Sunday, December 2, 2012

Becoming The Answer

I turned 42 this year, which means I am now The Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything (follow the link for the geeky reference).

So for my birthday party, I gathered a few local kinkster friends with a very specific set of criteria:
  • I had to believe they wanted good things for me
  • I had to believe they would not be offended or bothered by sexual play (many kinksters, especially BDSM players, only play with pain outside their primary relationship, but they don't include overtly sexual acts)
  • I had to believe they would say "no" to my request if they were uncomfortable in any way (not everyone will)
  • I had to believe they would enjoy running their hands over my body (not everyone would)
  • I had to believe they would not be traumatized if I cried in front of them
The first unbelievably wonderful thing about my birthday is that I had to pare down my list: there were enough people fitting those criteria in our kinkster community that I couldn't invite everyone who I wished could have been there, because the sheer volume of people in our home would have been counterproductively overwhelming.

So. Yeah. This is the part where my brain goes -splork- from disbelief with how crazy wonderful my life sometimes is.


Here is what I said to kick off the party after everyone had gathered, also known as Easily The Most Insane Speech Ever:
Thank you all so much for coming here tonight.

I'm almost sure you all know this, but just in case: in addition to this being a birthday party, it is also 2 days before my disability insurance settlement hearing. We've waited three years for this hearing, and it's been a crazy hard road.

[start to cry, spend the rest of the speech powering through tears as best I can]

So this week, to prepare for the hearing, I am doing lots of things which normally wipe me out - but nothing that would have made me dizzy in 2008 before I got vertigo - and I'm pretending like it's 2008 and I don't need to recuperate between activities. I'm pretending that there is no vertigo wall for me to crash into.

However, what only three of you know, and this is hard to say out loud, but... something shifted in my neurological balance over the summer, in June some time, I think, and some things have been wiping me out even more than usual since then. And unfortunately, one of those activities has been having orgasms, especially with a partner. So, I just haven't been. Having orgasms. With other people. Not really at all for a few months now. Poor guys. [gesture to my husband and my local lover]

My local lover: No, poor you [I nod, catch my breath again, take in the empathy I feel in the room]

So, hmmm, let me see, if I'm trying to do things I enjoy this week without worrying about getting wiped out... what could I possibly come up with that I might enjoy? [everyone laughs]

So I figure that if I'm going to have a non-solo orgasm, I might as well go big and... y'know... throw a party and invite everyone in the party to help bring me to orgasm. Cuz... y'know... go big or go home, right? [gentle cheering]

So that's the goal. Now for logistics. I'm going to explain an insane amount of information and caveats, after which you can make an informed decision whether or not you want to participate.

First of all, I was tested for Sexually Transmitted Infections earlier this week, and they all came out negative, and the copy of my STI report is right here if you want to see it [wave a paper].

Next, before we start, I'm going to be a crazy controlling control freak and ask everyone to wash your hands so I don't get the flu on Monday [everybody laughs at me].

Also, I bought a bunch of those single-use toothbrushes Colgate Wisps, so if you want to kiss me or lick me, feel free to brush your teeth first if you'd feel more relaxed about it, or use the mouthwash in the bathroom.

Also, if you want gloves, we have some non-latex gloves, and feel free to wear them.

Also, in what is perhaps the most embarrassing and awkward thing to admit to a sex party ever, I ... ummmm... deep breath... I started my period yesterday [groans of "oh fuck I'm sorry" from the women], so I just douched and I have in a menstrual cup, so there shouldn't be any blood, but if that freaks you out, feel free to avoid touching my cooch.

Okay. Now I'm gonna die a little. [crazy face while waves of "I can't believe I'm doing this, I can't believe I just said that" wash over me]

Okay, I'm back. So. What's gonna happen is, I want you to help me undress, then guide me to that table, and then you're gonna gather around me, and you're gonna touch me, kiss me, lick me anywhere on my body until I have as many orgasms as I can stand.

Well, except, don't touch me anally, because if anybody did that, it would probably be over too soon, and it would be a harder intensity orgasm than I want. The same for pain - no pain, because it would escalate me too fast, and I want this to last as long as possible.

So you'll use your hands and/or mouth. I got some flavored body butter that smells and tastes like cake [side note: it totally does], so if you want to rub it into me or lick it off me, feel free.

Think gentle in terms of touch. Whole fingers, palms... stroking, not tickling. If you're touching my pussy, think petting, not rubbing. [demonstrate on my arm] If your fingers are inside me, think pressing, not pumping [demonstrate on my fist wrapped around fingers]. I promise it will be enough to make me come, because this is all already very intense for me.

Afterward, after I have an orgasm, I'll probably ask you to just stay with me for a moment while I come down a bit. And, I might crash... I mean, I might have an unpleasant vertigo reaction, and I might cry. It might look like it's hard for me to go through.

But here's the important thing for you to remember: I chose this. I chose you. You are not doing something bad to me. I designed this moment to be exactly what I wanted it to be, and you are here because I trust you and I want to share this moment with you. I believe this will be exactly what I want and need it to be. I'm asking you to do this, even knowing what's going to happen. I am choosing this.

So now... go wash up, and anybody who is willing to participate, gather back here when you're done.
Of course, in reality, all of that came out less well-organized, with clarifying questions, and stuff I forgot the first time, but that was approximately what was conveyed by the time the group re-gathered.

We gathered. I said thank you. I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath and said, "Okay". And I felt my roommate peel my clothes off me, my lover guide me onto the table, my husband's hand over my heart.

And then...

It felt like a sea of hands. Little waves of fingers crested and broke on my skin, replaced by new waves of gentle, rolling touch. It was amazing.

I heard whispering and jostling as the group trial-and-error figured out how to fit everyone into the space - I heard later they were rotating slowly around me so everyone could have a turn, because not everyone fit all at once, with my husband and lover approximately opposite me, with a few people watching from the other room at any given time.

I realized after about three minutes, just as the rhythm was starting to settle in, that I had, spectacularly, remembered to shave my pubic hair, but neglected to shave my legs, which I said out loud in abject shame, and everyone laughed at me and my easy-to-forget peach-fuzz leg hair.

I was rubbed, stroked, pressed, caressed, kissed, licked, suckled, petted.

I heard later that a couple of people got a little overwhelmed and stepped back just to watch, crying quietly, while others continued to rotate slowly around me.

It felt like the same person was gently touching my face the whole time, but I found out later that almost everyone had touched my face. I don't know how that's possible, but it was wonderful.

I felt loved. Cherished. Adored. Supported. It felt like the hands of everyone who ever cared for me were wishing their prayers into me for my good, for my healing, to give me love.

Although it may sound hokey to say, I thought of you some of you: readers, callers, friends I've never met in person, people I would have loved to have be there with us, people who felt like they were there with us.

I could feel the love of everyone who ever loved me.

And I came, twice, I think, although it was more like one that kept rolling into another. As the orgasms washed over me, I was grabbing on to wrists I couldn't identify, pressing against fingers I couldn't distinguish, arching under hands I couldn't place.

It broke over me, and I felt the vertigo washing in behind it, and I tapped something twice and said, "Okay" and then hands all went away, as if they were all one person. "No, no, stay touching, just stay" and they all came back, together, pressing into me, as if they were all from one heart, centered by the hand which was suddenly obviously my husband's over my heart, the hand that was suddenly obviously my lover's pressing into my belly, to ground me.

I cried into all of them, letting that first ugly wave of chaotic backlash hit me. I breathed through it as best I could, tensing up, and releasing, releasing, releasing, as best I could.

Then my breath returned, a bit at a time. I'm sure it was just five minutes maybe ten, but it felt like an eternity. Nobody moved. Everybody just ... stayed.

"Okay" I said again, nodding slowly. "Okay".

Nobody moved.

I smiled a little, snuggled into someone's arm, said, "Okay, I can do this," then let my eyes blink open.

If you've never been lying on a table, surrounded by people pouring intense amounts of love into you, and looked up at all of them all at once, let me assure you: it's incredibly intense.

I believe my response was to curl into a ball, put my hands over my eyes, and say something brilliant like, "aaaaaaaa! too much! too many eyeballs! go away, ya creepers!" At which point, everyone laughed at me, hugged me, reached out for one last touch, and left me with my husband and my roommate and my lover, where they wrapped me in a blanket and cuddled me until I could crawl up one stair at a time to my bed with my husband's help.

A few people came upstairs and cuddled me, thanked me, told me what they had felt, what they had seen, then quietly disappeared again. It was lovely.

