Empathic Metamorph: Then and Now

I only have the urge to write in times of great upheaval in my life. When my first marriage was drawing to a close, I wrote two stories: one that would convince anyone sane that we should be break up immediately, and one that would convince anyone sane that we should be together forever. Both stories were absolutely true. 

The happy romantic story was, essentially, my sexual history. I've started drafting this blog entry three times now, but can't describe the Empathic Metamorph more clearly than I did for that story, so I'm going to excerpt it instead. The narrative voice is purposefully a little disorganized and flighty and young-sounding. Here it is: 

The Empathic Metamorph was a single-episode Star Trek: The Next Generation character ("The Perfect Mate"), born once every seven generations to this alien race. She was highly desired as a mate because she adapted completely and perfectly to the desires of every male she came in contact with, as if she had an internal radio tuned to their desire alone. If he was a Klingon and craved danger, she sensed it and growled at him. If he was the Captain who craved a smart woman, she discussed the finer points of philosophy and literature while calmly playing her lute. 

So there I was watching TV in my living room my senior year of college, surrounded by my best friends, my current lover and a couple of exes. And I realized that I was the freaking Empathic Metamorph. And that nobody in that living room had any idea that we were all watching me, because I was so damn good at looking like I enjoyed playing the lute. It depressed the hell out of me.

Later, I described for my therapist how, even when I barely knew my lovers or didn't like them much, I could still feel them -- their desires, their needs, but I could never feel myself. Maybe my blood rushed to the right places, and maybe my juices rose at the right times, but I was so focused on what they wanted, on what they felt, that I just didn't notice my body enough to tell whether or not it gave me pleasure.

The story goes on to describe how I finally learned to get in touch with what I enjoy enough to masturbate, and then have a deeply sexually satisfying wedding night, both of which are true.


I used to be depressed that I resembled the Empathic Metamorph, but now it seems like a source of power. The difference is control. I used to feel assaulted by the desires of others, bandied about on waves of lust I could feel rolling in to me. Since I didn't know what I wanted, I didn't know how to use that energy to feed any pleasure of mine.

Oh, the difference a couple of decades makes. Thank goodness.

Now that I know what I like (my "lust landscape", as I like to call it), I can use my empathic metamorph tendencies to identify where the desires of a lover intersect my desires, and then lose myself for a while, fully inhabiting the playground built on the overlapping lands.

The clearest, happiest example was with "Well Traveled", who explained that he liked to take smart girls and, in his words, "Barbie-ify" them so they become mindless fuck bunnies for his pleasure alone. My initial impulse was amusement at the term Barbie-ify, of course, but also confusion: how could I get to that place? We discussed the concept of the playground built at the intersection of lust landscapes, and he agreed it was the right idea.

So he suggested a hypno role play where I walked down stairs to shed years of world-weary concerns, then walked back up a different staircase to add worry-free years back on. He created a lust playground indeed with his words: rolling meadows and babbling streams, an idyllic, worry-free, frolic-aholic's dream. By the time we arrived there, my voice was higher and bouncier, my heart was lighter, my breath was shallower, my eyes were wider, and I felt awesome. The resulting play was a relaxing delight to both of us.

I'm not a bimbo. I'm not a Barbie. I'm not a ditz. But apparently, given a stream of focused desire at just the right dingbat frequency, I can get there. Or, as it turns out, I can get to dozens of other places upon request as well.

The difference 20 years makes? Now, I enjoy the transformations. I understand them. I choose to participate in them. I don't feel powerless or out of control; in fact, I feel the exact opposite. Now I feel like a bit like a goddess, creating and moving between worlds and characters and dreamscapes, gathering energy and gaining strength as I go. Far from feeling depleted or assaulted, now I feel celebrated and exalted instead.

P.S.: And now and forever, I would absolutely do anything that Famke Janssen ever wanted of me. Perfect Mate indeed!

To The "C" Word And Beyond

Thought Vignettes, brought to you by the "C" word of the day: CUNT

"Dirty Reader", who is fascinated by words, thinks that calling someone "Fat" might be dirtier than "Cunt". We  ultimately decided that "Cow" might be even worse for American women than even "Fat", and yes, it is dirtier to call an American woman a cow than a cunt. British women apparently toss the term around light-heartedly over tea, heaven forbid.

My husband and I casually tease each other with horrible words. We were engaged, staying at his parents' house, and I told him I was going to take a shower, and asked if he wanted to join me. He answered, "No, ya filthy whore," to which I cheerfully responded, "Okay!" I was halfway down the hall before we both realized his parents were right there, in earshot, silently escalating to apoplectic breakdowns. About two weeks into my job as a phone sex operator, I informed him that "Bitch", "Slut", "Whore", and "Cunt" have probably lost what little sting they ever had for me. He now calls me "Jellyfish" when he wants to be especially insulting. For example, "Quit being such a jellyfish and shut your damn pie hole." I feign outrage, to the amusement of us both.

A new caller on my submissive listing had been using the words "bitch" and "slut" as if they were insults. He told me to say, "I have a cunt, and I am a cunt," practically spitting the words through his teeth in disgust. I don't think he expected the response I gave him. I said the right words, but I said them free of shame, lovingly, admiringly, with great joy. I wasn't surprised he hung up on me.

(Side Note: I'm not horribly uncooperative on all my submission calls. I can enter fully into humiliation calls with a little setup, but when someone demands sniveling servitude without an introduction, sometimes I rebel. Plus, at that particular moment, I was kind of annoyed with someone else, so I was probably in the exact wrong frame of mind. Oh well, at least my listing suggests I'm bratty. I love playful domination with someone who takes 3 minutes to get to know me and negotiate before we start, rather than just following someone else's script without any chance for creative contribution on my part. I know, I know, I know, I'm a terrible sub...).

I have a regular caller who wants me to "make" him into an extreme sissy whore, cross-dressed in velvet gowns and garish makeup, sucking dozens of guys a week and giving all his earnings to me so I utterly control his life. He asked to be called "cunt" instead of his name, and for a while, I agreed, but then I realized he was treating the word as if it were an insult, and it annoyed me. Now I call him "shit-stain," which we both agree is adequately insulting.

I believe that words and phrases change meanings depending on who utters them, and what their intention is for the word. I use "gay" as a compliment, not an insult, because I think being openly gay is courageous. I never use the "n" word for people of African descent because it sounds horrifying in my head.

And in the same way, I no longer think of "cunt" as an insult. Cunts are beautiful, mysterious, luscious, powerful, fleshy, yummy things. I can no longer figure out how in the world that could be insulting.

But do. Not. Call. Me. Jellyfish. I will fuck you up. /menacing eyebrow raise

Me Stalking You

I admit it: sometimes I comment-stalk you. I'd never let it go to anything more serious, I promise. I swear.

The service is kind enough to allow the site to be indexed, so if I search on a user name, plus the name of the service, plus feedback, I can find feedback you've left for other phone sex operators.

Sometimes I'm surprised by who you've chosen. Really? Her? But she seems so... well... not like me. In any way whatsoever. She seems pretty much the opposite of Smart and Fun and Creative and Sex-Positive. How could you like me and also like dumb and mean and single-minded and a tease? (stricken because that was mean to say, but comments won't make sense without it)

Sometimes I'm surprised by the date. Wow, that was after our first conversation. Was I not available? Did I do something wrong? Or are you, like me, just never going to be satisfied with only one flavor of ice cream?

Sometimes I'm surprised because you've lied to me. You said you'd write me to schedule a time to call me as soon as work got less busy, but you didn't, and yet... here's feedback for someone. If there's not a reasonable explanation, then why would you feel the need to lie to a phone sex operator?

Sometimes I'm surprised you ever called me. You seem enamored of her, over a long period of time, and she's still working. Did you have a falling out? Did you add me to your repertoire, or did you just drop her for me (heaven forbid)?

