50, 30, and The Identity Exercises

Here's another one I wrote for some friends on Fet

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I have a good friend turning 30 soon, a good friend turning 30 soon-ish, and a good friend turning 50 soon. Got me to thinking.

When I was in college, I was in therapy for family reasons, a theater major "because I learn more about what it is to be a human through stories than I do psychology or hard sciences" (that was my standard answer, and yes, I know it was pretentious), and heavily involved in a close-knit religious community which encouraged emotional honesty. So I basically thought about myself and my emotions ALL THE TIME. It sounds exhausting now, but obviously, it was what I needed then. Don't judge.

My religious wrestlings, therapeutic processes, and artistic growth often fed each other, but never as much as the week of The Identity Exercises.

In acting class, we had to make a list of our identities: daughter, niece, sister, student, actor, lighting designer, girlfriend, friend, dancer, mathematician, tutor, teacher, comedienne... Then my acting professor had a guy named Joe read his list. It included "boyfriend". She asked whose lists included "girlfriend", and I was picked to go up to demo.

I stood on stage with Joe, and the professor asked us to talk with each other as if we were interested in dating each other. She told him to start with the question, "How was class today?" and so we chatted, flirting. Within minutes, we were well on our way to our first kiss if nobody stopped us.

Then my professor said "And now, you're father / daughter." (which, first of all, was a brutally emotionally sadistic move, because I had only recently begun talking with my father again, but hadn't seen him in two years, and she knew that... but her irresponsible bitchery is not the point of this story) It was suddenly VERY AWKWARD as we both adjusted and he asked me again, "How was class today?"

The class told us afterward what they observed - when we were boyfriend/girlfriend, we stood closer, we touched more, we met each others' eyes, we laughed more easily... when we were father/daughter, we stood further apart, stood up straighter, both our hands went in pockets, our eyes narrowed... We both looked and acted completely differently.

I took the list to my therapist. After she helped me through wanting to strangle my professor, my therapist asked me to fill out the list more - recognize positive attributes of each role, identify roles where I could borrow confidence (student had confidence to spare for daughter...), and generally ponder the complexity of human interactions by mapping how I wanted to behave in each role.

(Hooray for competent cognitive/behavioral therapy: that therapist was an amazing gift)

Then the topic for the Fall Retreat was announced, with the kickoff talk, "What Would Change If You Really Believe God Loved You?" and there were all those identity roles and behavioral choices rolling around in my head, so I spent a week in a daze, imagining God pouring love over me in each of those roles, and soaking in the understanding that I could simply... choose to believe it. Or at least, to do my best to fake it until I believed it.

My next time in therapy, I was barfing all my thoughts to my therapist, and she asked, "So, with all this information, how do you see yourself in the future?" And I closed my eyes, and I imagined.

I was 50. I knew I was 50. I was wearing a sun hat, kneeling in earth, planting things, or maybe tending things that grow. I knew I was on my own land, and I knew that I enjoyed the gardening, and I looked up at something in the sky and wiped the sweat from my brow, and grinned, and I was... So. Amazingly. Peaceful.

I wasn't a peaceful kid. I wasn't a peaceful college student. I wasn't at peace with my family, my body, my career choices, my intellect, my talents... None of it. I saw myself as a constant barrage of insecurities and facades. Sure, I was honest, but almost I was almost unbearably messy. Spastic. Chaotic.

But she... This 50-year-old. She was... well... You've met peaceful, happy 50-year women, right? They're strong and solid and trustworthy and comforting and huggable and funny and amusing and wise, and ... y'know... awesome. I grew up in a big multi-generational church with many confident, awesome women in their 50s. And in that moment of imagining, I could see myself as one of them.

And I wanted it. I wanted to be her. I wanted to be guided by her. I wanted to know what she knew. I wanted to skip 30 years ahead and go to be her, immediately. Of course, I couldn't skip my 20s and 30s and 40s. Darn it.

But that vision of my 50-year-old self has continued to be my North Star. Literally everything else I thought I wanted for my life has changed completely since then, but in every season - reconciling with Dad, losing Dad when he died, my first marriage, my unexpected technical career, my divorce, my discovery of kink, my relationship now with my husband, my vertigo, losing the house, becoming a phone sex operator, and this past crazy year of explosive polyamory - in all these wildly disparate seasons, my 50-year-old self has always looked back at me with kind eyes and a peaceful-but-mischievous grin, and encouraged me to be like her.