After about 2 hours, I think, and some bizarre-but-peaceful vertigo dreams (which feel more like vivid hallucinations than sleeping dreams), I had settled enough to venture back downstairs, one stair at a time, with help again, but this time, dressed in my favorite sleep t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. The group dynamics had livened up considerably, more like one of our normal parties. People were rassling and beating and doing all manners of naughtiness to each other. I floated from person to person when people weren't actively in play scenes with each other, thanking them, hugging them, trying to let the snacks and hugs bring me back to earth. I felt and sounded wasted, forgetting words and being ridiculously confused, but everyone was gentle and kind and amused with me.

We opened presents, one of which was decorated in colorful pipe cleaners, which I drunkenly wove into my hair. There were presents for both me and my roommate, and at one point, I stared at the card with my FetLife handle written on it, which is the name I introduce myself as at munches, a personal nickname of sorts, which I hear and use often among my friends, and I genuinely wondered who to give the present to because my brain could not figure out it was for me, for waaaaaay too long. The laughter when I said, "Oh! That's me!" intensified when it turned out the card was a 'getting older' card about how your memory stops working ... priceless.

In case you're curious, here's how I look when I'm brain-drunk beyond belief, with pipe cleaners in my hair, two or three hours after a vertigo crash.

It was perfect. Everyone was amazing. It was exactly what I needed it to be, and more.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, in case you were wondering, is how you become The Answer to Everything. I would have suspected that it required a giant helping of love, which it did, but who could have guessed it also needed pipe cleaners? Well, now we know.

Saturday, November 10, 2012


My mom in Houston got 60 days' notice that her apartment building was being torn down. My sister helped her through a whirlwind decision-making cycle, resulting in a move just one week later on Nov 8. I felt helpless to assist from Illinois, until I checked air fares, which weren't too bad, so I flew down Nov 6 for a crazy week.   

Even though Mom doesn't have a ton of stuff in her clutter-free, well-organized one bedroom apartment, and she is blessed with enough savings and early-move cash incentives to afford to pay for packers, movers, and unpackers (holy cow, that was nice), still, moving is a pain, and I was very glad to be able to help. I owe her karmically for my two moves in 2011, to put it mildly.  

To amuse myself, I started compiling a list of things I almost said to my mother, but managed to not say. In some cases, barely.   

"That furniture wrap works just like bondage tape" #ThoughtsIAlmostSaidToMom

"With this yoga outfit, it's a shame the gang isn't here to ogle me for all the bending over" #ThoughtsIAlmostSaidToMom

"I don't think they could see cooch through the window, just boobs" #ThoughtsIAlmostSaidToMom 

"That's a book light? It looks so much like the WeVibe my lover gave me" #ThoughtsIAlmostSaidToMom

"No, save that duster, it would make a good sensation play toy" #ThoughtsIAlmostSaidToMom

"That's a book light? It looks so much like the WeVibe my lover gave me" #ThoughtsIAlmostSaidToMom

"This shower curtain liner smells just like my big black dildo" #ThoughtsIAlmostSaidToMom 

Mom: Nicely hung! Perfect in one hole! 
Me (#ThoughtsIAlmostSaidToMom): "That's what she said!"

Mom: you've done enough, you're off. 
Me: after I hang that last bedroom picture. 
Mom: you're failing at "off". 
Me (#ThoughtsIAlmostSaidToMom) "Oh no, no, you're wrong: I totally rock at getting off."

It's been wonderful to be here. As always, we have laughed a lot at ridiculous things I have said, in addition to the ones I managed to keep to myself.   

Postscript: I know I haven't written in a while. I'm alive. I haven't been taking appointments for a few months now, because unfortunately, my vertigo seems to have taken a turn for the unpredictable. Activities with unknown outcomes include writing, talking on the phone, and having orgasms. In good news, I had a great birthday, a fun Halloween, and I have plans for a November packes to the gills with friends and family. I hope to write about all of it eventually, but don't hold your breath.   

In the meantime, I'm slowly moving closer to recording podcasts to see how I like it, if I think it's sustainable. I have a microphone, I understand noise filtering, and I know where to host shows. It seems possible to me that when I do have bursts of productivity, I could potentially do that. Fingers crossed anyway, right?  

I hope all is well with you & yours.

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Tired, Happy, Done

We settled. I'm legally bound to disclose no details, but it was very close to the smallest number I needed to walk away in peace. Most importantly, it's done, and I never have to look at the nasty papers again. Not today, not next month, not next year. Never. 

Explanation for those just joining in: I sued my long-term disability insurance for benefits they have refused to pay me for the last 3.5 years, regarding my neurological vertigo severe enough to keep me from working full-time. 

It was a brutal week leading up to the hearing. The hearing itself was mind-crushingly four hours long, and every aspect of the case was reviewed from every angle. I feel like all the truth was told. That part of it felt good. 

What also felt good was the support from family and friends and friends of friends. I felt like I was being carried on a cloud of love and good wishes. Thank you for your part in that.

So. It's a new dawn, a new day, a new life for me. And I'm feelin good. 

In case you don't know that song...

Thank you. 

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

This Crazy Birthday

I wrote this for a few friends, but thought I'd share it with you too. 

I'm turning 42 on September 18. It's going to be awesome because that means I'll be The Answer for a year (geek reference here ). And any year that you're The Answer to the Ultimate Question has to be a great year. So, that'll rock. 

But ...

I was born on my father's 28th birthday, so he would have been turning 70, if he were still alive. I grew up thinking of it as "our birthday", but this will my 20th birthday I've celebrated without him since the heart attack that took him at age 50. So. That'll suck. 

And on Sept 24, I have a settlement hearing for the lawsuit against my long-term disability insurance provider. That battle has been raging for 3 years now, and it packs quite an emotional punch for me. I've been a bundle of nerves since I found out the hearing date. It will be the first time I've been face-to-face with a company representative. 

My lawyer recommended that I arrive at the hearing genuinely showing signs of vertigo. No faking, no exaggerating, but let them see what my neuropsychological testing revealed: severe cognitive impairment after periods of concentration (or motion).

For me, that means I will spend the week before Sept 24, which happens to contain my birthday, doing things that would NOT have made me dizzy in 2008, but which DO make me dizzy now. Action films, crowds, grocery stores, car trips, complicated math, strong emotions, dancing, rapid temperature changes... The list is very very long. There's lots to choose from. 

Usually, I space out my vertigo-inducing activities to give periods of brain rest, and I usually avoid some activities altogether unless I have a free day afterward to recover. But that week, I'll do a bunch of stuff I love, not rest my brain unless I can't keep going, and do my best to remember, "If I'm going to be miserable, at least I should have fun doing it."

The first movie I missed on the big screen was the 2009 Star Trek. I'll be watching that. 

I used to play a lot of Rock Band, so I'll be all  \m/

On the 22nd, I'll be having a birthday party, and while the guest list will be limited to a "light crowd" so I have a better shot at participating for more of the evening (if the house were packed, I'd not last long), I intend to participate in as many conversations involving 3+ people simultaneously as I can without hurling on my guests. 

(PS, I don't actually puke very often - I just feel pukey inside my head, but I will move away from you if I get to tummy-levels of nausea).  

On the 23rd, we're attending a big cookout party, where I will do my best to remain upright, and not make everyone else uncomfortable. These seem lofty goals to me. 

Then we're driving to Chicago for the hearing, which is at 9 am the next morning. 

It'll be a weird week.  I'll be around a lot of people, feeling bad physically and emotionally, but working hard to focus on fun happy things. 

So, if I'm not going to see you, you can help by praying for me to be as vertiginous as possible at the hearing with as little misery as possible leading up to it.

And, you can send me happy words (stories, encouragement, funny blog posts, whatever), because reading in volume works, too, and I love words a lot. And if you grew up with me or my parents, send a story about my family history I may have forgotten! 

If you are going to see me, please don't ask how I feel, or how I'm holding up. I'm gonna feel gruesome, but I'll be attempting to hide it, and I hate lying, so I'll tell you now: I'm gonna tell you I feel fantastic just to keep up the facade, but I'll treat it as a pre-agreed-upon mutually acceptable pretending, not a lie. Thanks for participating in my self-deception. 

Also, here's what you can do to help if you see me in person: tell me an awesome story about your life, then quiz me afterward on the details. I love hearing stories. And memory puzzles wreck me. And I'll concentrate harder if i know you'll be quizzing me, so it'll be a fun way to degrade my cognitive abilities together! (what a weird sentence)

Also, thanks for your understanding in advance if I burst into tears and excuse myself for seemingly no reason. Hopefully now, you understand why. 