Sometimes I'm surprised, and a little embarrassed, because I get a little jealous of the review you wrote. You haven't gotten that specific / enthusiastic / long-winded / effusive / poetic / elegant in your feedback of me... why not? It's a ridiculous response, I know, and I'm sorry.

None of these are appropriate to ask when we talk. It's your money, your phone call,  you decide the conversational direction. If I have questions about your phone sex history, I probably need to keep them to myself.

I've heard that sometimes phone sex providers get jealous or possessive about their callers. That confuses me, because I seem to be lacking the genetic material to care whether or not my partner(s) are involved with other partner(s). But I absolutely have a competitive urge: what does she do better than me and how can I improve?

So I'm not possessive, but I do have a ravenous desire to know about your phone sex experiences with other providers, because I only know the calls that come to me, and the only way I'll learn more about my own industry is to hear your stories. So if you don't mind telling me, but don't want to use phone time, shoot me an email and tell me - I'm FASCINATED to know!

Pretending I Help

I am not a psychotherapist. I like to pretend I help people anyway.

I feel like I'm in the bartender / hairdresser / massage therapist realm of helping people. It's not my primary job, but sometimes it accidentally happens anyway, in the natural process of callers sharing their life, and me responding to it.

"Doc Cupid" called today, for the first time in weeks (I wrote about him in my most popular post ever, here). When he had called before, he had sounded sad about the lack of intelligent women in his town, and his prospects for dates. I had recommended OKCupid.com (not making money off them, I swear, I just love their data-heavy blog and philosophy of free services), and that he go to a bar in his scrubs after work and see if he gets numbers.

He hasn't done the scrubs thing yet (you totally should!!), but OKCupid worked fine for him. He seems to have rinsed off his ex-girlfriend residue, and emerged a brighter, shinier version of himself. As he was telling me about his new fuck buddy, I said, "I like to pretend I'm partially responsible for helping you," and he graciously answered, "You totally helped me."

Even if it's a lie, it's a pretty lie, and I like it, so I'm keeping it.

Law Of Attraction

All day Monday, my first "full" day back after so much time away, I talked with a few old faithfuls for 10-15 minutes apiece  (thanks, guys!), but I also had an unusual number of new callers with either the wrong number (a frustratingly common system glitch lately... they're working on it), or 3-4 minute conversations which had nothing whatsoever to do with me - the paint by numbers of phone sex, where my job is clearly to follow a script.

I knew it might take a few days to pick up steam again. In theory, I was ready for that. In reality, I was a little bored. So on a whim and a prayer, I tweeted, "Smart fun creative sex-loving #phonesex op in search of like-minded callers. 3-min BJs are fine, but I want to explore something luscious!"

It seems unlikely that anybody ever picks up new callers from the #phonesex hashtag, but it couldn't hurt, right. And inevitably, following the #phonesex hashtag on Twitter is a fun bunny trail to find new co-workers to follow, and stay in the right mindset between calls.

Then as early evening faded into later evening, someone bought one of my new picture packages - a $2 package of all my off-phone Facebook profile pictures. Turned out to be one of my earliest callers, "The Wanker." Of course he bought those pictures, because he values my honesty and real-ness. I realized it was crazy early in the morning for him (he's in Europe), and thought he probably wouldn't call.

Ohhhhhh but I underestimated the power of an insistently engorged cock in the hand of a world-class wanker, a mistake I'll try not to make again. He called, and we ended up having a lovely, long, luxurious conversation. It's a battle with him: Can he be strong and hang up before I cause him to finish? Or can I overcome his years of masturbation training and make him hang on with me until I make him climax?

I pulled out every stop I could think of: discuss the power dynamics of trading your financial power for my sexual power, describe to me how you stroke yourself, what would you want if we met in person, and finally, if we were to push the symbolism of wanking to its most extreme practice, what would it look like? (That answer would change from wanker to wanker, of course, but for him: watching an alpha male fuck a beautiful woman, but not be allowed to touch his own painfully stiff cock, so his unsated lust serves only as a stark reminder of the difference between alphas and wankers) After an astonishingly long holdout, I finally won. We got off the phone and I threw my hands in the air and took a victory lap around the living room chanting "USA! USA!"

After I drifted back slightly closer to sanity, I mused that I had written that tweet, and also the blog post yesterday about Orgasms and Power, and then, as if the Law of Attraction were really a law and not just a hippie feel-good theory, The Wanker gave me the very thing I'd been hoping to attract: a fascinating, smart, imaginative, exploratory conversation with a delightful, kind, honest phone partner.

Thank you, Wanker, darling. And ... better luck next time ;)

Big Black Cock and... Washing Machines?

I finally opened my new Big Black Cock dildo, which I bought for the photo shoot last week. I was going to stick it on the wall of the shower and fuck it, but the shoot ran long, so I ran out of steam before I got to the shower at all (note to self: that still sounds like fun - you must do that soon).

Today, I finally used the dildo for the first time, for the monster cock caller I talked about here. It was, as advertised, big. It has a completely different dynamic going in than smaller toys - it requires more force, and I can feel it in completely different places on its way in and out.

Then, after the call, after I washed it, in a spectacular display of un-sexiness, it smells like sex toy - like silicon, or rubber, or whatever the real-skin material is. In fact, the scent is so strong that it has filled my beloved fuckatorium (which some would unimaginatively refer to as a guest bedroom) with sensory memories of baby powder and the desperate need to masturbate (I used to baby powder all my sex toys).

Seems sad to be left there, poor thing

Because it was distracting me, I realized I need to air it out. Sticking it outside won't do, because we have neighbors with two-story homes who clearly see our back yard. I needed to choose a room with a fan that we don't need to use for the rest of the day, like... the laundry room! Perfect! So I turned on the fan in the laundry room and used the suction cup to secure it to the washing machine.

The dildo is bigger than it looks. It's a big washing machine. Like 15 bath towels or something superlative like that.

But the important question here, really, is: how many homes have a Big Black Cock stuck to their washing machine?

I live an extraordinarily strange life.

Orgasms: Power and Control

Long ago, I read a non-Western philosophy of sex, couched as an older male instructing a younger male in the ways of lovemaking, that said that the female orgasm was a blessing to the man who causes it.

I love the idea, but I have to expand on it:

• An orgasm is always a blessing, regardless of the gender of the person having it
• An orgasm is always a blessing, regardless of the gender of the person "causing" it
• Causality for orgasms is a joint effort - both the person having the orgasm and the person(s) helping are at least partially responsible, and therefore, both are blessed 

In my own power-play explorations, I am fascinated by the power and control of an orgasm. 

For example, if I'm being submissive (let's say for the sake of visual effect: on my knees in front of a nice hard cock with my hands tied behind my back), the theoretical power dynamic is that I am serving him, and that he has all the power. And yet, in the moment when he tumbles over the brink into ecstasy, I can sense him losing control for a moment, and I always feel a surge of power, as if I have won something. My grin afterwards always has a bit of victorious gloating in it. Lovers have laughed at me, as in, "Well, you're pleased with yourself, aren't you?" Why yes, yes, I am. 

And when I climax at the hands (or lips or cock) of someone theoretically serving me, I feel that same transfer of power and control. I lose my sense of my self, my ability to choose, my ability to rationally decide, just for a moment. The French refer to an orgasm as "la petite mort", translated as "the little death" (explained well on wikipedia), as a recognition of the expenditure of one's life force in those moments. 

And when I have enough of them strung together in the right way, with enough breathers between them to avoid burnout, I can enter a "sub space" where I no longer want to be in control, where I no longer wish to decide anything at all. It can feel like I'm drifting on a current of air, or sometimes of water, or like I've expanded out into space as if I were universal. Physiologically, I understand that I've simply overloaded my frontal cortex, but emotionally, it can feel blissful. 