So I guess I've lived my life as "What Would I Do If I Were 50 And Awesome?" And then I try to live up to that, as best I can.

When I turned 30, I was "happily" married, living in a house that we were "going to be in forever", and we were going to start having kids soon. I felt good about the external circumstances of my life, but I was growing increasingly uncomfortable with my emotional realities, how I felt about myself and my increasingly angry husband.

My 30-year-old reflections on my 50-year-old self led me to leave it all, so by the time I turned 32, I was divorced, redefining my faith and romantic relationships and sexual desires, and rebuilding my sense of self-worth from the ground up.

It felt, at the time, like I had wasted a huge chunk of time, that I would never "make it up", that I would always feel stunted by the choices and mistakes of my 20s. But now it's laughably easy to see that I had so much time ahead of me to make whatever I wanted. Several times over, in fact. For that matter, I couldn't have predicted my current life 15 months ago, much less 20 whole years!

So getting older doesn't bother me. I'm excited every year. I get to be closer to her, that vision of myself. Someday, I will meet her in myself, I think, although it may not be exactly at 50. Most importantly, every year, I can see ways that I become more like her.

So, to my good friend turning 50 soon, congratulations on getting to experience the awesomeness. I'm a little jealous. You may not always be peaceful, but neither will I. But you know stuff. You make good choices often. You're full of awesome. I hope you can appreciate it.

And to my good friends turning 30, I urge you to imagine a version of yourself at 50, full of every drop of awesome that you want to become, and to think about becoming her, more than you think about what you've already done or not done, and even more than you think about who you are today. Let her love you, nurture you, and assure you that you'll make it. Because you will.

I know what she'll say: you'll be amazing then, even more amazing than you are now. But let's face it, you're pretty damn amazing now.

Happy Birthdays, friends. I'm glad you were born. I'm glad I get to journey with you now. I'm looking forward to our journeys from here.

And hey, wait a minute: why don't I own a sun hat?

Phone Sex Blog Superlative

A cry for help.
How can you refuse?

I like to think that I have a blog that's interesting to read, and I would love to make it easier for people to find it. I don't even make it to the Google search for "phone sex blog" on any page. Sad.

So I'm thinking of re-doing my tag line, from "Chance It: The Blogged Life of Galiana Chance, phone sex operator with a fetish for variety" to "Chance It: The Most _________ Phone Sex Blog in the World"

But... what to put in that superlative spot? Obviously, any qualitative claim I could put in that blank would be ridiculous, narcissistic, over-the-top, and impossible to quantify. Perfect.

The most honest? The most real? The realest (is that word)? The most varied?

Or should I go for something closer to what I have now, like "The Phone Sex Blog of Galiana Chance, a phone girl with a fetish for variety"? Or should I change my qualitative description to something like "a genius (by some definitions) and a helluva gal"? I need slugs, people. Slug me.

Help me, Obi Wan Blog Reader. You're my only hope.

Request for Listing Input

I used to think that I did things in weird ways until I worked with dozens of programmers. Then I learned that most people do things in their own unique fashion, and that if you give them room to do things their way, often it will be most efficient for them.

When I have a big, complicated project looming -- like, for example, rewriting all my listings -- I need to ponder it a while before I actually start making changes.

I am currently in my mulling phase, which means I'm pleasantly distracting myself by importing my transaction detail into an Access database , and automating the process to parse customer name and transaction type.

Inner Data Analyst: It's about frikkin' time! The Excel process was killing me. Literally killing me dead, every frikkin' day. DEAD, I tell you! ...

Inner Data Analyst takes a while to calm down once she gets on a rant, so we'll let her unwind while we continue.

I have a request of you, Dear Reader, which is: Please let me know what you think I should keep and/or change about my current listing(s).

GENERAL LISTINGS:

For my general listings, I currently have three listings with a mishmash of ideas presented in them:

* http://www.niteflirt.com/listings/show/9463253 - Sex listing

* http://www.niteflirt.com/listings/show/9503597 - Role Play listing

* http://www.niteflirt.com/listings/show/9507267 - Cam listing

I want to stress that I'm smart, fun, playful, sex-positive, versatile / variety fetish, have a theater background, I care about the people who call me, and I consider myself more of a "lover" than a "girlfriend". Some of that is in there now, and some of it isn't.