Monday, July 30, 2012

The Beauty of Submissive Men

First, Ferns asked for a very special birthday present in a blog post, "The beauty of submissive men" - she wanted photos of submissive men. She asked for diversity and truth. She got both.

Because the resulting video can't be played on my iPhone or iPad, I didn't see it until after I read this blog post by the ever-articulate submissive Tomio Black, "Unexpected beauty", which made me cry and cry.

Then I finally saw the resulting video, hours later, here: "Submissive men: A celebration of beauty". I love it with all my heart.

Bravo Ferns. And happy birthday, Mistress.

If you're as happily moved as I am, please pass this on as many times as you can (this blog posts, or just direct links to them, I don't care).

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

That Went Well

I've built successful communities before: at church, at work, in online gaming, and socially. And I've organized group meetings and get-togethers all those places, too. So I had a high level of confidence that hosting my first kinkster community event would be a success...

Until about 2 hours beforehand, at which time waves of doubt crashed over me. What if the discussion format bombed? What if nobody shows? What if the food is terrible?

When I first organized the event, I was expecting 15 but secretly hoping for 20 just to feel badass.

I got 38. That's right, thirty-eight people showed up to mingle, listen to me give announcements about upcoming community events, and participate in the discussion groups (which were widely referred to as "semi-structured", an accurate description I love a lot).

And we had newcomers! One couple hadn't been to a community event in two years. Two people were complete newbies. I had non-newcomers on the lookout for newbies, and they were warmly greeted and welcomed by the community leaders who we want to be when we grow up (/sniffle they came to my thing! /sniffle)

But... back to that number. Thirty-eight is like a turnout you could expect in Austin. Or Houston. Or some other giant metropolis. You don't expect that for a non-mainstream fetish event in a town where corn fields are always no more than 10 minutes away. I mean, yes, within an hour's drive, there are probably about a million people, but still. I was pleasantly shocked.

So the food worked pretty well, but needs some tweaking, the drinks worked well, the traffic flow around the room worked well, and the venue loved us and can't wait for us to return. The manager even congratulated me on having such a good turnout. Awww. (I totally wanna smooch him, by the way)

Anyway, enough bragging about my thing. After it was over, my husband and his live-in girlfriend Devant kicked off a party at our house while I recovered upstairs for a few hours, playing a silly flirty party mixer game we made up, and helping the crowd feel welcome.

The only picture I took of myself was at the end of the evening, when I felt drunk as a skunk from my vertigo dizzies (I consumed zero alcohol), and I look like a wino. Guests said I looked "happy cute drunk" but clearly from the picture I refuse to share, they were merely being polite.

However, I did manage to get this picture of Devant, which should give you an idea of how the party went:

Devant in her natural habitat
She was being put into a straightjacket before getting beaten on the bed. A moment before this picture, Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy" came up on the rotation, and she made her eyes all googly and sang along, "I remember when, I remember, I remember when I lost my mind!" which cracked everyone up. A pink-haired 21-year-old in a straightjacket got beaten on my bed while playing brat and giggling hysterically. How great is my life?

Also, someone who was present for my Hand Orgy has been thinking she also wanted one, so she got one, and it was magical and wonderful and awesome. She also cried a lot, which made me feel less silly about crying at mine.

Then there was a guy there with the most awesome afro-like-but-surprisingly-not-on-a-black-guy hair (maybe he's Jewish? Middle Eastern? I'm not sure), and word spread to texture-lovers that he'd let us run our fingers through it. Oh, and maybe he likes being scratched. So maybe his shirt needed to come off while one... okay, two... no wait, four... I think it was five women eventually were surrounding him, playing with his hair and scratching his back and chest, and sometimes biting him. It was his first party ever, his first scene ever, and he was hiiiiiiiiiigh as a kite from happiness.

In case you're jealous. to. death. of that guy (as well you should be), here's how he got that scene: he went to three public meet-and-greets (aka munches) before anyone invited him to a party. He was polite and respectful at the public events. He never asked to be invited to the play parties. At the play party, he sat back and watched, declining to join in to the hand orgy or anything else other than watching because he was, as he said, "watching to see what the rules are so I don't mess up". He was approached by someone who asked what he liked. He negotiated with her about the hair playing and the scratching and the biting. He knew his safewords. He kept his hands at his sides because nobody had invited him to touch them. He moaned appreciatively when surrounded by women pawing at him, which made it more fun to continue to do so.

In short, he was polite and respectful and patient and open to new experiences.

Also, he had yummy lips, which I brain-drunkenly said aloud, so one of my friends dragged me over to him and told him I wanted to kiss him. Could not be more junior high. Ridiculous. He was gracious enough to oblige me, so we made out for like 2 minutes, only interrupted because I realized it was making my vertigo worse, and if I didn't stop kissing him, the party would be over for me. It was almost worth it to keep going, but not quite.

For those of you keeping track of my smooch slut record, I also made out with another friend who is quitting smoking. Y'know, as encouragement! I do what I can to help my friends be healthy, right? They were kissing partners #91 and #92.

It was a fantastic weekend, an amazing event, a great party, and I made it through more of it than I expected to, because I fortuitously got happy-vertigo-drunk instead of miserable-vertigo-drunk. The evening ended tucked in bed with my lover, extremely satisfied.

Friday, July 20, 2012

Big Weekend Ahead

In my typical way of doing more things at once than I can reasonably keep up with, this weekend, I am:

  • hosting a community event designed to help newcomers to the kinkster lifestyle get their questions answered
  • attending an after party in my home, organized by my husband and Devant (my husband's live-in girlfriend), which I will attend after my vertigo zombie-brain calms down
  • spending the night with my lover after the play party, probably just for cuddles, due to aforementioned vertigo zombie-brain issues
  • having a friend switch my hosting providers on my domains, which will probably generate a lot of questions which need rapid resolution
  • mentally gearing up for a second photo shoot with Devant, tentatively scheduled for Monday

I think that's it....

The after party is really the awesome part. I said that I wanted to give something back to the kinkster community which has not only given us Devant, but also a gaggle of other friends here who I am growing increasingly close to.

I had the idea of hosting my own event, optimized to be as non-dizzying as possible, so I wouldn't feel as guilty about not being able to keep up with Everything Everyone Else Is Doing (which I totally am not managing to do - I'm a very sporadic attender to the extraordinary volume of other people's things I'm invited to attend, no matter what it sounds like here on the blog)

But in general, kinkster community events are far more populated if there is at least one play party afterward. Sure, the public event is public and the play parties are private, but still, more people show up for the public non-play thing if there's a play destination afterward.

But I knew I couldn't do both, host an event and host a play party afterward. It's too much to do.

Hubby and Devant came to my rescue, agreeing to host an after  party when they can. Yay!

So here's what this looks like: I do nothing to prepare for the party. I host the event, which requires very little setup from me. I come home, go upstairs, and fall into a deep coma-like sleep for a few hours. I wake up and come downstairs, making a grand entrance to a play party in full swing. I gather attention, adoration, hugs, kisses, and gropes for an hour or two. Maybe I help someone beat or tie someone else. I float back upstairs with my lover and fall asleep cuddling, knowing that my vertigo is not causing anyone else to forego fun for the evening, and, instead, I have helped facilitate fun.

Seriously. Who the fuck has a life this ridiculous and awesome. I'm not used to it yet. I hope I never get used to it.

I'll try to remember to take pictures, but I might be too busy smooching women and grabbing boobs. I trust you to forgive me.

Sunday, July 15, 2012

2 Years, 450 Posts, 1 Blogged Life

Two years ago, I took my first phone sex call. I've never told you about it, have I?

My first phone sex call lasted 1 minute. My listing had been approved and active for a week, and I'd been dying from the suspense of wondering who would call. He said he was curious because my listing was so different, I said "Thanks, I think!" in a tone that I meant to sound playful, and he hung up and never called back. Not. Exactly. Encouraging.

The next day, I got an email asking if I would exchange for-pay emails about desires for extreme humiliation, sissification, and being pimped out as a cocksucking whore. Sssssure, cuz I'm such an expert on all that (look up "sissification" on urban dictionary...). Then he called me, and we talked about those desires for 11 minutes. He didn't climax that I could tell.

I was confused. I had hoped... y'know... for the phone sex business to... y'know... contain actual phone sex. No?