I love the endless loop... you serve me to cause me to surrender control to you who uses your power to get me to serve you to cause you to surrender control to me...  delicious. 

Back Now: Choosing The Life I Want

I understand perfectly well that part of the key to my success has been my availability. Since phone sex is my full-time job, I've been trying to stay available for as many hours as possible... until the last ten days.

Because of the mysterious vertigo that led me to become a phone sex operator in the first place, I have to recover after travel, and I also have to recover after I spend time in large groups of people. Highways and groups, in case you didn't know, are wiggly sons-a-bitches.

The last ten days have been packed with wiggly travel, wiggly groups, and recovery. But more importantly, I have built many lovely memories with family, loved ones, and the loved ones of loved ones. 

In the big picture in my life, I hope that I continue to choose make wiggly memories from which I need recovery, rather than to retreat into a wiggle-free safety zone with fewer hugs and less laughter. 

However, in the little picture of the next few weeks, I hope I stay at home a lot, available for calls. Because when I am available for calls, it means that I feel strong, sexy, social, and fun: exactly how I want to feel. 

So when you see that "Call Now" or "Busy" button, it means I'm back, recovered from the wiggles which may have wanted to bring me down, refreshed by the love of the wonderful people in my life, and ready to sink myself into the joy of the next fantasy that I'm lucky enough to share. 

Force Ranked Values

I have had the honor (or misfortune, depending on your perspective) of participating in the process of defining and force-ranking values with three separate companies. The process went approximately like this:

• Brainstorm: everybody blurts out what they think our values are. Honesty, integrity, loyalty, stick-to-it-ive-ness, technical competency, ongoing education, etc. 
• Group: can we lump honesty in with integrity? Efficient with productive? Creative with innovative? 
• Rank: everybody gets five votes. 
• Evaluate and Refine: do the values that floated to the top seem like a gut-level accurate representation of us? What is missing? What is over-emphasized? 
• Define: come up with a pithy phrase to describe what each value means specifically to us.
• Decide: usually done later by Director-level staff. 

I loved participating in and facilitating those kinds of meetings - it's fascinating to hear how a group sees itself, and it feels a little like magic when it works out well (none of mine went haywire, thankfully). 

It occurred to me that I could define my values in this job too, even though I'm not a group. I mean, I pretend like I am sometimes by having complex inner dialogue and role playing being someone else, but it's really just me. So I went through the steps with myself (it sounds naughtier than it was, sadly), and came up with this list.

1. Do No Harm: help when I can, but at the very least, try not to hurt anyone, including myself
2. Be Honest: be as real and straightforward and emotionally available as I can (without breaking #1 by violating my sense of personal safety)
3. Have Fun: squeeze as much enjoyment out of each call, blog post, and photo shoot as possible

Those cover at least 90% of my intention with the job. Sure, there's also "Make Money" but I believe that  will take care of itself as long as I'm sticking to my values. 

Perhaps Not All That Smart

I have consistently over-predicted my availability this week. Why do even smart people have a hard time predicting how long things take to finish? And an even harder time figuring out how much energy will remain once the task is done?

These seem like skills we have plenty of time to practice, so by age 40, shouldn't we be good at them?

Thankfully, next week is almost completely devoid of plans. Whew!

Manipulation Vs Entertainment

The fastest way to offend me is to accuse me of being manipulative. Because, deep down, secretly, I'm kind of afraid I am.

My dad was a social magician: I realized at his funeral that there were probably 50 people there who were convinced that if he were on truth serum and asked, "Who is your favorite person in the world?", he would utter their name. They were all wrong, of course, because clearly it would have been me. Duh.

Thankfully for all of us, Dad never used his powers to raise an evil army, but he probably got more favors and second chances than most people.

I know inherited/learned some of his superpowers. The coach in charge of the high school student parking lot let me drive off any time I wished, and I think it was because I always acted glad to see him. I was on the Dean's Advisory Council in college, which got me ridiculous access to university resources, and I think it was because I acted glad to walk across campus with him one day by chance. One of my biggest professional successes as an IT manager happened because I acted glad to see a C-level higher-up in a break room.

The hand-on-heart truth? I enjoyed the company of Coach, and the Dean, and that COO. They were all neat guys, with interesting perspectives. I wasn't faking, I was genuinely glad to see them. But. Here's the tricky thing... I also wasn't entirely unaware of the potential advantages to being nice to them.

So now I'm in a profession where I am paid to be entertaining, and that very tricky thing gnaws at me. Sure, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, but I wish I could somehow become less aware that I'm  putting out honey.

For example, I was flipping through feedback the other day, trying to figure out which one I hadn't seen before (because you have 90 days to leave feedback, but when I look at it, the feedback is listed in order of the call/purchase, not by when the feedback was left, which is patently annoying), and I stumbled across the name of a fun client who I haven't from in a while. "Awwww," I thought, "I wonder how he is?" I considered shooting him an email to ask how he was, but I was acutely aware that doing so is a marketing technique as well as a personal contact. Would it raise the value of my entertainment? Or be manipulative?

And this blog, even. Is it me sharing my thoughts and perspectives about the parts of my life that are touched by doing this job? A place to spit out my stories and feelings so they clear out room in my already-overpacked brain? Or is it manipulation to uphold my brand as "real" and "honest" and "open"?

The answer, of course, is: yes, it's both. It's all of the above. Dammit. There's just no way around it.

But do me a favor, please - and possibly yourself - and help me continue my denial. Try to pretend with me that I'm just being real and honest and open. Avoid accusing me of being manipulative. Unless, you know, you are entertained by manipulating women into getting furious... Wow, that just created an infinite loop in my brain.

Double Life, Take Two

My life has inverted in the past 10 years in many ways, not the least of which is: I'm leading a double life again, but backwards this time.

I was religiously moderate growing up, which practically meant that sexual activity fell under a social "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" contract. Then I chose to be religiously conservative for about twelve years in and after college, which practically meant that sexual activity fell under an "only have with my husband, only discuss with women" contract.

Nowadays, I am religiously liberal, but have varying levels of friendship and acquaintanceship with conservatives and moderates and liberals, who I understand, respect, and love, and who have varying levels of access to details about my sex life, as they wish to know. So I guess it's a step ahead from DADT to "Ask if you wish, but otherwise I won't tell." Perfectly reasonable.

For a while, during my divorce, when I was having my "use fucking as high-octane fuel to rebuild my ego" rampage, my life felt split: I was primarily socially engaged with a community of faith, but I led a double life regarding sex. Since my divorce, I've worked hard to integrate and just have one life, and I love that.

So now, I have an open marriage to an amazingly supportive life partner, regular dates with a playfully creative lover, and a blossoming new career as a sex worker. And I find myself wondering: am I leading a double life, or just being considerate to people who don't care to know details about my sexuality?

It's awesome that now I hide my past religious life more often than I hide my current sexy life. It's not awesome that I feel the need to hide anything again, after working so hard for so long to not hide at all.

It is overly simplistic, and it seems a bit selfish, to just out myself completely with a big "Fuck you" to anyone who disagrees with me. Some of the people in my community are friends of the family - people who lovingly helped raise me. They gave me the confidence to explore my life without fear. It seems like a form of emotional violence to expose my sex life to them without their consent.

Plus, I've been there with them. I understand their perspective, and I respect their choices to believe what they believe. They don't deserve to have something shoved in their face which is unpleasant to them.

And yet, those same people have been concerned about our financial situation since I stopped being able to work 18 months ago, and I want to tell them thank you for their concern, but that we're much better off now (Lord willin' and the creek don't rise... and the phone sex platform don't glitch...), and we're going to be fine.