HYPNO LISTINGS:

For my hypno listings, I currently have one listing template:

* http://www.niteflirt.com/listings/show/9498705

I completely need to change it. Right now it makes me look sad. Or serious. Or boring. Or something. But definitely something that I am not.

I actually want to stress more of the same things I stress in my general listings: I'm smart, fun, playful, sex-positive, etc.

But I also need to emphasize that I really truly enjoy erotic hypnosis. I do. It's sexy as hell.

And that I'm willing to do hypno role plays, but if you're calling my hypno line, I am assuming that you want actual hypnosis.

And that I am a hypnotist, not a mind reader, and there are dozens of choices to be made, and that I need you to tell me what you like and what you want for you to get the most out of it. I'm okay with putting you under and asking you to tell me then, but if you can answer before I trance you, that would be ideal.

MISTRESS GALIANA LISTINGS (changing to Lady Galiana):

For my mistress listings, I currently have one listing template:

* http://www.niteflirt.com/listings/show/9498763

I also need to completely change it. First, I'm changing the name to "Lady Galiana", which I think is a better reflection of my topping style than "Mistress" or "Goddess" or "Princess".

I know, it sounds a bit like "Lady Gaga", but I like her fierceness, open sexuality, and unapologetic support of the LGBTQ community, so I'm okay if a comparison is made, jokingly in passing. I'm comfortable that I am my own person enough to wipe out that image quickly.

Next, the pictures and the language I'm currently using there are too formal and serious for me. When I'm in charge, I'm still smart, fun, playful, etc, and the listing currently doesn't convey that very well.

And I need to emphasize that I really truly enjoy dominating sexually. It's a huge power rush and a turn on for me.

And that I love sex, so I could very well choose to get off while I'm dominating or using you (I don't want my listings to be focused on what I am not, but I think there is a popular conception that mistresses don't allow submissives to make them come because then they lose control. Maybe that's true in some dominant relationships, but I'd rather have orgasms, thank you very much).

I like the stuff that's in there now about being cooperative, but lately, I've been thinking about my flavor of domination in terms of being a "service top" -- I enjoy playing a dominating role for the many of the same reasons I enjoy playing a submissive role: I love knowing my partners is getting exactly what s/he's been craving, and more. Giving control and taking control are both means -- for me, the end is ensuring an intensely delicious experience for both of us.

IN ALL THREE:

For all three of my logins / "characters" / personas, the common theme is: I love hearing my lover all grateful, satisfied, and happy after we're done.

Help me out gang. Give me phrases, themes, ideas for layouts, suggestions for pictures you think would work well, thoughts I'm missing, anything you can think of to help my next round of listings be exponentially more appealing than the current ones.

Thanks!

Mistaken Identities

Public Service Announcement (PSA) from your friendly neighborhood Phone Sex Operator (PSO):

Please keep in mind that your PSO is not told your identity / user name when you call, and cannot look it up until the call has been connected for at least a few seconds, and then only if she is at her computer and logged in to the right page, which is not always the case.

"Mistaken Identity" mishaps can possibly occur.

For example, if yesterday's call to the new Role Playing listing involved me being transformed from a physiologically normal human woman into a freakish sexbot with a 12-inch cock, testicles the size of grapefruit, and breasts the size of basketballs... then today when you call the same listing and tell me you're the robot guy but you didn't expect to be able to call again so soon, I may not immediately remember that a few days ago, you and I enjoyed a leisurely transformation fantasy where I wrapped you in a nanotech bodysuit and seduced you into joining me in  post-human bliss. I may get confused and spend the first few minutes spouting phrases which would seem illogically inconsistent with our experiences together thus far.

Or if you have a delicious, sweet, gentle voice and identify yourself by only your first name, I may forget the luscious, slow, playful masturbation I guided you through last week, which caused me to record the note "happiest friendliest teasing masturbation ever", and may instead assume you are a frequent cross-dressing caller by the same name who considers herself a lesbian, but likes taking my strap-on. I could possibly then bafflingly ask you what you're wearing and refer to your genitalia by gender-switched pronouns.

I mean... of course those didn't both happen to me today. Back-to-back. That would just be horrible and unprofessional and mortifying. Don't be ridiculous. Of course not.