My third call, on the day after that, lasted 30 minutes. I was a virgin, his babysitter, and he walked in on me masturbating. He taught me how to suck cock (thank goodness!), and how to come under his tongue (yummy), holding me down when I was oversensitive so he could enjoy my overstimulated thrashing (mmmmnnnnrrrrgggg).

Much better. Whew. That was the call which let me know I could do this. Plus, it was fucking hot.

Since then, I've had over 2,500 phone calls, about half of which were during my first six months, when I was available full-time. Then my husband found work and I went part-time and sporadic as a phone sex worker. I've spoken to at least 700 men and 2 women...

Okay, fine, I was trying to make this blog post exciting or titillating or informative, but it's totally not working for me. Because what I feel like saying is this:

I kinda feel like a fake.

I mean, yes, I still do phone sex for money. But they're all appointments these days. And most of my appointments come from 10 regulars who I know like the back of my hand. I'm a little afraid to start writing about them because then it would be obvious that I have a tiny little constituency these days, and what if that makes me horrifically boring?

This blog feels like it so rarely even talks about phone sex. It feels like it fits my original tagline "The Blogged Life of Galiana Chance, Phone Sex Operator" much more accurately than my current tagline of "The Phone Sex Blog of Galiana Chance". But I'm reluctant to change it back because my Google rank has risen to page 6 of results for "phone sex blog" since I changed it (from page 54), but I kinda feel like I'm false advertising. Ugh.

Dear All My Insecurities: go fuck yourselves.

Galiana and Devant flipping you off
Galiana and Devant flipping you off

FYI: The picture is from the photo shoot my roommate & I did four days ago for one of my regular callers - he paid us a looooooot of money. Enough to pay the photographer and my roommate and myself quite well. Oh, plus Devant got her first mani/pedi with me on Wednesday, which of course, she loved a lot. The caller loves girls flipping him off. We were happy to oblige. Isn't her expression to die for? Since she's normally pretty bubbly, this picture is hilarious to me.

I understand that all I have to do to "not be a fake" is to take phone sex calls. And I do. I really do. I left my play party early Saturday night to take a call to replay a scene from the caller's sexually formative memories. Before the photo shoot with Devant Thursday morning, I took a deliciously playful call to be a British secret agent testing new field gadgets in ways that were perhaps not entirely consistent with lab protocols.

A dozen calls of 30+ minutes each plus some sugar-daddy tips is about what I need to make in a week, and that's about what I do. I'm still a phone sex worker. Intellectually, I understand that I am not a fake, whatever the hell that means.

But back in my early days, in that giant rush of energy when I first started, I dove all the way in. I was available 12-14 hours per day for weeks on end. I was ecstatic to have found work I could do. I was ecstatic to have an income. I was ecstatic at the wall of lust I found myself able to navigate successfully. I gained confidence, skills, knowledge, and a sense of purpose.

But since my husband found a job as well, and a damn fine one at that, and especially since I moved up here to be with him, I haven't made phone sex as much of a priority. Now I'm available for a few hours per day at most, almost always by appointments. Where's the risk? Where's the rush? Where's the push to new frontiers? Where's the stuff that makes for interesting blogging?

I think the thoughts that are turning over in my brain, wanting to be written, are in the rest of my life, more than in the phone sex. And maybe that's what's been making it difficult to write this blog post.

In the past year, I've had three new lovers. My husband has blossomed as a BDSM top and gained one live-in girlfriend and one submissive and one "student" and at least four other casual play partners. We've hosted half a dozen play parties. I've consensually groped dozens of women. I've taken on a real-time domestic service submissive. I'm considering topping another submissive in exchange for helping me with my web tasks. I've started organizing local events for new kinksters to safely get questions answered.

Plus, my husband's current job has a ton of overlap with jobs I used to do, so half the time at dinner when it's just the two of us, we're thinking through complex business politics and change management strategies. The other half, we talk about all the other crazy stuff we're doing: the parties, the partners, the million things we're learning about ourselves by interacting so intimately and intensely with others.

And I do more now. God, now I'm gonna start crying, and this unstructured rant no longer even pretends to be anything other than a diary. The anti-vertigo medicine I started a year ago continues to enable to do a little more all the time. So I can go to the chiropractor and then to the grocery store and then to dinner with my husband and our roommate, and still keep an hour-long appointment to do a robot roleplay where I have a fantastic orgasm in the middle of a very complicated malfunction.

So because I can do more now, I do more. I do so much more.

I don't know if you realize this or not, but two years ago, the grocery store alone would have done me in for the day.

Yep. Crying.

So sometimes I do too much, and then I hit walls of dizzy exhaustion, and then I can't take appointments for a day or sometimes two, and then I get frustrated with myself and angry that my priorities aren't in order and I worry that one day, the handful of callers I have left will get sick of me abandoning them and all fire me all at once.

Being a phone sex operator isn't what defines me anymore. Well, that's not fair - it never fully defined me, but for a while, it took up most of my energy.

Oh. Finally. There it is.

Now I know what I want to say.

I'm a person with a rich life who happens to be a phone sex worker, not a phone sex worker who happens to have a life.

Sometimes, I need to write things to figure them out. Now I know exactly what this blog is for again. Thanks for sticking with me through that process. Fuck the Google rank; it's time to change my tagline back. This blog is about the life of Galiana Chance, a woman who happens to be a phone sex operator, not just about my job.

Well. There now. I feel so much better.

So. Now that we've figured that out, happy 450th blog post. And happy two years of phone sex, in all its sporadic awesomeness.

If you feel like giving me a gift in celebration, please leave a comment or write me an email ( to tell me why you read my blog. I want to know, even if your answer goes against what I just wrote (crackin' myself up - I totally want someone to write "I want to hear stories of phone sex, dammit, and you're totally failing me!"). Your engagement would be an honor.

Now I need to end this blog post because my lover just came over. Pardon me, I need to go live my life.

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Appointment Widget

My calendar page is useful again! There's a new widget there showing you times in the future which I would love to fill with an appointment with you.

You can request an appointment, cancel an appointment, or reschedule an appointment through the calendar, in 30-minute blocks. If you have questions, please write me.

You have to give an email address when you request an appointment, and it has to be a real one that you check to see if I confirm the appointment (it's not for sure til I confirm it).

I will be able to see your email address, but I'll never sell it, and I'll be far too lazy to use to market to you. I'm already not using NiteFlirt mail to market directly to people who have called me, so why would I use something possibly even more invasive?

This is so fun! It's like I'm a real live person on the internet now!

Oh, hey, speaking of fun... Right now, I have times available on the appointment widget for this Saturday afternoon and evening (July 14). But I have the opportunity to go to a kinkster social on Saturday. But it's out of town, and I'm not sure I want to make the drive.

So, we'll see what happens Friday, and if I don't have any appointments set for Saturday, I'll cancel the availability and go to the social. But if I have even one appointment, I'll stay home and turn on the phones and see who calls!

I guess I'm having kinky social time either way, aren't I? Lucky me!

Play Party Eye Candy

Against all odds, and perhaps also against all better judgment, I went to a play party this weekend. I wasn't in great shape after the traveling, but I made it.

The host lives in a collegiate part of town where noise ordinances are unlikely to be enforced, and neighbors are more likely to peep than report if there are nekkid people in an inflatable "hot tub" in the back yard.

So I wander in the back yard, and there are five topless women and three appreciative men in the inflatable "hot tub" (water heated by the scorching outdooor temps and refilled by garden hose), and I was easily coerced to join. The woman next to me, who I've groped and smacked and licked several times now, groped my boobs, because for some reason, although I'd done all manner of terrible things to her breasts, she'd never seen mine naked, and declared, "Your boobs are so dense!"

This led to all six topless women circling up to feel one another's boobs for squishiness and density. My boobs were declared to "feel young", in case you were wondering what they feel like.

It sounds like fiction. I understand that. And yet, I believe it is a memory, accurately portrayed. But then, I take barbiturates every day, so how reliable am I?

So then the host, who is a mischievous genius, pinned his delectably squirmy girlfriend's hands behind her back, told her to close her eyes, and told her to guess whose breast was in her mouth with no sight and no hands.

It was implicit that anyone who didn't want their boobs in her mouth could opt out, but since we had all been fondling each other moments before, and we all burst into laughter at the host's clever party game, it was also pretty likely that we were gonna go along. Oh, hey, whaddya know? There's Galiana, scooching up to the host's girlfriend aiming a nipple at a lovely mouth!

She guessed me correctly, which was awesome, then missed 2, got another one right, then there was only one woman left, so we silently volunteered one of the men... and the guesser made a HILARIOUS face and did a spit-take and squealed, "There's hair on this chest! What the hell!"

