The Silence of Your Absence

“She tears the hole up, even wider, lets all the darkness, up inside her.”

-Hole, “Garbadge Man"

So, full disclosure time-I haven’t been doing so well, emotionally speaking, and by not doing so well, I mean I’ve been doing terribly. Things had been steadfastly falling apart and royally sucking for a while, but, this week it all came to a proverbial head. Everything just sort of…collapsed at once. 

I had a whole other post planned, but, my heart just wasn’t in it. I feel scalded right now, as though my soul were covered in third degree burns. It’s so hard to write when you feel like an emotional burn victim. This time of year is very hard for me, and every other hardship that comes my way just amplifies my shitty feelings. 

I still work, but, it’s difficult to be sexy, or try to be sexy, when you feel the way that I do right now. The hard ons of strangers interest me even less now , which is a tragedy of proportions no one would be interested in quantifying. My hustle and flow are rickety at best.

Yesterday, the phone rang , and it was someone calling on the “submissive” line. His name was Michael.

He was one of those people who, when he talked, you couldn’t help but check out mentally. He was just so boring, it was like my brain needed to block my ability to hear in order to survive the conversation with him. 

“ I’m gonna guess that you’re a bit of a wallflower,” I said to him.

“Yeah, I guess…” he said , in that somnambulant voice of his. He had all the inflection of a dial tone. 

I had thought that he had called for me to dominate him, but, it turns out he wanted to talk to another submissive person. This was a first. Two submissives kinda cancel each other out, sexually., there is no real dynamic…you just kind of end up asking each other what they wanna do and nothing gets going.

The submissive thing isn’t an act for me, I should note. In the parlance of BDSM practices, I’m what you would call a “switch”, a person who likes to be both dominant and submissive, depending on the situation, I’m also into both men and women. Being a bisexual switch might make me seem indecisive, or even greedy, but, I figure, why pick a side when you can be MVP for all the teams?

Anyways, eventually, Michael told me what was up. He had been in a 24/7 BDSM relationship for 4 years with a woman , who was the dominant. They broke up 6 months ago, and she moved to another state. He was calling me because he wanted to talk to another submissive to figure out what he had done wrong, to figure out what he had done to make her leave.

“Did it ever occur to you, that maybe you didn’t do anything wrong?” I asked him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, maybe you didn’t fuck up. Maybe you did everything you could to make her happy. It sounds like you did.”

“Yeah, I mean, I always tried my best…sometimes I even did things for her that I didn’t want to do…but I did them anyways.”

“Well, sometimes people can be unreasonable in their demands. You went above and beyond, you did shit you didn’t really want to do…what more could you have given her? You are allowed to say no, you’re allowed to have limits. You’re allowed to say you don’t feel comfortable.”

“I am?”

“Of course! If you didn’t have limits, then that’s how someone could hurt you really badly, or kill you, even. You need to draw a line. That’s what safety words are for.” 

“ I never thought of it that way.”

“People just do shit, you know, and it so rarely makes any sense, and it so rarely has anything to do with you anyways. Some people just sabotage great things for no good reason, you know? Some people don’t know that the flare gun is supposed to be fired up, towards the stars, not into the hull of their vessel. Some people just can’t help but capsize their own boat.”

“Wow. You seem to know a lot about this stuff.”

“Yeah, not as much as I’d like to.”

When I got off the phone, I went into the living room, and told my roommate about the call.

“You know, how sometimes, when you talk to someone, and you give them advice, you’re actually talking to yourself as well? I think that that’s what just happened with that call.”

“What were you trying to tell yourself?” my roommate asked.

Okay…so, this week marks the 20th anniversary of my dad’s suicide. It’s been heavy, to say the least, and there’s been other factors in my life that have made it all less than peachy.

“I think….,I think I’m always blaming myself, you know? I think that because my dad didn’t consider me when he made his decision, I’ve always sorta felt like maybe I wasn’t good enough…like if I had been, then he would have pulled through, he would have found a reason to live…so, now, I’m always thinking I’m wrong, that I’m not good enough…that it’s my fault people hurt me, or fuck me over, or leave me…”

“So, everything has just been an echo of his death…” said my roommate.

“Exactly” I replied.

In Greek mythology, “Echo” is a nymph who was cursed by Hera to only repeat the last words ever spoken to her. She fell in love with Narcissus, but could not tell him how she felt about him, and had to watch him fall in love with himself, which ultimately killed him.

It’s all weirdly fitting, seeing that suicide is a some what narcissistic action….it takes into account nobody else but you. As if somehow your death won’t extend beyond you, that nobody else could possibly be effected. My father was the first man that I ever loved, and he drowned in his own hideous reflection of himself, distorted as it was by his own troubled mind. My last words to him were, in fact an echo of his last words to me…”I love you.”