/facepalm


But to be on the safe side, to ensure that I will not involve you in someone else's fantasies and send you someone else's energy... please feel free to identify yourself by your user name as well as your first name, since the user name is unique in the system, and that's what I track on my spreadsheets for calls and feedback. Because "IHaveAPhoner" or "pkb216" are extraordinarily unlikely to confuse me. Or, equally effectively, you may work out a simple code name with me like "John in Missoula" or "Two-Hand Pete".

You know, not that it's a problem or anything, but it may work to your advantage if I were inexplicably confused one day...

(side note: I don't have callers with any of those names, but I'm irrationally amused by, and therefore proud of, "IHaveAPhoner"... Get it? It's like IHaveABoner but for phone sex? /giggle Wow, I'm a dork today)

This concludes our quarterly PSO PSA. Thank you for your attention.

It'll Seem Less Crazy When Your Balls Fill Back Up

Late last night, I told a quivering, panting caller, "Don't worry, love, it will all seem much less crazy when your balls fill back up."

I could hear it in the way he was gasping, "Oh my God..." that his rational mind was trying to come to terms with what his animal urges had driven him to do moments before. It wasn't anything immoral, just something he did not find sexy at all when his brain isn't drowning in a flood of lusty sex hormones.

When your balls are full, all kinds of things sound sexy. It's as if the semen is seeping up into your thoughts, making everything you see wiggle and squirm and potentially give pleasure. Who knows? It might feel great to stroke yourself while wearing that silicon oven mitt with the thick ridges. Or with a weight tied to your balls. Or you might enjoy trying a vibrator up your ass for the first time.

But then starting about fifteen seconds after your testicles empty themselves, the list of sexy things in the world collapses suddenly. For example, eating your own cum - it's hard to do because it requires action in the moment after you have an orgasm, which is exactly the moment when your brain flushes itself the cleanest of all those animal-lust-inducing endorphins.

Don't sweat it. The phenomenon happens to the best of you ball-bearers of the world.

I stumbled across an online article from Psychology Today titled, "Sick Secret Sexual Fantasies" which handily provides some evidence to back up my personal observations:

Do disturbed, conflicted, problematic fantasies really reflect deep-seated psychological disturbance? The building evidence suggests that they do not.

To clarify, I'm not talking about violent fantasies of genuinely causing someone else non-consensual harm -- I think those fantasies should be discussed with a professional, and if they are played out in a sexual way, everyone involved should be very aware of the situation and of the risks.

What I'm talking about are fantasies that press against your rational boundaries. For me, it's anal sex: when I am tired or not in a sexy head-space, butt-sex sounds completely unappealing, potentially messy, potentially painful, and generally all-around not fun. But when my body fills up with the right kind of lust and shoves my rational self into the closet, I have been known to beg, "Please fuck my ass, Sir!"... and mean it. Wholeheartedly.

So if you find yourself stroking to mental images of your wife happily being gang-banged by a racially diverse group of well-hung studs, but baffled as to why since you're pretty sure it wouldn't be her thing, my recommendation is that you not worry about it. It'll all make sense again when your balls fill back up, I promise.

The DADT of Phone Sex

DADT = Don't Ask, Don't Tell. The military is phasing one out, but today's blog post will be about the phone sex version. Or at least Galiana's phone sex version.

I don't want to know if you regret calling me the moment after you climax. I won't ask, and please don't tell me.

I like to pretend that all my callers have personal freedom to make sexual choices, and a personal entertainment budget, and when you can afford to call, and when "talking with Galiana" is at the top of the list of what sounds entertaining, you choose to spend your hard-earned money on a call with me, talking about whatever feels most entertaining to you, with no guilt involved.

Let me be clear and specific: I love talking honestly and openly about your life situation, and if money problems come up in those conversations, that's fine. And if you're in a situation with your significant other where you're not telling her about your phone sex habits, that's fine too. I don't mind you saying things like "I haven't called because money's been tight." Sharing intimate life details is fantastic. Sharing your remorse at talking with me is not.

So, if, the moment after you have an orgasm, especially an orgasm that I poured a good deal of time and energy and heart and soul into helping you achieve... if, in that moment, you are filled with sorrow for having called me, it does not help you in the long run to share that information with me.

For one thing, it makes me a little gun-shy about your next call, as if I should be asking you, "Are you sure you can afford to be talking with me?" or "Are you sure you won't feel guilty?" And let's be honest, it's highly unlikely that "someone nagging me about how I choose to spend my money and time" is high on your list of kinks. I mean, if it is, great, your kink is okay, and I can work with it, but I don't think that's what most of you want.