I laughed so hard my sides hurt.

Then we repeated the game with the host's lovely young submissive, who is also the wife of the guy with the hairy chest. Relationships get complicated to explain when everybody has multiple play partners. I think only one person in the pool is monogamous, and she still lets my husband beat her, so it's very complicated...

Anyway, back to the game. The lovely young thing in the second game had to guess who was kissing her with her eyes closed and her hands behind her back. She guessed correctly on everyone she'd kissed before (4 people), and the only smoker (one of the guys), but guessed wrong for me, so I had to go back and kiss her again. I *haaaaad* to. Poor me, right? She was a fantastic kisser.

(side note: She is my #90 kissed, but I'm not sure how to count someone who has sucked on my nipple but not kissed... I have very unusual problems)

After we got out of the water due to extreme prune-iness in our extremities,I changed clothes, which resulted in this:

Galiana's corset eye candy
Best outfit ever

So that is: black patent leather 4.5" heels I hadn't ever worn, a poofy see-through skirt I got at a conference, a black lacy thong, my wedding ring, a bracelet my husband's live-in girlfriend made for me, a bracelet my husband's other girlfriend (new) made for me, a corset my husband's same other girlfriend sold to me, a Secrets in Lace bra bought for me by a money slave last year, a black bead necklace I got at the same conference as the skirt, glasses, and a hair-up-do thing.

I don't consider myself a fashionista by nature, but I figured I might as well dress up, since I didn't have the energy to play. But I know enough to know that this outfit is probably the best thing I will ever put together.

My husband came upstairs and took another few pictures on the bed, then did his instagram magic and came up with this:

Galiana drama

I presented myself to the partygoers upstairs and downstairs, to much praise and adoration. The cross-dresser in a denim skirt swore he'd up his game at the next party, and kept saying he couldn't decide between being distracted by my boobs or my shoes. The host asked me to walk up and down the stairs a few times... and then thanked me for gracing his home with my loveliness. Awwww.

So I got groped, smooched, and praised as eye candy. Other people got tied up, beaten, I suspect there was sucking and fucking behind closed doors, and a few bruises and welts were shown off. It was lovely, lovely evening.

Sunday, July 8, 2012

Hotel Layover

A weather situation in Chicago caused me to miss the last flight of the day home, so although my dear husband offered to make the drive to pick me up, we agreed it would be easier on everyone if I just did the "distressed traveler rate" at the hotel for the evening.

Hyatt Regency O'Hare
view from the glass elevator

The Hyatt Regency O'Hare felt posh to me, although I couldn't tell if the decor was retro-chic or actually 1970s, because I suck at decorating, but I immediately thought, "I have to do a robot shoot here some day." The combination of ultra-modern silver and chrome with wood-like wall paneling and dark patterned carpet made me want to squeeze into a silver bodysuit with big marked squares on my tummy and stand in the lobby and see who would push my buttons /grin

Since I had taken a couple of late-night appointment calls while I was away (after my sister and niece left, so there were no kids in the house), I had a bit of spending money in my "fun money to blow on impulse purchases" category, so I blew it on room service and hotel porn.

Back in my tech days, I traveled for conferences and meetings. It became a tradition to buy porn in the hotel room, so much so that most of my porn-for-pay experience has been in hotels. The last time I traveled on business was 2009.

My. Things have changed. Woooooow.

What I remember of hotel porn, it was kinda softcore. No direct penetration shots, no cumshots, no anal, very little gay porn. None of those descriptors were true at all anymore. There was a softcore section like I remember, but there was also a section with probably a dozen choices for anal, several for mature, lots of lesbian, lots of gay male, and a generous helping with the word "rough" in the descriptor.

I got the all access package. I figured I'd blog about it. It's a business expense, right? Besides, I was splurging, dammit.

First, I watched my first Asa Akira scene. I've been following her on Twitter because she's funny as hell (her Twitter self-description is "I have an award-winning asshole"), and I knew she won a ton of 2012 AVN awards, but I'd never seen her. The movie was called "Best Sex 2012" with scenes from a few different 2012 award winners, and her scene was first.

DAYUM. She was sitting on the floor, he was standing over her, fucking her face, trapping her, and within a few minutes, he had slapped the shit out of her. By the end of it, she had cum multiple times, he had fucked her twisted up and trapped in more positions than I knew a human body could make, he had smacked her skin red, and she was begging for more with a big, utterly believable grin on her face.

I love Nina Hartley, and her guides to various sex acts, mostly because she's so damn enthusiastic. Have you seen her in an orgy scene when she sees a cock not currently in use? She jumps on it like she's claiming a prize. It's more of a pounce, really. I thought for sure I'd go my whole life and never see anyone on film who could convince me as thoroughly that she genuinely enjoys getting fucked.

Uhhhhh. Sorry Nina. Asa really really really really really likes getting fucked. There goes my porn budget for, like, forever.

So after that scene, which made me appreciate the AVN's taste in porn stars, and honestly entranced me too much to masturbate (although I was very turned on), I browsed through some barely-legal, mature, lesbian, all-anal, and gang bang, skimming through scenes, but didn't see anything that grabbed me. It mostly felt hard and fast to me, with lovely bodies doing interesting things, but without any particular spark.

I saved my favorite category for last, on purpose, figuring gay male porn could push me over the edge and let me sleep. I decided on "tosh.hOle", advertised as "gay parody" (of tosh.0) had an amusing premise, but when Dustin Fitch started sucking Mick Gibson, looking up at him with his pretty, clear blue eyes, my brain scrambled and I found myself hitting the 30-second rewind. Again. And again. And again. Fuuuuuuck. Before I came, I was talking out loud, something I don't usually do when I masturbate, saying something insane like "That's it, pretty baby, suck Mama's big dick just like that." I was seriously completely out of my mind. He just looked so sweet...

When I'm prepared for a hotel stay on my own, I pack a vibrator, or a fat-handled kitchen spoon if I only have a carryon and don't have want a vibrator-related delay going through security, but since I wasn't expecting a hotel stay, I had to improvise:

Galiana goo on a knife
now *that's* a knife

That's the handle of the butter knife from my room service meal, covered in Galiana goo. I know it's stupid to fuck yourself with a knife of any kind, but I held on to it and I was really careful. Also, there were these boys kissing each other and Asa gets all rigid and silent when she cums and that big black cock looked super yummy and it's totally not my fault!

Who wants to get me my next hotel room?

Thursday, July 5, 2012

Facebook: Major Privacy Violation

I am discontinuing my Facebook profile, because when I was helping my aunt set up Facebook, she imported her address book, which contained ONLY my legal-name email address, and Galiana Chance was one of her suggested friends!

Let me be clear what happened: Facebook somehow connected my personal, non-Galiana email address, which my aunt had, to a Facebook account which never contained that email address. I triple-checked the csv file we used to import her contacts into Facebook, and NOTHING galiana was in it. Nothing.

I have no clue whatsoever how Facebook knew that the two of us are connected, but it freaked me the fuck out.

So Galiana's FB profile has been discontinued. Permanently. I was only using it to announce blog posts to about 30 people anyway, so I wrote to all of them encouraging them to subscribe (see that box on the left side of the blog to enter your email address? or the orange RSS button to add me to your RSS reader? Use those!)

Thankfully, my aunt knows what I do for a living. I'll tell you a secret: she's considering joining me as a GILF! But still, NOT THE FUCKING POINT. One of my sister's friends who happens to have my email address from a wedding shower I helped with 5 years ago... everybody has better things to do than to deal with that hassle.

If you want to test this: have a friend search for all your email addresses and see what comes up. Or, go a public library, create a temporary yahoo mail address, create a Facebook account off your new yahoo mail, then enter in all your emails and see who comes up.

HOLY CRAP. I was sooooo mad.

However, in happy news, I had a lovely vacation in Hot Springs with my aunt and sister and younger niece. We wandered around the hot springs, then ate at a Mexican cafe practically carved out of the side of the mountain (Rolando's - it was amazing). We swam in a creek full of perch and minnows and skipping rocks and happy family memories.

I should be back at home tonight, although weather may turn that into tomorrow... but either way, I look forward to being my normal, not-completely-horrified-at-Facebook self again soon.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Real-Time Service

I was so deeply moved by my time with teddybearslave today. This blog post is likely to be poorly structured at best, and completely incomprehensible at worst, but I need to get my tumble of thoughts out of my brain into some place where I can see them again and remember what I feel like right this moment.