Thankfully, my family and the friends we've told so far have been awesome. But I suspected they would be.

I'm still trying to figure out what to tell my moderate and conservative loved ones. I trust the answer will come to me, like it always does.

Chatting

Chatting online (messenger, gchat, that kind of thing) is possible for me. It doesn't make me too dizzy to read and write one or two lines at a time. No scrolling, no big eye movements, it's all good.

So when I started as a phone sex operator, I thought I would offer to chat-for-tips. Turns out, since the phone sex service doesn't monitor or control chats, they don't allow them to be paid through the service. My listing got taken down for offering it. Oops.

In the few weeks where I was doing chat-for-tips, though, I quickly realized why other phone sex operators said they'd never do it.

People would stall. "Okay, yeah, sure, I'll send a tip in a minute, but first, let me just clarify the fantasy I want to play out..." which inevitably would lead to us exploring a fantasy and me not being paid for my time or imagination.

People would get pissy if I didn't respond immediately, even if they had not compensated me for my time. Seriously, just keep away from the "buzz" function on your Yahoo! Messenger. Nothing good comes of it, I promise. 

People would be expect social chat off the clock. "I don't want to play or anything, just wondering how you are, sweetie?" which either leads to me spending time and energy connecting with them without compensation, or I would ignore them and they would get upset.

People would haggle over prices. On the phone lines, the rate is the rate, and although sometimes people ask me to lower rates (I don't), usually everybody understands it is a no-haggle-zone. Haggling for chat pricing, however, seemed commonplace.

When I'm not on the phone, I'm either doing things to be a better phone sex operator - like sending follow-up notes, putting together picture packs, writing blog posts - or I'm living my off-phone life. I cuddle or play fetch with the dogs, my husband pops in to chat, I pay bills, I stretch, I put away dishes, I go to the bathroom or get a snack, I read fun blogs, I fuck my husband, I fuck my lover... whatever. It's my life, I do life stuff. But the point is, if I'm not on a phone sex call, I have plans for my time.

When phone sex customers act as if they are entitled to my time and energy without offering compensation, I become annoyed and unpleasant, and I don't like being either of those things. It's not my best me. And I'm a girl who tries to be her best (even before the phrase was unfortunately overused in the tragic train wreck that was "Dollhouse" the TV series. Oh, Joss...).

It ended up a relief overall to stop offering chat. I have fewer interruptions and get more done.

Of course, people still figure out my chat ID and drop by sometimes, with compliments about the blog (I love ego fodder!) or inquiries about whether or not their fantasy is out-of-bounds for my limits (I love honest, respectful questions!). When those chats last for 5 minutes, they feel like a reasonable, professional exchange, and sometimes even a refreshing boost in my day.

And sometimes, I will extend chats gratis, especially for people with whom I've had satisfying conversations.

For example, the other day, a repeat caller popped into chat to check my availability. He had checked my listings first and I was logged out (good for him!), but he saw I was in chat, so just wanted to check (reasonable enough). Unfortunately, I had just traveled, so I was too dizzy to get on the phone, which he graciously thanked me for being honest about (what a sweetheart!). Then we happened to wander into a fascinating, meandering chat discussion about blackmail fetishists. We both took huge long pauses mid-conversation (we were both multi-tasking), and no money changed hands, but it was relaxed and pleasant, and he didn't act as if I owed it to him. As I signed off for bed, he thanked me for my time, wished me sweet dreams and a less dizzy next day, and assured me he would call again soon (and he has).

It was a lovely, respectful moment that we both enjoyed, but we were specific about it being a fluke, and neither of us took it for granted - I probably appreciated the connection and his concern at least as much as he appreciated my attention and my referring him to other web sites to learn more. Chicken soup for sex workers, I suppose.

So no, I don't offer chat as a service, but feel free to drop in with quick availability questions, or, of course, to tell me I'm wonderful.

Sex-Free Phone Sex

When I started being a phone sex operator, I assumed that all my calls would involve sex. What a silly, naive girl I was way back then. Wow, that was only 9 weeks ago. It seems like a whole other life.

Inner Drill Sergeant: Back on topic, Chance!
Inner Everyone Else: Whatever.
Inner Omniscient Narrator: Inner Drill Sergeant has never gotten any other response from the rest of the inner gang, and desperately wants a transfer to a different platoon.

In fact, all my calls do not involve sex. There seem to be a few categories of sex-free phone sex calls:

Cucks: Well, this category involves sex for someone, just not for the caller. The person calling wants to hear about me as their wife/girlfriend being ravaged by another man, usually with a giant cock, and usually in front of them. Then he wants to clean me up, or clean him up, or both, and sometimes to be made fun of for having a tiny penis. The instant we hang up, I inevitably feel like a failure for not being humiliating enough, especially if the caller says something like "You're so nice..." Yeah. That means I failed at humiliation.

Set-Ups: Also known as "getting to know you" calls. These are gentlemen who prefer to get to know their phone sex operators before playing with them. I get the sense there is some mulling between the first and second call. Deliberation. Planning the approach for the first fantasy exchange. These are usually conversational, chatty calls with fun banter. The instant we hang up, I inevitably second-guess myself and think of ways I could have been more charming, bright, clever, or amusing.

Sissies: Men who dress as women sometimes want to just talk about their elaborate fantasies of their future as a sissy slut whore, including what kind of clothing they will wear, how high their heels will be, the color(s) of their wig(s), how severe their makeup will be, what brand of cigarette they will smoke out of which kind of holder, how many cocks per day they will be "required" to service, and what horrible dumb stupid low useless cunts they are. The instant we hang up, I inevitably wonder if I missed my cue to start ramping them up towards an orgasm.

Spankers: I have had multiple callers who want to discuss cultural and historical aspects of spanking, or as one caller referred to it, "Domestic Discipline." I've learned about spanking implements around the world and throughout recorded history, looked at pictures of women being spanked, and discussed our personal spanking histories. The instant we hang up, I inevitably look longingly at the bamboo spoon paddle and vibrators on my nightstand and wonder if I could have talked him into letting me use them on myself.

Wankers: Oddly enough, I have three of these with the same first name, who are obviously not the same guy. Men who are clearly connoisseur masturbators discuss how and why and how often and to what material they masturbate. They reveal their guilty pleasures, the things they wonder about that they've never tried, pictures they've collected, conversations with other phone sex operators about their masturbation practices, and their philosophies on the insistently mesmerizing power of the penis. The instant we hang up, I inevitably think of a thousand questions I wish I'd asked, including tips for hand-job techniques.

And The Ballroom Dance Guy: He wants to ballroom dance, with me leading. Twirling, lifting, and dipping (with a kick!), and that's all he wants. It's ridiculously adorable. He just makes me happy.

My conclusion: Sex-free phone sex calls tend to bring out my insecurities. Unless they involve waltzing.

Happy Autumn Equinox!

Welcome to the introspective quarter of the year, where sunlight fades earlier each day, where we're encouraged to reflect on the year we've had, and gather energy for the year ahead.

I don't know astrology or paganism well, but I do sometimes use astrological and pagan symbolism to remind me of things which I believe to be true. As a famous religiously conservative speaker once said to his religiously conservative audience, as a word of caution, "If you can't learn from people you disagree with, you'll miss a lot of truth."

For example, I've been told that the way this equinox and full moon align, it's all about balance. Balanced relationships between equals, the balance of introspection and social activity, the balance of rest and work and play. Regardless of the stock I take in the practice, musing about balance is a helpful activity.

The balance I'm still striving for as Galiana Chance, Phone Sex Operator, is the balance between giving it my all and letting go. My version of "giving it my all": I want to provide excellent experiences, worth every penny to the purchaser, and be willing to dig as deep as the conversation requires. My version of "letting go": I also want to be able to put down the job when I'm not logged in, not worry about callers who sounded sad, and not fret if a conversation seemed to have gone awry.