He did, however, try to pull back, at the last second…he called his friend to take him to the hospital, but it was too late. So much in my life has been about things being too late. 

When I was a teenager, I went to Montreal and stepped inside a beautiful old cathedral. I’m not a religious person, but, I love religious architecture and art. In that place so holy, where so many lives had passed, I bought a candle to commemorate the life of my father. I lit it, and I let it burn in that sacred place until it went out, just as my memory for him burns always, somewhere deep and sacred within me at all times. 

Today, I bought a candle to light to commemorate him. I’m going to let it burn all day. I didn’t realize it until I brought it home, but the candle has two wicks. I lit them both. 

"Your absence has gone through me, like thread through a needle, everything I do is stitched with it's colour."

-Separation, W.S Merwin.

Take a look to the sky just before you die
It's the last time he will
Blackened roar, massive roar, fills the crumbling sky
Shattered goal fills his soul with a ruthless cry
Stranger now, are his eyes, to this mystery
He hears the silence so loud
Crack of dawn, all is gone except the will to be
Now they see what will be, blinded eyes to see

For whom the bell tolls
Time marches on
For whom the bell tolls

-Metallica, "For Who the Bell Tolls"

I did my friend and erotica author Erin Pim's sex podcast "Bed Post Podcast"...you should listen: http://bedpost.libsyn.com/episode-43-lea-lawrynowicz

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Norman Bates' Mom Is Ghetto Fabulous aka Rhymes with "Trigger", Warning.

"I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine."

-Song of Solomon, 2:16. 

Okay, so, I realize that this is kinda a weird place to make this announcement, but, I’m just so fucking excited, I can’t hold it in: I’m Engaged!

Yes, yes, it is true…I am betrothed. It’s come as a big surprise after a whirlwind romance that began…on the phone sex line! I never could have imagined this to be. 

I’m getting ahead of myself here. Let me start, at the beginning, where most things begin.

One day, not too long ago, I opened up my PSO console, and saw a most unusual message had been sent to me….

But, before I get into that, allow me to digress. It has come to my attention that it is fashionable for people now to be extremely sensitive (anyone offended by that statement needs to know that irony never goes out of style). We must all now watch ourselves, lest we “trigger” people, context be damned. I’m not entirely sure what happens when people are triggered….someone told me that they explode into feathers. This is truly awful, and , I in no means want to cause anyone to get so worked up that they explode into feathers. Who would clean that up? Who are the good people who clean up people feathers? Their jobs sound terrible. I bet they aren’t unionized. Typical. 

The following contains the repeated usage of a very bad word. No, it’s not “cunt”, or even “faggot”. It’s the worstest word that ever there was.  I didn’t start the fire, it was always burning. I’m just relating my experience.  I just work here. So, if you feel as though your human seams are beginning to split, and that you may in fact be about to explode into feathers, for fucks sakes, turn away.

 Here is what the message said:

Subject: You’re my wife, and I can tell you anything, right?

look I know you're my wife but... I have to tell you something. There's a huge breasted nigger bimbo living inside me! When she comes out my body transforms and she takes over completely. The black lesbian bimbo's name is Maserati...I noticed that she usually comes out when I'm forced to listen to or talk about big boobs. You might have seen the huge bras and bikinis in my closet..... I don't know what to do. I attached a pic of her she saved on my computer...

your husband
gabe 

 So…obviously, he wanted to do a role play.

My response:

Hi Gabe,

I’m glad you came to me with this. I did in fact see the huge bras and bikinis that were in your closet. I was afraid to confront you about it, because I was afraid you were cheating on me.

But this is much worse.

I really think you need to call me, Gabe, so we can talk about this. I want to help you through all of this. I’m not going to let this Maserati ruin our marriage. Be strong Gabe, I know we can face this together.

Your Loving wife, Shawnee

I gave my “Girlvert” character the name Shawnee, in tribute to actress Shawnee Smith, who I have a crush on. 

Later that night, I got a call…

“Hello,” I said.

“Hi Shawnee. It’s Gabe.”

“Oh, Gabe, I’m so glad you called me. I’ve been so worried about you.”

“I’m worried too. Are…are you mad at me?”

“No! No, of course not. I’m just concerned. Why don’t you tell me when this all started?”

“I don’t really know. I mean, when she comes into my body, I just totally black out. I lose hours at a time. I wake up and I don’t know what I have done, and what happened…”

I can’t fully illustrate how seriously we were both taking this role play. If you had overheard us, and didn’t know what the context was, you’d have thought we were really a couple going through some heavy shit. There was so much gravitas, it was so somber. I did my imaginary marriage proud.