I'm so cautious interpersonally, in some ways. It's a crazy statement from someone whose husband's girlfriend lives with us, who has an in-person lover locally and another long-distance. I can see that.

And yet, on Friday night, when I tagged in to substitute in a play scene with my husband and another local couple, I stopped myself from kissing her, taking off my clothing, licking her, blowing him... and in the debrief, we all admitted later I could have done any of those and been welcome, but we hadn't negotiated it. Instead, I did what I knew we'd agreed on: I added my energy, I helped hurt her, I helped arouse her by kissing and licking elsewhere, but I would rather err on the side of caution and leave everyone wanting a bit than to go over a line and leave anyone regretful.

So I love asking for permission, but I hate asking for help. I always have.

I used to have a strong back; I built sets and hung lights in college. I can carry a 40-pound bag of dog food, a 50-pound dog, an air conditioning unit, furniture. I can do it by myself! I can hear the echoes of myself as a toddler pitching a fit, and my feminist professors ranting against stereotypes of women in American culture. I loved making more money than either of my husbands. And I loved the mental image of myself from 1991, driving to my job with my freshly dry cleaned cocktail dress neatly laid over a stack of lumber I needed to haul, to be used to build sturdy things that people would stand on onstage. That was me. That is still me, in my head. Tough. Capable. Strong. Feminine. But with the claws of a tiger and the shoulders of a bear.

Today, my teddybearslave came over for the first time. To serve. To serve me. I've paid people to clean before, I've paid people to help me organize before. Those felt like even exchanges, your time for my money. Clean. Easy. Simple. And although I cringed at needing the assistance, I knew I had earned the money to pay for it.

Today was different. teddybearslave was cleaning in exchange for attention. Energy. The privilege of ... gulp ... serving me. His expectations were merely that he be allowed to change into frilly panties and stockings before he cleaned, and that afterward, he be allowed to do whatever I wished.

This morning before he came over, I almost wiped down the bathroom before he came over a dozen times. I have long hair, I shed. The tub has stains that were there when we moved in. I'm pretty sure we haven't cleaned behind that cabinet, ever. I kept hearing a voice saying, "I'm not paying him, he shouldn't have to do that..."

But I let my bathroom be uncleaned before he arrived. It was excruciatingly difficult to let anyone serve me like that. To let someone else see one of the ways I have felt the most weak, the most needy, the least strong. To let him see that weakness, and let him fix it.

The bathroom, unsurprisingly, is perfectly clean. Everything shines. Everything is lined up straight. It's beautiful.

Afterwards, for play time, I wanted to stop thinking about my bathroom, and instead show him how I like to have my sore muscles rubbed: in my back, my hands, my feet. I wanted to show him first, then let him. Feel his muscles under my palms, then feel mine under his. Get used to the feeling of each others' bodies, grow accustomed to touching.

I felt his back muscles loosen immediately under the heels of my hands. They responded to me. He doesn't carry his tension in his back. Nor in his ass. Nor in his legs, all luxuriously covered in nylon thigh-highs. So strong and so silky under my palm.

Then I laid down, let him rub my back. I overruled the urge to be grateful and non-specific, knowing it was okay to ask for more, less, other. No, press in first, then slide. Use the heel of your palm, or the side of your hand. Yes, like that. Right there.

I felt him squishing away a tension in my left shoulder I hadn't realized I had, and thought about my bathroom, sparkling. I felt him listening to my muscles. I felt him wanting to help me.

It felt wrong. It felt like a betrayal of all my feminine strength. I don't need a man to help me, goddammit. I don't need anybody to help me, goddammit. I'm strong and powerful and full of grace and this is totally wrong to let him serve me like this. I'm strong enough to give without taking, I'm strong enough to do and do and do and never rest... The crazy voices of a million moments of martyrdom echoed through my mind.

Sometimes, when the tension in a muscle gives way, it releases something emotionally which has been tightly held for decades. When that happens, sometimes it releases tears.

"Don't stop, I'm fine," I managed to say. I felt him press in, staying steady, while I cried, because I needed someone to help me, yet again, and because, yet again, I found the help I needed when I finally found the courage to ask for it.

I didn't ask if I could cry, I'm his Mistress. I didn't ask if he minded, I'm his Mistress. And the good wishes pouring through his fingertips let me know he was at least okay, if not a little confused.

I did explain myself, eventually, with his hands still working on my back. It's vulnerable for me to be served - I feel my needs exposed. I don't feel comfortable crying with most people - the urge doesn't usually even surface - but when I do, it means I have a gut-level trust. It's a good thing. My tears subsided. A grin began.

He laid down again, so I could rub his hands. They're huge. Strong. Calloused. His back had given way to my pressure, but his hands were holding on. He needed his hands to stay strong; after all, they make him what he is, a servant.

So I pressed. Rubbed from his elbow down. Listened to his muscles. Told him to let me. He had to close his eyes to release to me. There, that's better. His breathing slowed down and I could feel him struggling to surrender to my touch. The other hand went easier, and I found myself curling up my hand in his relaxed palm, marveling at how tiny it looked, how safe it felt.

When I tucked his arm around me and snuggled in beside him, I giggled. This was ridiculous. Mistresses don't cuddle, right?. But he was my plaything, and I got to do what I wanted, and I didn't have to ask, or I had already asked, or something like that. He would tell me if he was uncomfortable, we had already established and reinforced that. I was simply to do with him what I wished, and what I wished was to wrap his giant teddy bear arms around me and cuddle in beside him, so fuck it, I did.

It was too much for his calm. His hands began roaming, stroking my skin. He pressed against me, and I could feel the erection growing under his pretty panties. I enjoyed his touch, his want. I felt him want to kiss my neck, but stop himself, and I grinned, knowing that for any other lover, I would have told him to go ahead, but for this moment, I wanted to feel his desire and his struggle, so fuck it, I did.

I could just lie here and let him caress me. I could grind against him, or not. I could leave him breathless. I could do anything, feel anything, have anything from him. He was there for me. I got it. I was so happy.

I laid him on his back, knowing my timer would go off in a few minutes, and spent the minutes running my hand over his body, feeling the curve of his muscles in his arms, down his chest, where his breath caught when my fingertips traced, how he trembled a little when I brushed over the dampness of the wet spot on his frills. I didn't have to do anything, complete anything, give anything. This was for me.

It seems absurd to me that I absorbed the feminist ideal in a way that made it hard for me to be served. And yet, I was struggling with feeling weak by accepting the surrender of someone else to my whims. The struggle was unexpected. The fact that I was learning quickly, that I seemed to be able to get past the crazy voices and do whatever I wanted to do with him made me suspect that I was going to figure it out.

"I'll probably go on record as the craziest Mistress ever." He laughed, shook his head no. I thought about asking for stories of others crazier than I, but realized I didn't need them.

The timer went off. I silenced it, and asked myself what I wanted. Just me. Without regard to his wants, just me.

"Put your clothes back on. There's a hanger in the bathroom for your things to leave here. I could probably go longer. We could probably do more. But this seems perfect to me."

He nodded. "Yes, it does."

I grinned. "So we're done."

Downstairs, I stood on the bottom stair and pulled him over to me by his shirt, pausing him close to me, eye to eye. Are Mistresses supposed to kiss their slaves? I don't know. But I had the urge to kiss him. So fuck it. I did.

I'm gonna learn a lot from this.

Saturday, June 23, 2012

Summer Solstice Kaboom

It's been a good week
I wrote to my lover yesterday, "So apparently I'm having a little explosion of energy at the moment. Happy Summer Solstice... Here's a potential new lover and a potential new submissive. Kaboom."

The rest of this blog post is the Galiana-length version of that unusually-well-summarized paragraph.

Although I'm not primarily pagan, I do enjoy recognizing seasonal celebrations, and taking the opportunity to examine my life and its cyclical patterns. Summer Solstice is a time to remember the tending and waiting and watering of prior seasons, and to celebrate new growth.

I think it's obvious from my recent upward trend of blogging volume that I'm feeling a bit better than I was March-May. I worked hard to heal my back from its injury, which is finally paying off with fewer muscle relaxers, which leaves me far more energy and mental clarity and libido.

In addition to my energy return, my husband recently negotiated his annual contract renewal with great success. Now I am officially responsible for none of our shared expenses at all. One hundred percent of my earnings are now going to me: plane tickets for family visits, spending money, Galiana's hosting expenses, charities, saving up for a newer car.