And what response should I have? "I'm sorry you chose to do something you would regret later" seems patronizing. "I'm sorry you chose to involve me in something that feels you with remorse" seems selfish. "I'm sorry your brain empties when your balls fill up" is just mean (although it's a little funny). "Have you considered addiction counseling?" is invasive. "Please don't tell me that again" is unsympathetic and awkward, and only adds to the problem. "I'm sorry you feel that way" is about the closest I can come to being both polite and respectful, but it seems dismissive and unhelpful.

Lastly, you chose to call me, and I did my best to give you great service, and then you're ending the call with dissatisfaction ... about an issue which is clearly not my fault, and clearly out of my control to change. What do you get from telling me you wish you hadn't called? Should I feel bad about all the good work and good energy I just shared with you? Should I not try so hard to make you feel good? Should I try to talk you out of calling me? I don't see the benefit for you, and there is certainly no benefit for me.

I vote that you take responsibility for your decisions, even the ones you make when you're in too-overloaded-by-lust-to-think-straight mode. I get it that the sex hormones which flood your brain are real, and that you do physiologically change the moment after you climax. I'm not trying to minimize that. I've been there, and said and done things I regret later plenty of times. I'm not asking you not to feel it, I'm just asking you not to share it with me right at that moment.

... unless you're "The Wanker", or someone else who, like him, is turned on by your own guilt or remorse. The Wanker finds it deeply erotic to talk about post-climax guilt as part of the overall humiliation of being a wanker. But he has a humiliation fetish, so it makes perfect sense, and he talks about it before he climaxes, not after. Everyone without a humiliation fetish, please see the preceding paragraphs.

This concludes my public service announcement of the day. May you enjoy all the sex you have and regret nothing!

Upsetting Trend

I've had five callers in the past few days do something really upsetting: I've been logged in, available for calls, and they've let me know they wanted to talk with me via email while I've been away from my computer. All five have ended up missing the chance to talk altogether.

When I'm logged in to the system and available for calls, THAT RIGHT THEN is the perfect time to call me. It doesn't matter if I'm away from my computer, I'll still have the phone with me. If I'm helping with dinner, or bring the dogs inside from our muddy back yard, or sorting through paperwork, or reading a friend's script draft, the phone is the best way to reach me, which is why I'm logged in.

I'm very good at managing my logins. If it is not a good time to call, I will log out. If I'm logged in, it is a great time to call. I promise.

I can't tell you how many times someone has been "setting up for a call" and someone else has called instead, and the original caller has said, "I wish I had just called you." Yes. Please. Just call. 

If you want to set something up via email, then call me for 1 minute to say "Could you check your email?" and I will happily go to my computer, read the scene you have imagined for us, and let you know that I'm in the right head space for you to call me back. However, the very real risk exists that someone else will zoom in and catch me first. You're a blog reader! I'd rather talk with you! I promise!

So seriously, please, don't miss the moment altogether by waiting for me to answer email! Zoikes!

Outside Perspectives Can Help

I have a caller who has been trying to avoid thinking about a certain type of fetish, and he used to watch a lot of videos about this certain thing, so now when he goes to the YouTube home page, he's inundated with reminders. I recommended not logging in when he goes to YouTube, or making a new account, so it wouldn't remind him.

He followed my suggestion, and realized how much energy he'd been wasting fighting off those images, and felt silly for not having thought of the solution on his own. I told him in an email:

I've noticed that "thinking of doing something different than what you've been doing" isn't a skill humans have in abundance.

I just got off the phone with a caller who had vague fantasy-images in his head of being with a dominant woman, having his hands bound, being stripped, being blindfolded, and getting spanked, and maybe even fucked in the ass by her. But he sounded confused and conflicted about why the idea was erotic to him of being hurt or roughed-up. He described himself as very masculine, and almost always in control.

I pointed out to him that he didn't have to be forced to give up control, and asked him to tell me how it felt to imagine agreeing to be controlled. For example, what if he agreed to be controlled by me, and a girlfriend who had agreed to follow my lead? We started with his hands bound behind his back, running our hands over his clothes, to get him used to the feeling of not being able to guide or stop us. Then we started undressing him and adding our mouths to the sensations.