“I think,” I said, “I really need to talk to this Maserati character. I think it’s the only way.”

“I’m scared, Shawnee…I’m scared of what will happen to me” he replied.

“Don’t be. I’m here, I’m strong, I need to confront this bimbo head on. I promise I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

“Well…okay….you, you need to talk about big tits. That’s what makes her come out.”

“Oh…okay, sure. Um. Yeah. Okay. Um….well, you know that woman I work with, Debbie? Well, she just has these giant tits, and the other day, she came into the office with this white top on and no bra. She’s gotta be a DDD. She was just…flopping all over the place. I mean, they were moving around like a pack of puppies in a sack….her tits were just falling out…I mean, those dogs were just running all over the yard…I’m talking titty central….”

As I said all this, Gabe was making these moaning noises on the other end of the phone. Not moans of the sexy jerk off variety, more like moans of a man distressed, of a man fighting his inner demons…and losing. 

And then he spoke.

“Hi, is this Gabe’s wife, Shawnee?”

The voice he used sounded eerily like Norman Bates mother. If Norman Bates mother's favourite movie was "Friday", and she regularly impersonated the characters in it. 

“Is this Maserati?” I asked.

“It certainly is” she purred.

“What do you want, Maserati? Why are you doing this to Gabe? You’re ruining his life!”

“No way, sugah. I want you, I want us to be together, I want us to run away together and get married, and leave Gabe behind…”

And, on and on the saga went. By the end, I had been lured by Maserati’s siren call. She had asked me to marry her. I accepted. 

“I’m gonna be your wifey for lifey, Maserati!” I crowed.

“You sure is, Shawnee! Imma take you out to all the barbecues and show off ma white bitch.”

“I love being your white bitch, Maserati.”

And so forth.

So, that’s how I got engaged. Sure, it’s to a fake black woman living inside of my imaginary husband, but a proposal is a proposal. 

A very short while after this phone call, I received another message from Gabe. It went like this:

This is Maserati. I’m inside YOUR head now. It’s time I took over that white body and turned it into MY nigger body. When Gabe calls and says the word “BRA” that will be the trigger and you won’t be able to help yourself. You’ll scream “I want to be a fat breasted nigger bimbo!” and the transformation will begin. Is that understood? 

Gabe called me that night, and….the transformation happened. I became Maserati. I’d like to think my blaccent was better than Gabe’s, thank you very much. 

I’ve had some experience with a blaccent before, shamefully. The previous phone sex service I worked for required me to be a black woman. I spoke in my normal voice until I was told, by black callers, mind you that I sounded “too smart”. So, I acquired a blaccent. No, I’m not proud. 

What did it feel like to be possessed by a bossy, large breasted black woman, you may wonder? I felt awesomely empowered, like I could punch down skyscrapers. I felt how Oprah must feel all the time, and, I now get why she thinks she’s Jesus.

This is, hands down, one of the absolute most bizarre interactions I have ever had as a phone sex operator. As a human, really. I have so many questions for this guy. I can never ask them  though, because, we only communicate through role play. I don’t get to grill him on why he likes this, or what it does for him. He writes me 5 star reviews, singing my praises, saying I’m the only person he’s called who has actually gone along with his fantasy. 

While I’m good with all this craziness, I’m always uncomfortable with the dreaded “n” word. I’m fucking white, okay? I know I’m not allowed to say it, not ever. Even when I’m alone, singing along with Wu Tang, I feel dodgy when the word comes up. It’s a Pavlovian response. I get white person guilt cringe when I hear it. I’m so white that I asked my boss if using the word was even allowed.

You learn a lot as a sex worker, and one of the things I have learned doing this job is that polite society and political correctness don’t exist behind closed doors. There are closed doors all over the world, hiding all the nastiness we dare not speak of. People don’t just take off their clothes when they fuck, they also take off the masks that hide their real desires. You’ve never really seen anyone until you’ve seen their fuck face, with its teeth bared and its eyes dark with lust. 

Gabe is not the only caller who likes to use the word “nigger”. Far from it. Another truth I have gleaned from my time here as a phone sex operator is that big black cock is the key that unlocks many a white mans heart. 

If I had a dollar for every time a white guy called me and told me he wanted to get pummelled by black dick….I’d have enough money to buy something fairly expensive. 

They pretty much all like to use the “n” word. But then again, so do the black guys who call me. “You wanna suck this nigger cock, white girl?” they ask.

The etymology of the word itself is so innocuous-dervived from the Spanish “negro” and also Latin “niger”, which simply mean “black”, its hideous and violent history have infused it with such intense power that it truly is the Incredible Hulk of bad words. Everything else is smashed by the potency of it. Even the colloquial variation “nigga” doesn’t diminish its caustic nature. It’s a word that lacerates even the most passive of bystanders. 