However, the raise was not enough to pay for regular maid service. I mean, we keep up with dishes and laundry and trash and surface wipe-downs, so our home isn't gross. But between me, my husband, and our roommate (aka his live-in girlfriend aka Devant), we never choose deep-cleaning, vacuuming, or dusting. So at our last roommate dinner, we agreed we'd all rather pitch in a little spending money than do it ourselves.

But of course, nothing is simple with our kooky life these days. We have sex stuff everywhere. My red room has a lingerie bar and my favorite vibrators out, the guest bedroom has a sex toy bookshelf, all three beds have bondage rope or chain, and the dining room and garage look like workshops for building leather and wood BDSM gear because... well... they are.

So we could hire a regular maid service, but we'd have to pack everything away before each visit, because the town is small and enough to warrant some caution, given my husband's very mainstream job (which, did I mention, is paying all our bills now?). A better choice would be someone from the kinkster community.

Which leads us to the polite, respectful emails I've been getting since I moved here from... well, we'll call him teddybearslave. He doesn't come out to community events, but he's very interested in serving. Requests for details only reinforced that he wants to serve.

Frankly, his emails were so simple that I had no sense of the guy as a human being. So the thought of negotiating for real-time domestic service filled me with a slight sense of dread. I pictured him being super-noodly and repeating, "anything you want, Mistress" while secretly resenting me for not reading his mind and for not magically producing his deepest fantasies, which he would never actually voice to me, which would then build up into some awkward situation where he felt taken advantage of, and I felt lied to.

I'd rather pay someone than have that.

But he mentioned housework, and he has been respectful, and we need someone to clean our home, and I'm going to be exchanging sexual energy with someone in order to make the money to pay to get the house cleaned, right? It would be lovely if it were a straight-up exchange with the person cleaning, wouldn't it? I figured it was worth a brief in-person, in-public interview on Thursday, with all my usual safety first-meeting protocols, even though it felt like I was playing the lottery.

I like math. I'm good at math. So as a rule, I don't play the lottery.

But within five minutes, I knew I'd hit the jackpot. I cannot believe my luck. He's adorable, articulate, shyly amusing, and once he relaxed a bit, he has this fantastically mischievous twinkle in his eyes. He's got the teddy-bear ex-lumberjack type build of a guy who was a manual laborer for 20 years before being promoted into blue-collar management. He may be a tad pudgier now than in his heyday, but I wouldn't bet against him in a deadlift competition.

He exudes calm. And strength. And a desire to serve. It's not a chickenshit answer for him: his fetish really is as simple as serving; when he knows he's making someone else happy, whether sexually or logistically or whatever, he's in his bliss.

I told him we were negotiating as equals, peers, two adults figuring out if we had overlap. Although we may play with the dynamic, in reality, I know I am not superior to him. I don't want to be served by a thing with no inner life; I want to be served by a person who is capable of explaining what he wants and needs. His grin and nod felt like the contract handshake of a gentleman.

He's married, and his wife knows he plays, but they have a "don't ask, don't tell" agreement, so he has to fit play time into weekdays. He has seen pro Dommes before, but he can't afford it regularly. He had fantasized about trading service for play time, or heck, even just providing service, but others been too inflexible for his offer. Or, maddeningly, they were too disrespectful of his relationship with his wife to accept his limitations. Their loss.

Speaking of flexible, he said he loves the idea of not knowing what to expect ahead of time. He got slack-jawed when I said I would love to decide what to do based on my "whims of the day". He feels it's easier to trust that I'm really letting him serve that way, if I choose on the fly, instead of following some kind of script.

So our regular pattern will be an hour of cleaning followed by an hour of playtime, every week or every other, as we can schedule.

Play time could be him pampering me with a foot rub or massage. Or it could be me teasing him until he begs, denying him an orgasm, and sending him home all worked up. Or it could be me putting on a strap-on and grabbing a cane, tying him to the bed and reducing him to a man-puddle by striping and fucking his ass until he comes screaming.

Have I mentioned my variety fetish lately? He's perfect.

Oh, also, it would be super-erotic for him to wearing frilly girly things while he cleans, and would I mind if he left them at my place? HolyShitThat'sFuckingAwesome.

So. It seems I have a domestic servant. Y'know, like you do. Oh, wait, no, not at all like I've ever done before. Not even close. Whose crazy life is this?

Then Thursday night, after Devant and my husband went to bed, the thing finally happened that I've been waiting to feel for months now: I was bored and frisky. For the first time in months. My to-do list wasn't overwhelming me. I wasn't muddled up or dampened by medicine interactions. It was fantastic.

I could have opened up my phone sex line. I could have reached out to any one of several dozen people who I feel like I neglected all spring. I could have tested the appointment-making widget for the blog (coming soon, I'm sure). But no, this was a delicious, golden moment - a solstice gift - and I wanted to be selfish with it, because it wasn't just bored and frisky, it had a certain edge to it...

I wanted to hunt for fresh meat.

That's an urge I haven't felt since last September, in the middle of my moving stress. But I haven't felt a huntress urge in such a celebratory way since probably 2003. I certainly wasn't gonna squander it on doing anything sensible. Fuck that.

My match list on OKCupid was full of faces who weren't there the last time I checked it. Well, hello there, mister 98% match, 0% enemy, with a geek-hippie profile and the implication you want to explore BDSM from both sides of the power exchange. Don't mind if I do. We'll call you GeekSwitch.

One fun message led to another, which led to chat, which led to cybering. Having text-sex over chat, fer fux sake! How did I magically get transported back to 2003? It was right after my divorce, when I was rebuilding my sense of self by indulging in sexual exploration with people I met online in Austin. Online + Austin = a dating pool teeming with geeks and engineers. So, yeah, a big cheer for programmers who can type one-handed. It was fucking luscious.

Tuesday, I'm topping teddybearslave for the first time. Then GeekSwitch and I might hang out Tuesday night. My toes keep curling in anticipation for both of them.

Happy summer solstice to me. Kaboom indeed.

Friday, June 22, 2012

Smooch Slut


I love kissing. I love it a lot. It's so intimate, so easy to slide into a place of wanting this moment to last forever. The taste, the scents, the touch. Feeling someone respond to the slightest of movements, matching pressure, exploring.

And when it's someone new, it's a huge rush to initiate sexual contact for the first time. I'm pretty sure I can tell whether or not I'd enjoy having sex with someone based on three minutes or less of kissing. And I'm irrationally happy for a couple of days after I kiss someone new.

I'm a bit of a smooch slut. The day I left for college, I'd kissed 36 people (and by kissing I mean making out long enough to have a sense of how someone uses their tongue). Most of my friends had kissed that many people too. It was common to make out with your date to a party or a formal and not expect anything to come of it. I didn't realize until later that most people's high school cultures aren't that open. Lucky me!

I slowed down significantly in college and my 20s (kissees 37-48), had a big rush in my early 30s with a few in my late 30s as well (kissees 49-78), and then had another smoochsplosion, especially since I moved here in October: 10 people (kissees 79-88).

I love being a slut.

A few weeks ago, I had an incredibly fun kissing experience. I visited family in Houston with an extra day in Chicago afterward. I got to chatting with an attractive Australian before my Chicago flight. I texted my husband I was probably going to smooch an Aussie to calm my nerves before the flight, and he texted back, "Have fun, mile-high girl."

Although we didn't kiss that day, I managed to tell him I was a phone sex operator, which opened up fascinating conversations for us. After the flight, there was a lovely hug, and I told him I'd be in town unaccompanied the next day between 1 and 5 pm, and although I'd likely still seem drunk from the vertigo, did he want to meet me for coffee?

Coffee turned into hanging out at the Chicago Cultural Center, which I hear is beautiful, but I wouldn't know, because we only saw the cafe. We holed away on comfortable lounges in the back and talked about life for our little stolen hours instead of seeing the glass domes and artwork. Silly me.

He hasn't explored his dominant side as much as he'd like to, but he thinks if he did, he'd focus on tying up a woman and pleasing her orally until she begged for him to stop. "Why yes, I think it's possible for you to get involved with kinkster/BDSM groups and find women to take you up on that. No, I promise, I'm not lying." Silly Aussie.

Our time was drawing to a close, my head had settled down a bit, and I told him I thought we should kiss. He seemed genuinely surprised, but happily receptive, so with my body shielding us from the other cafe patrons, we did. There it was, the thrill of a new connection, the fun of learning another's responses. It didn't even take one minute, much less three, to know that the next time we're in the same city, I'm bringing silk ties and finding a bed and a couple of hours of privacy. He was my 88th.

