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! http://www.extralunchmoney.com/user/Galiana/#phone/?ref_user=Galiana

Longer Version:

I got a very sweet note from Eric, the tech guy at ExtraLunchMoney.com (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.

Thursday, June 14, 2012

The Camera Adds

Back in December 2011, I took one too many anti-vertigo medicines after getting dizzy after shooting a custom video, so I decided it would be a fantastic time to wax philosophical on camera. Most of what I shot that evening was unsuitable for viewing by anyone other than my Recycle Bin, but this one was pretty funny.

I was getting frustrated at how disproportional I looked when I was in any position other than sitting, leaning forward, with my elbows resting on my knees. So I talked about other positions and showed just exactly how unflattering some other angles are.

But there are a couple of nice moments where I hit good angles and I look deliciously curvy instead of freakishly out of proportion. Also, the little grey cami + undies look cute.

Camera Adds by GalianaChance

Today I wanted to test embedding videos that are potentially more risque than YouTube allows, so I posted this one, and now I'm sharing it with you to ask you to be my guinea pigs. Let me know if it doesn't work? Thanks!

Please enjoy me making a dork of myself...

Saturday, June 9, 2012

Clearly Not Busy Enough

You guys are totally not keeping me busy enough with appointments, as evidenced by:

I just re-wrote my Where To Start page. I think it's easier to navigate, and it now includes posts from the second year of my blog as well as the first. What a clever idea! I should have thought of it... you know... all along the way. Oh, well. At least it's updated now.

Okay, okay, okay, I admit it. Maybe it's not entirely your fault, because maybe I rewrote it as part of putting together a book proposal to pitch selections from my blog (plus imaginary new material I haven't written yet) to literary agents. But it would be totally irrational to be working on that now, since the biggest conference in publishing was this week and they're all going to be catching up for a month afterward, and I have approximately a bazmillion more logical things to do, and I should have been asleep two hours ago because tomorrow I have big huge giant plans.

Still. I blame you.

You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.
Oh wait, you probably would.
FYI: that's my Feeldoe
If you can forgive me for being an irrational dork, please drop by my updated Where To Start page, and lemme know what you think!

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Writing While Pondering

(Warning: this blog post contains irrational capitalization and emphasis, because apparently that's What Needs to Happen Today as if my thoughts are the titles of published articles, or as if I were writing in the 19th century. I assume the urge for caps case will fade, but apparently I couldn't write today without it.)

I don't feel quite THIS helpless today,
but it certainly conveys a need, doesn't it?
Plus, I love my boobs in this picture.
I've been traveling for two weeks (decadent of me... the last hurrah from my windfalls from March), visiting family in Houston (which was comforting and nourishing as always), and seeing a friend in a show in Chicago (I am ashamed that I only seem to support the arts when I know participants, but I guess it's better than never supporting the arts). It was an absurd amount of travel for someone with motion sickness issues.

My mode of operation on the trips was, "Fuck It, I'll Probably Be Fine". Practically speaking, that means I didn't save any energy for tomorrow's activities, instead choosing to recover when needed. It was the equivalent of asking for forgiveness rather than permission between me and my Inner Energy Tank. I did indeed need some recovery times, but I think the anti-worrying approach served me fairly well overall. We'll see if it leads to me working more often (/fingers crossed)

So now I'm back at home, with no injury-level back pain anymore (yay!), with some good fuel in my tank of sexy energy (yay!) and ready to Start Taking Calls (yay!). Exciting!

In theory.

I mean, that's what should be happening, right? It should be my top priority, right? Getting back in the game? Kicking off my summer with a bang of being available 50+ hours / week like in the good ol' days when I first started? Enjoying the luscious boost of energy of being discovered by someone new?

In theory, yes. Absolutely. In theory.

In reality, I'm scattered. And I'm not sure why.

I can easily justify some of the tasks I'm choosing to do today while decisively Not Taking Calls: updating bills and budgets, going grocery shopping, taking out trash and recycling, washing travel clothes, that research favor I promised my friend weeks ago, updating my blog. These are urgent things, necessary things, easy to justify, easy enough to do.

But for 2 hours after I woke up, I did things I cannot justify: Looking up literary agents who represent both erotica and non-fiction to propose a book including some of my more popular blog posts. Researching hosting providers for podcasts. Playing with backgrounds and lighting in case I want to do a video Q&A podcast.

Hmmm. These activities are suspiciously not the same as Taking Calls. These activities are suspiciously not helping move me toward Taking Calls. No, these activities sound like a to-do list for someone who does not want to be Taking Calls at all. Interesting.