Fortunately, phone sex is an excellent way to practice being fully present to the current moment; enjoying moments right now as they are happening without planning for the future or being bothered by the past. And yes, of course, some forward-thinking is necessary, and some brooding can be instructive, but I think it would be good for me to commit myself to a quarter of balance: Give it my all. Let it go.

Happy fall!

My Real Name

My "Real Name"... well, that depends of your definition of reality, doesn't it?

I have always believed in Santa Claus, the Velveteen Rabbit, and Snoopy. Honestly. Santa may be fiction, but there have been poems, songs, movies, books, dolls, and decorations by the millions made of him, and we know, in our gut, what Santa would and wouldn't do in any situation, as much as we know what our own parents would do. Just because he's fiction doesn't mean he isn't real.

I spent this weekend talking and thinking about why I chose the name Galiana Chance for myself. Why I named myself that, nine years ago. I blogged about it here, about what it meant when I chose it, and what it has come to mean to me now.

Then earlier today, musing about what I love hearing, I realized that my favorite thing to hear on the phone is my name. Last night, a caller was fucking the hell out of me, and he kept saying, "Galiana...?" and I kept pausing, enjoying the feeling of tension, my heart skipping a beat, before I replied "Yes?" We replayed it, over and over, like a choral call and response, and I loved it to my core. It felt like we were celebrating everything I had chosen to be. It was affirming, and powerful, and beautiful.

I should have known what was coming, shouldn't I?

Today, someone asked me "my real name." Of course he did. Instead of just giving him a name, which would have been the smart thing to do, instead I tried to explain that Galiana is the name that suits me best, the one I chose for myself, the name that feels the most like me, the name that seems the most true. He interrupted to ask if I'd gotten off - as if that's all I want from him - and ended the call.

I have a list I could have given him, names which all mean something to me: Leah, Jenna, Megan, Rachel, Angela, Gretha, Jane, Cecilia, Patti, Reagan, Eve, Elizabeth, Leena, Katherine, Lynn, Mary, and if I were to be really honest: Bucky. My legal birth name is in that list, but it doesn't mean more to me than the others. Certainly not more than Galiana. It means something different, but not more.

I didn't choose the name I was given at birth. My sister chose it, but if I had been a boy, she wanted to name me "Sunflower Boat", so it's been difficult to put too much stock in that name, y'know?

Each of those names are a part of me. A flavor. A slice. A piece. But Galiana... Galiana is who I choose to be, as whole and real and true as I can be, right here, right now, as present to every moment as I've ever been in my life. You want my real name? My true name? My honest name? The name that means the most to me?

Galiana. My name is Galiana.

Luscious Lyndee Blog Mention

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What I Love Hearing

I'm starting to feel like a connoisseur of male voices. In public, I find myself drawing men into longer conversations to hear timbre changes for my own pleasure. I feel like the female sound version of a "dirty old man" who goes out of his way to drive by college campuses in spring, just to enjoy the view of coeds tanning.

I love rich, rumbling laughter from a deep, gravely bass voice. They usually sound so serious, so the laughter is always unexpected and delightful.

I love a clear, mid-range high baritone / low tenor, when it slows down to a dominating pace, insistent without getting louder or deeper or angrier, just lustier, needier, stronger somehow. I can picture myself mesmerized in a boardroom, fantasizing during a presentation about being ravaged on the soft mahogany table.

I love sweet, faltering questions from tenors, whose sighs sound like descants on top of my melody.

I love a soft, tender voice dropping down into huskiness as desire rises to the surface.

I love when terms of endearment flow naturally: darling, baby, sugar, princess, sweetheart, precious, lover, honey. My Inner Feminist hates all of those, but in the throes of passion, fuck her, she's useless.

I love when words retreat and leave behind ragged breaths, cut-off exhalations, rough groans, seemingly involuntary exclamations, moments of silence building tension for an explosion of sound and energy that will fill me and nurture me.

And last, but certainly not least, I love, love, love, love, love to hear my name - sighed, barked, moaned, growled, stated, or spit out while laughing - I crave all of them. I chose the name Galiana for a ridiculous number of reasons, as I explain here, and although it is not my birth name, in some ways it feels like a truer name than the one I was given. So please, use it. It catches my breath to hear, "Galiana...?" and I sometimes I savor the sound so much that I almost hate to break the spell by answering, "Yes?"

I've always been orally fixated. Seems now I'm becoming aurally fixated as well. What's the hearing version of, "Yum"?

Heartbreak and Phone Sex, Part II

Inception Guy has been my best customer. I just realized he deleted his user account. I think I know why. My heart is full of ache, and hope.

This is gonna be a long post - it took me days to write it - so I'm going to use the jump break for the first time. Click the "Read More" to see the whole long convoluted story, with all my convoluted feelings.

Blurry Lines

I agree with the Terms Of Service (TOS) rules of the phone sex service I use: no pedophilia, no non-consent, no incest, no animals, no piss, no poop, no racial degradation, no violence. Easy enough, right? But some lines are blurrier than they seem.

Consent: If we consensually and calmly agree to role play a kidnap fantasy, with very specific limits, is that non-consent?

Racial Degradation: I'm on the phone with a black guy who is being dominant, and he says, "tell me you want this big n* cock." If I say it, is that racial degradation?

Family: If I'm a hitchhiker on my way to Woodstock in '69, and we negotiate that I can pay my way with blowjobs, and I call him "Big Daddy", in an era where that phrase was common, is that incestuous?

Family, Part Two: Off-phone reality: When the hippie lesbian clerk at the sex toy shop calls me "Momma", is it incest play or just part of being a hippie lesbian in Central Texas?

Violence: if someone wants to role play rescuing a damsel in distress, so I've been in a car crash and have injuries, is that violence?

Pedophilia: Since I was under the age of consent when I lost my virginity, is it pedophilia to describe my early sexual history? What if I don't specify the age?

I understand the allure of taboo, a fascination with the forbidden, that sometimes it doesn't matter what taboo is being discussed, it's just the fact that the subject is off-limits that is appealing. There is a thrill in "getting away with it," regardless of what "it" is.

I have to make my own judgements, of course, with edge cases. I try to negotiate with callers to find common comfort zones. When we can create a common ground, that's fantastic. When we can't, I hang up and wonder ... if I were just *that* much more creative, would I have been able to come up with something?

Yawning

I yawn a lot.

When I'm nervous, when I'm scared, when I'm sleepy, when I've been in the same room too long with the door closed, when I give speeches... Yes, it's true, when I teach classes or give speeches, I yawn.

I think it comes from my theater and voice training as a kid - yawning is GOOD for your lungs, and I always feel more clear-headed and awake right after I yawn. I don't think I've ever offended anyone - it's easy enough to laugh off or explain away.

Until now. Yawning during phone sex is clearly unacceptable.

So I'm trying to figure out how to mask it as something breathy, but I'm not sure I'm succeeding. So if you catch me yawning, please understand: my yawn means nothing, except maybe that I just got a nice shot of oxygen.

Go Cats!

This afternoon, I told "Office Crush" that it was my birthday, and that I was going to the Rice-Northwestern game (I grew up by Rice and went to Northwestern, so I didn't actually care who won). We had a lovely chat, then started to play.

The sex, as always with him, was smokin' hot, but this time, moments after he came, in the space that normally contains a "Whew!", he breathed a deeply grateful, "Go Cats!"

Cannot. Stop. Laughing.

P.S. Northwestern won 30-13. Clearly, Rice should blame Office Crush.

Happy Birthday, Galiana

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Safely Abroad

Okay, maybe we're not "abroad" since we just drove 3.5 hours, but we are safely at our destination, and plans are being made to start the day. We traveled late last night, got in at 2:00 am, so we're starting late.

