Monday, January 31, 2011


I am stunned to realize I have completely neglected an awesome category of phone sex calls from the blog so far: the confession.

There are, of course, entire listings devoted to the idea, "Tell me your dirty little secrets. Let me be your confidant." I don't have a confessional listing, but I get confessional calls. And I love them.

The feeling varies, from "This happened and I'm shocked, and I had to tell someone" to "This is a complete fantasy, but I want you to pretend you think it's real." It doesn't matter to me, my responses are still the same.

I had someone email and say he'd never played with anything larger than his finger in his ass before, but an ex girlfriend had sent him a giant black dildo, and he couldn't stop thinking about whether or not bigger is really better, and if he got up enough drunk-courage to think about taking it, would I walk him through it?

Of course I would. He started on his back, with a finger inside himself. We chatted about cock size, and how this ex-girlfriend came to send him this strange thing. He went to two fingers while we talked about lube, and prostate stimulation, and how erections have strange responses to anal. He went to three fingers while we talked, with his breath growing more erratic, about whether or not he would change from doing this.

The dildo went in. He was overwhelmed, then ecstatic. By the end of the call, he had mounted it from the suction base against the wall and backed up against it. When he cried out a string of profanity and enthusiasm as he came, I suspected perhaps he fell into the category of fantasy (a hunch later confirmed to be true): this was a guy who had taken that dildo more than once, as well as real-life big black cocks, but he was using me to pretend it was his first time.

I've heard about trips to glory holes, with cocks of ever-increasing sizes feeding through the anonymous openings. I've heard about pantyhose secretly worn under suits. I've heard about gang-bangs arranged for exes, the memories of which he just can't seem to shake.

My participation is rarely directly sexual: it's not about me getting off to the confession, it's about me feeding my energy into it. My enthusiasm, my encouragement, my noticeable lack of disbelief at even the most outrageous of claims. I look for details to add, questions to ask, the right moment to let out a happy girly squeal of delight as I enjoy the movie in my mind.

Or sometimes, I'm asked to participate: What does it feel like suck a cock for the first time? How would you have felt after losing your virginity in a dorm room, then crossing the room and mounting his roommate, who had pretended to be asleep? Does it make me weak to want someone to tie me down and hurt me?

I love the role play fun of participating in an obviously fantasy confessional, but I think the real confessions are even more fun. I love the connection, the sense of befriending someone around an especially intimate issue for them, and, when I'm very fortunate, the rare chance to help someone accept who they are a little more fully.

Oh, and don't worry, semen tastes great. I promise.

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