It’s the power we have given it that makes it so attractive to some. Its ugliness is Medusa like for some people-they simply can’t resist staring it straight in the face. When a guy is alone, his hard cock in his hand, getting high off the dopamine his own body is surging through his bloodstream, all bets are off, and he’s as bad as he wants to be. 

And then there is Shawn….

Shawn is one of my semi regulars. He is a black guy, in his forties, who used to work on Wall Street. Now he lives in Los Angeles where he continues to work, successfully, in finance. 

He’s a smart guy, very nice, and great to have conversations with. He is married to a black woman. Once a week, a younger black man comes to their house and fucks her senseless while Shawn watches.

Shawn tells me his cock is small. His cock is about 6 inches, which is not small, according to me, and Masters and Johnson. 

He tells me for a black man he is considered small. This man who comes to his house has a cock akin to a third leg. 

When Shawn starts jerking off, his voice completely changes. He drops the bass on his voice and takes on an affect that I can only describe as “street thug”. The “mothafuckas” and “ain’t shit”s start flowing freely. He sounds like a totally different person. He wants me, when he’s like this, to verbally degrade him. He seldom uses the n word, but he likes to talk about how inadequate his dick size is for a black man. There are plenty of black women working for the service I’m on, but he selected me, a white woman, to do this to him. He brings up my race too….it’s part of the deal.

Then he gets off, the spell is broken, and he goes back to his normal voice.

It dawned on me one day that most of my callers come from the U.S. This might not seem like a particularly startling revelation, but it made me put all this  n word usage into a different context. 

I’m Canadian. While we share a lot of similarities with the U.S, mainly because we are both multicultural, first world nations sharing a border in North America, we have a vast amount not in common. Our approach to firearms, for example. And also, our approach to race.

I’d never be so naive as to say that racism doesn’t exist in Canada. Sure it does. But, it’s fair to say that the U.S, at this particular moment, is experiencing an extremely volatile time when it comes to race. Tensions and emotions are super high. I can’t say for certain, but, maybe using the n word right now has even more meaning for some people. It’s even more dangerous because literal lives are being lost because of peoples prejudices. Maybe, even though it is bad and impolite in the extreme, it still feels good, in that illicit way, to “go there”, to push that button so clearly marked “don’t touch.” Maybe it's a way, like jerking off, to release some sort of tension and frustration at the atmosphere people find themselves in. 

Maybe we don’t really shut out the world when we close the bedroom door. Maybe some parts of the outside seep through. Maybe they stick to us, and we drag it in, unknowingly. Maybe sex is a way, at least for some people, to work shit out. I can’t really say what that shit might be, it’s so different for everyone. 

People often like to keep politics separate from sex, but, sometimes, like forbidden lovers, they collide and get tangled up in each other, despite their best efforts to stay apart. 

"They say we N -- I - Double G -- E -- R 
We - are - much more,
Still we choose to ignore,
The obvious.
Man this history don't acknowledge us,
We were scholars long before colleges.
They say we N -- I - Double G -- E -- R 
We - are - much more,
But still we choose to ignore,
The obvious.
We are the slave and the master,
What you looking for?
You the question and the answer."


-Nas "N.I.G.G.E.R: The Slave and the Master"

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Letting Go Hurts Like Good Sex

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

-The Velocity of Gary 

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

-"Elm", Sylvia Plath



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

Ugh. 

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

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

But, back to Dan. 

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

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

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

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

Or, it might be because he’s dumb. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you turned on by me?”

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

“Good. Well, close your eyes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All I follow is my own desire, 

sometimes to feel, sometimes to be

at least a little more than intermittently

at ease with being loved. I am never

at ease. Not with hours I can read or walk

and look at the brightly colored

houses filled with lives, not with night

when I lie on my back and listen,

not with the hallway, definitely 

not with baseball, definitely 

not with time. Poor Coleridge, son

of a Vicar and a lake, he could not feel

the energy. No present joy, no cheerful

confidence, just love of friends and the wind

taking his arrow away. Come to the edge

the edge beckoned softly. Take

this cup full of darkness and stay as long

as you want and maybe a little longer.

-“The Prelude”, Matthew Zapruder.

Requiem for Dolores Haze

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

-Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cool, yeah, okay.”

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

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

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

“What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

" Get on your knees and suck my dick.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get on your bed, so I can rape you.”

“Nope. No rape. Only consensual sex.” 

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

“Nope. No watersports either."

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

“Alright. They’re in pigtails.”

“That was fast.”

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

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

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

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

“Ow, you’re hurting my neck.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just kidding”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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