I dreamed of a group of men surrounding the bed, holding me down and holding me open, but gently. They were just starting to get beyond teasing me when I woke up. That's gonna make me feel naughty all damn day.

So then I called room service to get lunch. The man who answered sounded young, college age-ish, with a sweet softness to his voice, and an accommodating demeanor when I told him what I wanted for lunch.

I had a viscerally strong urge to tie him to a bed and get myself off on his fingers while I asked him if he wanted to taste me or feel me ride him, taunting him with the threat that it probably wouldn't be allowed.

Maybe I shouldn't order food when I'm like this, what do you think?

You Remind Me Of...

I have a normal, average face. It's balanced. It's round. And my figure is statistically almost dead center average for American women. I don't think of myself as having extraordinary features. That's not meant to fish for compliments, it's just how I see myself, and I'm fine with all that.

In my off-phone life, I've heard, "You remind me of..." a lot. People often try to figure out how they know me, and when it's clear there's no overlap, I tell them, "It's okay, it happens to me a lot."

I just realized that I could completely wreck someone's day by saying "Oh, I'm a phone sex worker, do you call?" Do. Not. Do. That. Now I can't stop laughing. One day I'm going to be like Alice in Dilbert trying to control her fists of death, biting my thumb to keep from asking that question to some poor innocent guy in front of his girlfriend.

So, anyway, let's see if I can stop being a total bitch long enough to remember where we were. Oh yes. So now that I'm a phone sex operator, several callers have told me that I remind them of people. That part isn't a surprise.

What is a surprise is all the deliciously naughty things my doppelgangers have been doing for the past 30 years! Climbing into the backs of cars with men they hardly know, inviting men to masturbate in the bathroom while they shower, begging to be taught how to like anal sex... you go girls!

These calls all have a similar quality, a breathy, shell-shocked sound to them when they start, as if they're trying to figure out if maybe I might actually be her. Or as if talking with a her-look-alike is overloading their fantasy pathways with too many possibilities. It's a fun way to start, even if the lust isn't solely directed at me.

They usually want me to step into that woman's skin and replay their memory, but sometimes, they want me there, with that woman, all three of us together. How bizarre and cool would it be to have the chance to make out with a woman who looks just like me? The one woman I've played with most often sort of resembles me, and that is always amazing, so I think it would be oddly seductive. Or freaky. But I'm going to go with oddly seductive for now until I find out for sure.

Like Calls To Like

The religious tradition of my upbringing discussed the phrase "Deep calls unto deep" not only in context of the relationship between human and divine, but also between humans. I was encouraged to share my most personal thoughts and struggles with whole groups of people, both so they would be encouraged to share just as deeply, and so they would know how to help care for me as a community. I know it's not true for all communities like that, but I was fortunate: ours was genuine, loving, and safe.

So I shared. Deeply. At almost 40, still, some of best friends came from that era. And I have an enduring belief, for better or worse, that calling out to someone by sharing of yourself can be richly worth any risk. Sure, you may be giving someone the key to hurting your feelings, but most people won't. Or that's the hope anyway.

I don't know that I'm approaching phone sex as deep calling unto deep, necessarily, but I think I'm operating at least under "Like calls to like." I emphasize that I'm smart in hopes of attracting intelligent company. I show my real pictures to draw the emotionally honest. I seem "sex-positive" because I want to play in sexual spaces. I repeat the word fun to fill my hours with laughter.

And I write this blog, letting all my fascination spill out, not only as a chronicle to help me savor the succulent details, but also in hopes of bringing in wordy, thoughtful, creative people who are a little curious to peek behind the curtains on both sides themselves.

It's horrifically selfish, really. By sharing what I enjoy, I hope to create more of it. Greedy, greedy me.

New Page: Calendar

I just published a new page on my blog which is a calendar showing approximately when I expect to be logged in for the next seven days. I cleverly named it "Calendar".

You can find it here: http://galianachance.blogspot.com/p/calendar.html

And, of course, as with any form of commitment I make, there are caveats :)

Stats Follow-Up

I wrote here about being a Data Girl, and how frustrating it is to realize that I cannot reliably predict any aspect of this job with any kind of detail. In general, I can track averages, but (a) I can rough-guess those based on gut-level impressions and eyeballing raw numbers, and (b) that's disappointingly boring.

But my saving hope was the "Stats" tab on the blog. At least I could analyze web traffic and predict reader trends, right? Do my Twitter posts correlate with a rise in readership? Does my call volume increase when I have more readers? Do I get more traffic on weekends? Do more posts convert to more page views? Surely? Please?

No. NO. Did you hear that, I said no. Grrrrrrrrrr. Not at all. There is not one bit of predictable correlation between any of the factors mentioned in the previous paragraph. I've tried to find them. I've stretched. I've gone beyond standard deviations into very non-standard ones and what have I found? Correlations just ain't there.

You know what? Fuck you, Stats Tab. Fuck you, with your sweetly whispered broken promises. Just... Fuck you in half.

Quote of the Day

I originally quoted him as saying:
   I don't believe the universe is usually that specific. Still, that's interesting I chose you, isn't it?
   - "Big Cock Curious"

My original color commentary: 

He chose me off the phone because I had a nice voice in my generic 15-second recorded greeting. He confessed to me his brand-new curiosity about very large cocks, then I read this to him.

He corrected the quote to:
People have a tendency to give the universe too much credit.

His color commentary:
It was laden with 2 parts rue and 3 parts irony.

Mmmm irony rue. Reminds me of my Cajun gramma's cooking.

Birthday Week Schedule

Wed (today): All-day social plans, logged in tonight.

Thu: packing then traveling. Login uncertain.

Fri: sporadic logins likely, between impromptu social engagements.

Sat: BIRTHDAY! Who knows? Whatever I want!

Sun: afternoon traveling back home. Evening login possible but not certain.

Mon: recouping, but afternoon/evening login planned.

Yay family & friends and well-celebrated birthdays!!

Celebration Shoot

As I've discussed ad nauseam, I had a photo shoot for my 40th birthday last night.

I had a ton of fun playing dress-up in new outfits, even though I needed help getting into some of them.

Vivian (http://vivianronelle.com/) encouraged the pin-up look.

My husband encouraged me to look mad because, in his words, "you just never look like that."

Of course, I had to involve getting tied up.

And look like a damsel in distress.

But then I also explored my dominant side a bit.

I had a few luscious orgasms.

And I cracked them up when I "hung up the phone" after masturbating (yes, I was thinking about a call, and no, I'll never tell which one), and let out a grateful "whew" at the phone... which I guess I actually do after real calls, because I didn't mean to stage it.

I got caught making ridiculous faces.

I got caught photographing the photographer.

And I got caught being happy.

If you've ever called me, you helped make this possible.

 Thank you so much for my birthday present. I love it!

Super Shoot

My birthday photo shoot ran a couple of hours long, so I'm exhausted, but thrilled. I'll put up a few pics here sometime after I wake up, which might be Wednesday...

The Big Present

New pretties

Although my 40th birthday isn't until Saturday, today is my big present: a photo shoot with Vivian Ronelle (http://vivianronelle.com/), erotic photographer extraordinaire.

Friday, I went shopping for new lingerie. I haven't bought new lingerie in years, because although I love to dress up, I keep taking lovers who prefer just plain naked, so my limited lingerie choices have been more than sufficient.

On a practical level, I am going to be arranging the pictures into packages to sell. So yes, today is a career investment.