I heard the light bulb go off in his head. Consensual, sensual domination by two women who were taking their time teasing him, binding him, feeding him flesh and fruit and cheese and wine and more flesh, and slowly building to a climax of him deeply taking a stiff silicone dick while his own cock was surrendering to a soft, wet, expertly skilled mouth. Oh. Yes. Please. He'll have lots of exactly that, thanks ever so much, ohgodyespleaseyespleaseyesplease, if his confession of "I'm about one minute away from falling deeply in love with you" was any indication.

Sometimes it helps to talk about the things that are stuck rattling around in your brain. Sometimes, someone else's perspective can rotate you the one degree you need in order to find the thing you were looking for. And sometimes, if I'm very fortunate, I have the chance to be the one doing the rotation. I'm a lucky girl.

Storing Nuts and Striking Irons

A recent chat exchange (edited for readability):

Him: It sounds as if you've been pushing yourself quite a bit lately as well

Galiana: Maybe...  it's hard to say no because I like this work

Him: And I'm sure you're storing nuts for the winter as well

Him: Have to strike when the iron's hot and all that

Galiana: Exactly

Galiana: Perfect way to put it

Him: And as Warren Zevon said, "I'll sleep when I'm dead"

Galiana: Yes

Galiana: I've heard December is busy, January is slower

Galiana: I don't want to push myself too hard

Galiana: But I don't want to miss out either

Galiana: It's trixie

I'm not alone with this dilemma. It is shared, not just with phone sex operators, but with anyone who has theoretically unlimited earning potential, and sets their own hours: independent web designers, consultants of every flavor, small business owners.

I probably spend an hour or so each day answering mentoring-type questions from other phone sex workers, or people interested in potentially joining the profession. I love it - I feel like I get to practice all the fun parts of being a manager (training, encouraging, offering suggestions for improvement), with none of the horrible parts (disappointing interviews, writing performance evaluations for mediocre workers, firing people).

The darling Kiwi Candy has let me live through her vicariously with overbearing amounts of advice about how I would be doing phone sex if I were Hollywood beautiful, in my early 20s, with an exotic accent. I had the pleasure of informing her that she had bypassed me on the front page! It cracked me up, because another Flirt did the same for me four months ago... 

It's happening to her the same way it happened to me back in August when I wrote this blog post - you're used to having all the time in the world between calls, then you get a few back-to-back-to-back and realize you haven't eaten, or gone to the bathroom, or done anything to renew your energy, and suddenly you're wiped out. And then you don't want to whine or complain about it, because you've been hoping to get busy, but now that you are, you're exhausted!

Several callers and blog readers have noticed that lately, my lines have often been Busy or Away or on Sleep Rates. And some of you are a little worried about me. You're sweet. Thank you very much. I truly, deeply, absolutely appreciate the concern.

However, please let me assure you: if I am answering sex phone calls, I am well-rested and feeling sexy. Honestly. I learned how to juggle the energy of this job back in August and September, and I have not forgotten those lessons.

If I'm feeling the need for high-quality sleep, I log off instead of setting sleep rates. If I have to deal with annoying bills or paperwork, I log off instead of answering the phone un-sexy-fied. If I have a long call that wears me out, I log off instead of giving the next caller anything less than my best.

That doesn't mean I'll never answer the phone sounding a little snuggly and sleepy late at night... but if I'm available, it's the sexy kind of snuggly.

And it doesn't mean that I won't push myself. I do sometimes. I will sometimes. Sometimes I will realize I need time away, like yesterday when I didn't log in until 4 to just hang around and be luxurious.

But here's the deal: I pushed myself too hard before phone sex, too. That just comes with the territory of being a perfectionist overachiever pleaser who hates to see myself as weak in any way... If I weren't pushing myself too hard with phone sex, I'd find another way to do it.

Tonight, though, as I'm sitting here on my super-comfy memory-foam-topped bed, enjoying reading new ego-stroking feedback, eating the delicious garlic chicken-and-veggie pasta my husband made me, I feel very far away from "run down". Actually, I feel very close to "spoiled rotten".

Yes, I'm working hard and storing nuts and striking irons, but I promise, I'm taking good care of myself while doing it.