When I told my local in-person lover about the Aussie, he replied, "The kissing fairy strikes again! Good for you!" and then told me about research he'd read about the positive hormones dumped into your system when you kiss a new partner. He's wonderful.

I've only had sex with my husband and my in-person lover since we moved here, but I've kissed 5 men and 3 women, including the Aussie, my photographer, and my husband's live-in girlfriend. My husband and I now have standing permission to kiss whomever we wish at scene / play parties. I briefly contemplated throwing a party to get me from 89 to 100 (call it a Dirty Dozen party), but I think I prefer to let my numbers rise organically.

I think my most memorable necking session was in my early 30s, during my post-divorce rampage. I had met this guy online, and we realized via chat that we wanted totally different things from a relationship, but we had good buddy chemistry, so we kept in touch over a couple of months via lazy, friendly chatting. He hadn't gotten laid since his divorce, and I was crazy horny one evening, so I said, "We should break your celibacy streak to take the pressure off your dates, y'know. As a favor for them." He laughed at me and invited me over with a "Why the hell not?".

And yet, even with that introduction to the evening, knowing I was there to fuck him, he still insisted on starting on the couch and making out with our clothes on, like teenagers in the living room, for at least 30 minutes. Probably 45. I was in heaven. I remember the sex only vaguely, but I remember the kissing as if it were yesterday because it went long enough to make me hyper-aware of every movement: the skin on my cheek sensitive from his 5 o'clock shadow, the way his fingertips traced the hollow of my neck, the feeling of his tongue enjoying my lips...

I think it's fair to say that for anybody I had connected well with via phone sex, I would at least be willing to kiss them in person, for at least three minutes. I'm looking forward to someone taking me up on that some day. Maybe you'll be my #100!

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Impregnating Galiana

I'm WHAT?!?
From an animal, biological perspective, it makes sense that people fantasize about getting a woman pregnant. The sex drive was created for creation, after all. Planting your seed deep inside to start a new life with your imprint... it's a primal urge.

In case you're wondering, no, I don't have kids. As far as I know, I've never been pregnant. I have, however, used dozens of pregnancy tests when circumstances were theoretically right to make the plus sign, but I always got a minus. In reality, since I got vertigo, I'm grateful it never happened. Kids are wiggly buggers.

But in fantasy, none of the potential disadvantages of a pregnancy surface: no child support, no lifetime of contact with a crazy baby mama, and no midnight grocery store runs for pickles and ice cream for an "irritable walrus", as my best friend described herself while pregnant.

Galiana. Honestly. Do you even try to turn people on anymore? Or does the whole world only exist to amuse you? /sigh

Oh, don't worry. The fantasy turns me on tremendously. And I know I'm not alone.

Of course, I'm never on the pill. And you know I hate the condoms we use as much as you do, so you get an idea that if you tease me and get me really close to orgasm, you may be able to talk me out of it when I'm fuck-crazed.

Or I'm extraordinarily drunk and horny and one thing leads to another and you mean to pull out, but then I'm begging you to come inside me... and really, then, whose fault is it exactly?

Or it's my wedding day, and you sneak into the church in that quiet hour before the ceremony begins, and you catch me alone, and I reluctantly admit I'm hoping to get knocked up tonight on my wedding night with my new husband. This is exactly why I hadn't invited you to the wedding, you bastard, because I never could say no to you, especially at this time of the month...

Often, though, it's not about the scenario or the role play. If I know you have the fantasy urge to multiply with impunity, even if the rest of our time together has nothing to do with getting me pregnant, I can beg you to "fuck a baby into me" and ka-boom! The intensity of our orgasms go through the roof, knowing the future will change forever when we climax.

And then, the delicious changes in my body... /grin

Monday, June 18, 2012

ExtraLunchMoney texting

I totally always look like this when I'm texting
I finally have a way to offer texting-for-pay now! I'm so excited!

Short Version: Go here, sign up, text me!

Longer Version:

I got a very sweet note from Eric, the tech guy at (hereafter possibly referred to as ELM), complimenting me on the quality of my blog, and inviting me to sign up to offer texts if I want a new way to earn money between calls.

I was suspicious, because all the text-for-pay setups I've seen have seemed like either they put the buyer or the provider in a horrible position to encourage abusing the other. But not this one - the way I understand it, it's super clever!

The buyer pays 3 credits (about 3 dollars, depending on how many you buy) to establish a month-long "connection" with a provider. That connection creates temporary phone numbers for both of them, allowing them to anonymously text back and forth without exchanging real numbers (ELM has my number - ELM has your number - we don't have each other's numbers, just like NiteFlirt). The numbers only work for text messages (no phone calls, no SMS pictures), so it's as simple as texting can get - just texting.

But here are the two smart ideas which work together brilliantly:

1. The buyer is only charged for texts they send.

2. A seller is only allowed to send 5 texts after a buyer sends 1.

It's so clever.

It avoids problems I've seen with other text-for-pay configurations: When you charge per seller action, charges can get out of control quickly, which is practically begging for chargebacks and refund requests. If you charge per buyer action with no limit to seller actions, the buyer can get tons of response for an unfairly small amount of compensation... or tons of whining spam.

This seems like a nice balance, where I can reserve one text for a few days later, but I can't inundate a buyer who just wanted to chat that one night.The buyer has control of the conversation by being able to stop any time, especially if I'm being stingy with my return texts.

I love that the connection lasts a month, so it encourages lazy-sexy ongoing story-building.

The seller sets the rate, as with most independent platforms. I'm starting with the minimum: 0.1 credit per text (about 10 cents! what a bargain!), but I might raise my price... although it is fantastic to think of expanding my working hours in a way that feels so simple to me.

Texting is a funny thing in terms of timing - sure, there are uninterruptible moments (like when I'm on a phone sex call, or getting adjusted by my chiropractor, or driving), but there are a ton of moments when I can text that I can't take a phone call (grocery store! just waking up! dog park!). I would love to fill those moments with sexy exchanges!

And I find sexy texting very energizing and fun. It's a bit less immediate pressure than being on a phone call, because I can ponder my response if I wish. And it's not quite as constant, so I can sext for a long time. Yay.

It seems suuuuuper fun to me. I'm listed as a "Virgin Seller" because I just set up. I can't wait to see who pops my cherry!

P.S. To other phone sex operators: ELM totally cool with you listing competitive sites (like NiteFlirt listings or your other cam listings or your blog), and their 60% payout rate seems reasonable to me for such a complicated service. Feel free to drop me a note to ask how it's going if you're curious. Please, though, if you do sign up, use the link above so I get referral credit - thanks!

Sunday, June 17, 2012

I have been deeply enjoying time with callers who have made appointments with me. I'm sure I'll log back in for The Whole World again some day, but in the meantime, a few of my recent favorite fantasies:

I'm in the Witness Protection Program and he's my favorite bodyguard, one of the only people I can be honest with. When I get to go out of the house, I have to wear a high-tech realistic mask that alters my features so I'm unrecognizable, but I can't let anyone touch me in it or they'd realize I'm in a mask. This is a terrible fate for someone who is used to getting a lot of attention from men, so I tend to go out, flirt with guys, get myself all riled up, come home, and masturbate. But tonight, maybe, if I ask him reeeeeeeally nicely, maybe he'd finally fuck me this time instead.

We're college buddies, drinking at a friend's housesitting gig, and he's desperately in love with me but doesn't have the courage to tell me. When I pass out, he realizes he can push aside my clothing, painstakingly slowly, to see the flesh underneath. What would I say if I woke up to see his hard cock in his hand?

I'm shyly eager to please my new boyfriend by going along with his ever-more-outrageous suggestions of how to turn him on, discovering new turnons for myself along the way, but I assume the whispers of me being with multiple guys at once in front of him has just been dirty talk. When he tells me to keep sucking his cock no matter what happens, the rustling behind me couldn't possibly mean I'm about to get spit-roasted for real, could it?

And one of my favorite tease / guided masturbation callers caught up with me, and I couldn't stop myself from using him like a sex toy after bringing him close enough to the edge to be begging already. Does it make it trickier not to come when I'm grinding myself onto you? Awww. I'm sorry, darling. That sounds hard. Now hold still while I climax...

But some of you are holding out. There are balls to smack, superheroes to overcome with trickery and hypno-dust, next door neighbors to seduce, and malfunctioning fembots to be tested. I know there are.

Plus, people, c'mon, I have toys! And you want to tell me how to use them on myself! Well, someone does, I'm certain of it.

It's great to be back.