But on an emotional level, even if I never sell a single picture, I am still giddy at the thought of celebrating my sexuality, and my body, at age 40, unashamed of my non-Hollywood shape. I look forward to being on the phone when someone opens an email with a new picture of me in it, so I can hear his breath catch with lust. I wish that every woman on earth could feel as affirmed and adored and desirable as I have felt for the last two months doing this job. Using my own pictures was an amazingly good decision for me.

I am seeing myself through different eyes, dozens of perspectives, changing with each call, and I am able to see the things that draw others to me in a way that ... well... wow... who gets to live like this? Happy birthday, indeed.

Heartbreak And Phone Sex

Me: I'm not very good at humiliating people, and there are dozens of listings who advertise that. Why do you want me to try?
Him: Most of them are skinny bitches. I want... like... gentle humiliation. From someone who... I thought you might...
Me: I might understand what it's like to be fat.
Him (quietly): Yes.
Me: I might understand what it's like to sit down at a fast food restaurant and feel my flesh hanging off the seat, and wonder if the people behind me are making fun of me.
Him: (gasps, pauses, starts to cry). Yes.
Me: I might understand how waiters seem to judge you when you order dessert.
Him: Yes.
Me: I might understand how you spend a plane flight knowing the people next to you hate you for crowding their space.
Him. Yes. (crying harder) Why... why does this turn me on?
Me: (with a laugh under my breath): I don't know, sweetheart. Nobody knows why things turn them on. But I know how it feels to talk with someone attractive, and to have them not even see you, as if you are wrapped in a cloak of invisibility instead of layer of fat.
Him: Oh my God, yes.

And we continued. Quietly, calmly, I let him know I understood what it was like to be fat. Or that I could imagine it. And that, as baffling as it might be for me, it was okay for him to be turned on by it. He climaxed, violently, choking on his own tears, and thanking me profusely.

I said goodbye, hung up, logged out, and wept. From a place deep within my gut. It's been weeks since that call, and I still can't unravel all the reasons why I cried like that.

Once I finally composed myself, I told my husband about it, and his eyes welled up with tears as well. He wrapped me in his arms and said, "I hope it helped him, baby. I'm proud of you, of what can you do sometimes."

I understand that I need to protect myself emotionally if I'm going to do this job over the long haul. I can't let my heart break like that every day, or I'd be exhausted. And I understand that I'm not a therapist, that I'm neither trained nor qualified to help people in deep emotional pain.

And yet, there is a human being on your side of the line. And a human being on my side of the line. And sometimes, human beings connect in surprising ways when they let themselves. My Twitter post that day was, "Advice that perhaps I should care less about the people who call me is, so far, going unheeded."

Maybe I'll need to close off more. Maybe I'll end up less available emotionally. Maybe I'll harden. But right now, I'm okay with some heartbreak if it means I get to keep partaking of this incredibly rich experience of life.

Off A Bit

... But you knew that.

A wedding shower tonight will be taking time & energy.

Monday (tomorrow), I have evening plans which require some prep work, so I'll be sporadic as well.

Sorry for the lack of advance notice; I actually forgot about the shower until mid-afternoon. Silly me.

I hope your weekend was relaxing and energizing!

Words Fail Me

As you may have noticed, I'm ridiculously verbal. I love words. I love descriptions. I love exploring ideas and emotions by naming them.

When I am in times of great transition in my life, I am compelled to write (really? gee, the three blog posts / day wouldn't have given us any clue at all about that), and seeing my swirly conflicting thoughts transformed into stable, trustworthy, playfully squiggly letters has been known to calm me, and help me sort through my issues. I have felt gratitude after writing, to the words themselves, for appearing, and for their assistance.

So on a call with me, you can expect me to be able to pick up details and convey them. Textures, smells, tastes. The position of my hand, how you've made my skin feel, and what is brushing against where.

Until. Ummmm. Then.

I have at least a dozen types of orgasms, and they don't all render my speech centers useless, but there are two or three that do. They're not better experiences, not stronger, not more desirable; for example, I can talk fine through the soft rolling orgasm that I choose most often when I'm masturbating alone. But on the way to building up to certain types of climaxes, I go decidedly non-verbal. I can still think and feel, but thoughts and feelings no longer form words that make it out of my mouth.

It's a combination, I think, of sex-hormones, how much sleep I've had, how much I've talked that day, and what type of sensations I'm having. In other words, frustratingly unpredictable.

So, if suddenly I seem incapable of more than "Yes" and "Oh" and "Oh yes," well, now you know why.

What I Want: Vivid Imagination

"I was right there"
     - one of my favorite things to hear

The first thing I want from callers is honesty. After honesty, there's a bundle of things I want. I'll eventually write about them all, I'm sure: smart, articulate, fun, safe, and today's topic: in possession of a vivid imagination.

If I'm thinking about something, imagining myself elsewhere, building a pretend world, I can almost feel it. I have opened my eyes and been a little surprised that I'm still in my guest bedroom during calls, because I was so engrossed in a play space.

I've felt that same impulse from partners during phone calls, and it's delectable. It happens most frequently during guided masturbation, where I'm telling the caller how to stroke himself. I can't help it, I tend to throw in "If I were there, I would..." ideas as well, and if they're well-received, I continue them. When someone says afterwards, "I could feel you," then I know. They were there.

Today, I did a Mrs. Robinson fantasy with a caller who is usually in charge. When he has climaxed before, it has been guttural, deep, and exquisitely timed, but today it was a whimpering, surprised sound, as if he was completely caught off-guard by the whole experience. He was there.

Late one night, a couple of weeks into the job, I'd just started getting surprisingly busy, but hadn't yet figured out how to take enough breaks to get enough sleep or enough food. A repeat caller said I sounded a little tired and asked how I was holding up. I was honest, and after he chastised me with gentle concern in his voice, he said he wanted to help me rest. He bathed me, then laid me on the rug on the bathroom floor and massaged me, pleased me, and held me to his chest to rock me while I released a few surprised tears. When he let me go, I felt cold and physically shivered, then remembered I wasn't actually naked, or wet, or on a tile floor. I was there.

Wanted: Honest callers. Vivid imagination highly desirable. Job description: Be there.

Saturday Haiku

Saturdays have the loveliest vibe. People calling tend to be relaxed, and I've always had at least one long, meandering, luscious conversation with a new caller. This week, one showed up in the early afternoon, tucked in under blankets because his extremities get chilled sometimes, and, among other things, spontaneously wrote me a haiku:

She can make me hard and soft
in all the right ways.
Her voice is like tender silk.

Thank you, "Chilled Haiku". And now that I'm a bit recuperated:

Lazy Saturday travels
joint explorations
among my favorite calls

I hope you - yes, you, dear Reader, not just Chilled Haiku - are having at least half as good a Saturday as mine so far.

Quote of the Day

I want to bury my face in your hair and smell the awesome.
   - Ross Winn

Maybe A High-Class Whore

Tour Guide called me yesterday after reading my blog entry about accepting my Inner Whore. He told me he'd had high-class call girls before, and had some wonderful experiences, how he truly enjoys the company of a beautiful woman for dinner, and for carnal delights afterward. And he told me about manipulative women in his life, "princess types" in his words, who toyed with him to maximize the number of dinners and shows they could extract.

I hate that kind of entitlement mentality. I hate that kind of sexual manipulation. It gives women a bad name. Men should be worth more than their wallet to you. Women should be worth more than their pussy. But those kinds of games reduce us to that, and it disgusts me. 

Then he asked me how I would feel if I were bought for a weekend. Taken someplace luscious, decadent. Treated to the deepest pampering. Escorted to exquisite dinners, lovely parties, and lush hotel rooms. And then used. Like a toy. The way he wanted me. For his pleasure.

And my guts clenched up and my mouth went dry and I was filled with want. And then confusion. I've never pursued those kinds of luxuries, even when I had the money to do so, except as the occasional treat. And I never pursued people who could give me a life full of them. I have contempt for women who crave those things as ends unto themselves. Where is the want coming from?

