driver to come up to their hotel room with them.
The driver went for it, and Patrick and his wife took turns blowing the driver together, which is something they like to indulge in. A sort of couples hobby. A cock built for two.
Patrick said that he jerks off over phone sex lines now because his wife is currently pregnant and doesn't want to have sex.
That's why I'm here, Patrick...that's why I'm here.
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