Long Off-Topic Letter to Allie Brosh

Warning: This blog post is seriously long. And seriously off-topic. If you read it at your own risk, I'm sorry you were so bored that this seemed like a good idea. /pat

I took about a week to read all the way through the entire blog "Hyperbole and a Half" from beginning to end after I got hooked with this post, which might be the very most awesome blog entry ever in the history of anything (warning: it is a very long blog post, even longer than this one): Dogs Don't Understand Basic Concepts Like Moving

If you went and read that and didn't cry laughing and then want to hug the author, you are an unfeeling cyborg and I pity your lack of ability to feel emotion.

And then I noticed that my speaking / writing style had shifted to be more Allie-like (Allie Brosh is the author). For example, the previous sentence about cyborgs sounded more like Allie than it sounds like Galiana. I've always been a horrible mimic. It was bound to happen. It'll fade and I'll go back to sounding like Galiana as long as I don't start over and read her whole blog again next week. Which I might.

But more importantly, I found myself musing about her blog: She got 100 followers in September 2009, after about 2 months. Now she has between 1 and 2 million unique visitors per month. That's a crazy fast ramp-up. And crazy fast success for someone who often couldn't afford heat last winter. FYI: Not being able to afford heat in Montana is bad.

I have a little theory about how fame is unnatural and psychically disturbing. And I have a hunch that Allie is being psychically disturbed by her new-found fame. Sure, the money is great, but being followed and adored (and vilified) by that many people has to be mind-bogglingly peculiar.

So I wrote her a letter, just in case my little theory makes her slightly happy, to try to repay her for the hours of happy she gave me with her blog.

Then I was happy with what I wrote, so I wanted to share it with someone, but my off-phone Facebook account includes too many teenagers and religiously conservative friends of my mom to share it there, because it says "Fuck" a lot, and I don't think Facebook should feel assaulting to the nice people who prayed for me when I was growing up.

So I'm sharing it with you. You know I say "fuck" a lot, and yet you choose to read me anyway.

And I won't lie: in the back of my mind, the possibility exists that Allie will think it's the best letter ever and link to my blog and then I'll become famous on the internet and end up being the Dan Savage of phone sex workers.

But since the odds of that happening are approximately the same as me wandering down the street and having a mega-millions-winning lottery ticket blow into my face and stick there, I'll just share it because I'm narcissistic and I want people to tell me that I did a nice thing, and it was well-written.

And I want to post it here because it makes me happy that I wrote it, and when I review old blog post titles, I like being reminded of things that make me happy, like magical barfing dogs.

So here it is:
**************************

Allie,
I attempted to leave a huge comment, but it rejected it saying it was too long, on this blog post: http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2009/12/im-sorry.html

So instead I'm mailing you the comment. Here's what it said:
=============================

I spent about a week reading through your whole blog, and this entry has stuck with me, and I wanted to write you what I was thinking in case I'm having a hunch and it's right.

Here's my hunch: fame and high blog traffic are super-duper weird for you.

Here's my theory: human beings aren't created for celebrity.

Here's my guess: When you had 125 followers, it felt great, and you could totally keep up with everyone, and it felt like a cozy community. As that number grew, you started losing track and feeling guilt, but then when it hit about 450 people wanting to interact with you, it started getting very fuzzy. You had to make some new rules to protect yourself, like "it's okay if I don't answer everything".

Here's why I guess that: 125 is the number that most churches and social organizations cannot overcome no matter how hard they try. 450 is the number where companies tend to explode or implode. They are irrationally magic numbers.

Here's my pseudo-scientific reasoning, which I'm pretty sure I read somewhere when reading about church growth theory: ... irrationally magic numbers... unless you consider that our hunter-gatherer backgrounds make it difficult to sustain hunter-gatherer groups of more than about 125 - they tend to split about then, and once there are four groups of 100-125 each in an area, wars break out.

So as a human being, you're not really biologically equipped to keep track of more than 450 people ever. It's not your fault, you're just human. It feels weird to have a million visitors a day because **it is weird**. It's totally fucking bizarre. One person shouldn't be known by a million other people. It's totally fucked up. There's no way in the world one person's brain, no matter how awesome, can wrap itself around that freaky shit.

Here's my strong advice to you: don't try to wrap your mind around it. Just pretend like it's only 125 people. Like you're still starving, and your hunger is still driving you, but now sometimes things magically pop up like heat and the ability to eat at a restaurant, but those are magical, and certainly don't come from anything as fucked up as internet celebrity.