It seems that I am now officially Writing While Pondering. Hopefully it's not as dangerous as Dialing While Drunk, but my audience is theoretically larger than one phone call, so it could be even more catastrophic. I'll pretend it'll work out all right. Can you please bear with me while I try to figure out what's going on in my sometimes-non-linear-and-irrational mind? Thanks.

What would have made far more sense: answering the dozens of NiteFlirt emails which have now grown into a Massive Reminder of My Failures In Life so overwhelming that I pretend they're not there. That would get me back in touch with callers I know I love...

But scattered in my NiteFlirt emails are reminders I may not entirely enthusiastic about. Either they are coworkers who send me customer mailings which can drive me into feeling inadequate because I compare myself to Every Single Thing I Am Not Currently Doing, or they are callers who ask me to do things I don't yet feel the energy to do.

(By the way, none of the customers I'm currently avoiding read my blog. Even though it sounds like a lie, I really do like all my blog readers. I think I find it much easier to have energy I for people when I think they might care about me as a person, and not just as a service provider. And let's be honest, at this point, my blog has so little phone sex in it that the only readers I have left are people interested in me as a person, right?)

I have said many times that it is far easier to take a call with someone I know than it is to log on for The Whole World. Logging on blind, not knowing who will call or what they may want... that takes guts. Courage. Self-assurance. Energy. That is, I think, the hardest thing about my job: being ready to answer the phone for The Whole Wide World With All Its Craziness. And courage, self-assurance, and guts are probably in a bit of short supply at the moment after three months of trying not to pressure myself while recovering from a seriously unpleasant back injury.

I'm not quite ready yet to convert humiliation aimed at me into erotic energy. I'm not quite ready yet to make up multiple stories in a row about how I accidentally shrink and swallow someone while the caller remains silent, withholding his responses while I spin tales into a feedback-less abyss. I'm not quite ready yet to hang up on someone for violating the terms of service, my personal limits, and my overall interest in interacting with humanity by blurting out, "And then I bring in a horse to fuck you, and you're all tied up, so you can't stop me!"

I just... can't quite get there yet.

(Thankfully, the day the horse call actually happened, I was in a great mood - I laughed out loud and hung up, then mocked the caller to my husband. The phrase "And then you fuck a horse!" said with a raspy, nasally East Coast voice, is still a common source of laughter in our home.)

(FYI: In general, I don't resent people who have fantasies about taboo subjects, but I need those to be respectfully negotiated to ensure I am on board. If I am not on board, the caller needs to find someone else who is. Taboo subjects sprung on me mid-fantasy, clearly hoping for a shocked response, deserve a good *hahahaha*click*.)

(Also, for the record, being non-consensually tied up and violated by a horse is not a fantasy I am willing to participate in. My apologies and regrets to all you nice guys stuck with unpleasant fantasies you would rather not have. I wish you luck in your search, I do, and sometimes I can be a taboo girl, and some taboos I genuinely love, but not that particular one.)

Okay, so I'm not quite ready to take on The Whole Big Bad Crazy World quite yet. That's understandable, right? Yes. Yes, it it is. It's understandable. My Inner Therapist can deliver that message with a lot of sincerity: It is absolutely understandable to be not quite ready to take on The Whole Big Bad Crazy World.

You know what I think I need to get my head back in the game? Appointments with callers I know and love.

Well. That was simple. Why exactly did it take me all this time to reach that conclusion? No idea. It seems so blatantly obvious now. Share a few luscious orgasms with people I trust -- easy!

So if you've been waiting on me to return, please email me. And please include a few date/times that you would like to talk, and what you'd like to talk about, and I'll make a time for us to hang out. I won't even require a 30-minute minimum to make an appointment - let's say for the next 2 weeks. Other than my chiropractor, and other people taking me up on this offer, I have no time commitments.

Also, if we have never spoken yet, but you've been looking for me, drop me an email describing what you want to talk about - it would be fantastic to have a Fun New Caller Boost if we share things in the center of my Lust Landscape, like... ummm... You guiding my masturbation. Or you describing what you'd like to do to me to make me come. Or you begging to be allowed to climax while I masturbate and tell you keep holding on.

Well, now, all of a sudden, I'm short of breath and wondering where my fresh batteries are. That is lovely indeed.

I'm sure after a dozen or so calls, I'll wonder what the hell my problem was, and fall back into a routine of availability again. I look forward to it, in fact. Very much. I don't like feeling vaguely afraid. It doesn't suit me. I'm more of a Grab Life By The Horns and Don't Let the Crazy People Get You Down kind of a gal. I look forward to being so again very soon.