Friday, April 8, 2011

Heartbreak and Phone Sex, Part VI

This time, the heartbreak is for me.

As I've explained vaguely elsewhere on the blog, I have mysterious neurological vertigo which makes me feel drunk all the time. And every now and then, it causes other glitches as well, as if my brain's electrical systems got fried: I mix up words, I can't finish a sentence, or writing no longer translates into words.

Or, in extremely rare cases of extraordinary exhaustion and vertigo combined, I have little episodes where I don't make sense for a few seconds, as if I've drifted into another reality, and I hallucinate a bit, as if I haven't slept for days.

The basic theory behind my vertigo is that my neurons in part of my brain aren't recharging fast enough, so once they fire, they need more time than normal to right themselves. So when I do certain tasks which require certain types of concentration, those neurons wear themselves out and become unable to fire after a while. As neurological impulses are re-routed to pathways which are not designed to handle those processes, chaos ensues.

In the flesh, sex makes me understandably dizzy -- fucking is a wiggly thing to do with a lot of sensory and visual stimulation, but as long as I'm rested when I start, I can have satisfyingly rambunctious sex for about an hour before I need to take a breather. Each round gets a little shorter until I give up completely after about round four. It's not ideal, but it works.

Writing, doing data analysis, and riding in cars work about the same way.

Phone sex has the advantage of mostly just being wiggly in my head -- I can keep fairly steady when I masturbate (although I do thrash some even when I'm alone, and when I'm on camera, I thrash like I do in the flesh, because I find masturbating on camera so ridiculously sexy).

So phone sex almost never triggers the deepest kinds of vertigo for me: most conversations don't last an hour; I almost always have time to rest between calls; one call is almost never cognitively similar to the next call, so different neural pathways get used, so the part of my brain that got tired on Call 1 can rest up during Call 2. So I often can go a whole night without needing to log out to grab a breather at all.

All of that is good - I can do this phone sex job because it almost never dizzy-fries me.

... almost ...

That's such a persnickety word, isn't it? Almost.

I've had three callers who trigger my vertigo to an unfortunate depth. They have the following things in common:
  • they like to talk for more than an hour at a time
  • they like it when I do most of the talking
  • what they like is repetitive in some way
  • they like me because I bring freshness and creativity to their somewhat repetitive request
  • their request does not focus on trading orgasms or engaging in direct sexual activity
For example, I have a caller who loves to talk about a woman having orgasm control over a man: cock tease and denial, blue-balling, and forcing interrupted orgasms when the male is allowed to climax, to ensure male sexual frustration remains high. He likes to repeat topics and questions, because he says the repetition helps enforce his will to remain in chastity, yet he loves that my answers are slightly different each time I give them.

Emotionally, I love talking to him, because I have to search for new phrases and metaphors, and I feel creative and smart and powerful to be able to play with him in such a specific niche space.

But physically... well... I hallucinated with him once. I don't think he knew that's what it was. It might have sounded like I drifted to sleep and starting having one of those dreams that was somewhat based on reality. I apologized for drifting and said I'd spaced out, and let him know I needed to head to bed at the next time we got the one-minute warning.

I felt guilty and weak for not being able to give him what he wanted. Then I felt angry for beating up on myself. Then I realized I was beating up on myself for beating up on myself, and that made me sad. And then I decided if I was too uncontrolled to stop having feelings about my feelings, I should call it a night and go the fuck to sleep already.

He's doing nothing wrong. I'm doing nothing wrong. It's just an unfortunate series of events, a peculiar twist of circumstances, the exact unforeseen set of parameters that cause the program to start throwing errors.

Another one is new. He's adorable, happy and fun. He wants to do role plays where I objectify him. I get to be creative, and bitchy, and have fun with the situations and the characters and the descriptions... and he wants long stories, at least half an hour long each. And he wants two. Or three. Or four. I've told him I'm running out of ideas, but it's not true. After two stories tonight, I found my cognitive processes in a rapid downhill slide, and the situations themselves no longer made coherent sense to me.

I don't know how to tell someone, "I'm so sorry, but fulfilling your fantasy accidentally makes me stupid."

It's fucking... unfair, dammit. Or, as one of my favorite callers says, usually in amusing contexts, "Dammit so much." But that's seriously how I feel. Dammit. So. Much.

I want to feel like a badass. I don't want to be fragile. I love the gusty, lusty, go-hard-or-go-home attitude that I almost always have when I'm on the phones. I want to tell one more story, answer one more question, repeat that patter one more cycle, and not have to rest. I don't want to have to feel so damn human so often, with all the dumb limitations that dumb humans have. Can't I be a robot or a machine that never breaks down?

Yucky.

And yet, I know I need to keep myself off of the slippery slopes that lead to real downtime. I'm not helping anyone with those.

So. If I send you here, to read this blog post, and I tell you that you are one of these types of callers, I will have to impose time limits on you. I'm sorry.

I don't want you to worry about me: (a) worrying is the opposite of sexy and (b) I know how to take care of myself and stop the slide from happening, that's not your job. Your job is to enjoy the time we have together, and not take it personally when I have to go.

Please, please, please, believe me: I wish, I wish, I wish, with all my heart, that I could hang with you as long as you wanted me to. If I didn't enjoy our time together, I'd break up with you and tell you to find another provider (yep, really, I've done that several times), but I'm not doing that.

I want to share the thing we have. I do. I just need to do a little less of it.

I'm so sorry. I know it's for the best, and yet, it breaks my heart a little for both of us.

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