I replayed what he had said, and I heard the lust in his voice, and then, finally, I heard what he was seeing: Me enjoying myself. Me being pampered, knowing he had provided that. Me savoring an extraordinary dessert, knowing he had given me that pleasure. And it pleased him to think of watching me relax that way, to watch me be pleased by him.

Oh. Ohhhhhhhhhhh. Yeah. Yes. Ohhhhh. Of course. Now I get it. Of course. Duh. Took me long enough.

I have always enjoyed pleasing people. I know you can't healthily take responsibility for making anyone else happy. I believe that everyone who is not in physical pain at the moment is actively choosing their overall level of contentment to some extent. I understand that I can't make someone else happy. But I love being the catalyst to a grin, a laugh, a pleasantly surprised gasp, or a deeply cathartic orgasm. I treasure the moments when I can provide pleasure to others.

So I can imagine choosing to spend inordinate amounts of money to watch someone enjoy herself for days on end. Of course I can. If it were the right person, it would be a delight. In fact, in my if-I-won-the-lottery spreadsheet, a whole tab calculates the cost of taking my extended family on a cruise every summer and a ski vacation every winter, just to enjoy their company and provide them all a low-stress getaway. So yeah, I get it now. 

Gravely Moon and I talked about this as well. Money has never been about sexy for me (which is why he thinks I'm a bad whore. Don't deny it, you totally said that). Money has always been about security for me, and about generosity. It is practical, not sexy.  

Then Tour Guide helped me realize that generosity could easily be a motivation to hire a weekend traveling companion. After my a-ha! moment, he described exploring and using my body, and I kept thinking, "What if I'm not good enough?" But when he said "This is exactly what I want" I came, immediately, and explosively. 

Maybe I could possibly sort of deal with thinking about being that kind of whore. Wow, as soon as I edge from fascinating role play towards off-phone reality, the rest of my body and brain just yell, "NO." So, no. Not in my physical real life. But I sure as hell can fantasize about it now.

Thanks, guys. I'm gonna have fun with this. 

Dirty Words: Request For Help

I need your help.

I was never a particularly dirty or mean person before I was a phone sex operator, and now people are asking me to say dirty, mean things all the time. I mean, sure, I could get the basics, "Harder. Faster. Deeper. More. Don't fucking stop," but now, looking back, I realize I was in the amateur league. I was always willing to go dirtier, but never actually called upon to do so.

So now, I need you to tell me what I'm missing. Nouns and adjectives, please. Well, heck, any part of speech if it fits.

Potentially mean dirty things to call men, off the top of my head: prick, asshole, pig, jerk, bastard, dick, psycho, sociopath, loser, nerd, dweeb, son of a bitch, fucker, wanker... (and is asshat just amusing or actually mean?), stupid, useless, dumb, inadequate, flaccid, fat, chubby, pudgy, tiny, weak, pathetic.

Potentially mean dirty things to call women / myself, off the top of my head: bitch, slut, whore, cunt, stupid, useless, hole, baby-maker, breeding tube, cumslut, cumrag, ragdoll, fat, chubby, pudgy, thick, inadequate, weak, pathetic.

And the big one for American women... cow. Oh yeah. That's right. I said it. I said the new "C" word right fucking there. I am off. the fucking. chain. /giggle

Silliness aside, I need a wider repertoire. I'm two months in and already feeling stale. Here, I'll repeat the phrase from Kiss Kiss Bang Bang that has been bouncing around my head for two days for no apparent reason, with one word changed:

Readers, use your awesome might to save me from this hopeless plight. 

Leave 'em in comments or Thanks!

Accepting My Inner Whore

I think "Dirty Reader" is going to be the one to help me accept and love my Inner Whore. (background: why I'm referring to part of myself in third person here, and what I've already written about sluts and whores here)

Before we begin, let me perfectly clear: I am clearly pro-sex. I am clearly pro-sex-workers. I have long been fascinated by phone sex operators, strippers, and prostitutes. I think sex work can be an empowering, fulfilling career choice. 

And I think paying for sexual activities can be a healthy choice. It can be a perfectly valid hobby, not a bad use of entertainment funds. But even as a means of sexual gratification, I can see lots of scenarios where employing a readily available professional can be expedient, fulfilling, and well worth the cost. 

So why do I have a problem with accepting and loving my own Inner Whore?

I think I tend to reject my Inner Whore for two big reasons: because I want to value people for who they are more than for their material worth, and because I don't want to be dependent on men for money.

I can work through the first issue more easily. I will never stop valuing people for their sense of humor, ability to healthily express emotion, ability to verbally express interesting ideas, or the thousand other reasons I value people. I may professionally prioritize my follow-up efforts towards the well-funded, but that's just good business, not a reflection of a personal valuation. I have enough consulting experience to help me sort through this one. 

The second issue is deeper, and trickier. I got the message clearly growing up: never depend on a man for money, because who knows how long a marriage might last, and fortunes come and go anyway (both Dad and Stepdad had salary fluctuations from "can't afford a Coke at the zoo" to "what the hell, let's put in a hot tub"). And there's no family money to fall back on.

So I figured out how to pay for everything. And I felt good about my career. It was part of my identity, my ability to provide for myself, and it feels the same as how men talk about it. Money has never been a factor with who I've chosen to date, and I'm a secretly a little proud of that. (not such a secret now that you're publishing it...)(oh, hush, you)

Intellectually, I understand the difference between depending on one man to meet your financial needs, and depending on men in general to purchase the goods and services I am offering. And I understand rationally that everyone is ultimately dependent for their income: if you work for someone else, they had to hire you, and they pay you; if you work for yourself, you are dependent on customers, or the companies you are investing in. But those cognitive recognitions don't change my gut-level fear of being financially "dependent", whatever that means.

Somehow, I stumbled into this conversation with Dirty Reader. And he started poking around: What if someone offered you as much as you made in a month of phone sex in exchange for a long weekend live? How would that make you feel? What factors would go into making that decision?

I bucked against the idea at first, even just thinking about it. Now, I've met lovers online and I have faith in my safety filters. But wow. Meeting a phone client in person is seriously complicating a relationship that I'm partially relying upon for my livelihood. And would I be more reluctant to uphold my boundaries if I were getting paid? And not to mention: it's illegal! And not to mention: NO. Did I mention: NO? Wave after wave of warning bells went off, which I had to dismiss, one by one, just to sink into the fantasy space of it with him. It took a few tries.

But the math. The math is... attractive.

And when I got to that thought, I felt, for a moment, like a whore. I felt dirty. Unsettled. And... and... what the fuck is that feeling? Valued? Precious? Treasured? Really? Treasured? Where the hell is that coming from?

Right about then, the intuitive bastard said, "I think I'd pay you in cash, by leaving piles of money around the hotel room in small bills, so you'd have to pick it up, handle it, lie on it, crawl over it to get to me. Make you face it head-on, that you were taking money to be with me. I'd stuff fives into your bra and panties as I was undressing you." The severity and absurdity of the mental picture smacked me upside the head, and I found myself laughing and blushing and stammering. And verbally beating against his chest in protest, calling him every mean name I could think of, the dirty filthy fucking pig asshole sonofabitch jerkwad.

But sometimes picturing an extreme helps drive home a point, and the memory of it lingered, and somehow it's helping me to accept that my company as a sexual partner has monetary value to some people (obviously  discriminating patrons with exquisite taste). And it doesn't make me dependent or needy or weak to provide that exchange.

So now, I can feel my Inner Whore gaining strength, courage, and a voice - slowly, but steadily. I'm doing my best to encourage her coming-out, and trust that she won't grow too strong or take over or endanger me.

But I'll admit, I'm a tiny bit nervous about her.