Here's why it's probably especially troubling: A year ago, the thought of going home for the holidays overwhelmed you one day, and you wrote about it, and your little cozy community helped you with it. But now you make long posts with lots of pictures, and cake and dogs and spiders and bricks, and lots of people see those posts. But those posts probably don't feel as personal as the one you wrote last December. And it's possible that in the back of your mind, you wonder if you had another day like that, if you wrote another post like that, would it all come tumbling down forever? Or could a million people be as cozy as 125?

Here's my guess: No, a million people could not be anywhere near as cozy as 125. But fuck 'em. All of 'em. All of us. Fuck us all to hell. Your blog got popular because you did what you felt like doing, and some of those things ended up being popular.

Here's my observation: Reading through your blog, there was a spot in early 2010 where Boyfriend said, in exasperation, "draw it - it'll make you feel better" because he knew you, and you did, and sure enough, that drew people to you.

So let's repeat that. Slowly. For dramatic effect.

You did the thing that made you feel better, and it drew people to you.

Keep doing that, Allie. That's all you have to do. Everything else is stupid bullshit and deserves to be "It" in Brick Tag.

*internet hug*

=============================
Galiana

Help Me Help You

Not to be too terribly immodest, but ... I do some parts of my job pretty well. I take decent notes. I'm honest about everything that doesn't invade my privacy. And I think I have a readable, entertaining blog that answers a few common questions, and gives people a way to keep connected even if they can't call me.

However, I am not good at reading minds.

I mean, I'm pretty good with taking hints and pushing past those into the next logical step. But if you tell me you just want to hear me get off, I will not intuitively guess that you like to wear women's silky panties and be fucked with my strap-on. If you tell me you want to masturbate with me in charge, I will not immediately intuit that you want me to take you to a glory hole to kneel on a dirty floor and suck a big black cock.

The possibilities are too endless. It may seem obvious in your head what is enticing and sexually charged, but chances are good that on the day you call, one person wanted to face fuck me and someone else wanted to be teased until they begged to come.

And about ass play: many guys are turned off by the thought of playing with asses - their own, or anyone else's. It is clearly in my best interest not to turn off my callers, so I tend to not bring it up. But if you have butt plugs and buzzy toys and dildos prepped and you're hoping to use them, or dying to rim me, I'm up for that. I'm just unlikely to propose it unless I know that's what you want.

You may wonder if your fantasy is over my limits. It might be. But it is the wrong approach to try to ease into it by suggesting things that inch towards your goal. That's just being manipulative. Instead, tell me what you want, and if I'm not willing to meet you there, I'm absolutely willing to talk openly about what else we may have in common.

(Well, okay, except for the guy who wanted to be forced to smoke crack and super-glue shut the opening of his penis while having diarrhea... That one was too many incompatibilities at once to bother starting up the conversation. Yes, that was an actual request. Thankfully, those types of extremely incompatible requests happen less than 1% of the time. I don't let bad eggs worry me. Oh, and speaking of eggs... no, no, no, never mind, you don't want to know.)

As long as we're talking about the potentially awkward, let's just hit it all, shall we? Budget. Let's not make this difficult. If you only have 10 minutes, tell me, and I can push you harder faster deeper, and enjoy it. If you want to stretch it out and spend the better part of an afternoon coming three times over a couple of hours, by all means, let me know. And if I'm so bold as to ask how long we have, don't be embarrassed to tell me. Honesty only helps both of us.

I unconsciously make dozens of tiny choices on the fly with every conversation: pace, volume, pitch, breathing, level of dirty talk, emotional intensity, my intellectual abilities, and how quickly I climax (a blessing of control for which I am forever grateful). Any of those can be adjusted at any time if something isn't working, as long as I'm aware that a change that needs to be made.

You won't hurt my feelings. You'll just make it more fun.

So please, tell me what you want.

It Gets Better

Today I've been grateful for the "It Gets Better" movements that are springing up in support of LGBT teens who are being bullied for their sexual preferences. I don't want this to be a political blog, but it doesn't seem political to me to want completely different outcomes for these bright young lives.

I talk to smart, articulate, fun men almost every day who enjoy dressing in women's clothing, or crave the feeling of a big thick cock in their mouth (I'd never blame anyone for that), or who are contemplating telling their macho jock friends they have a boyfriend. It's a pleasure. Sometimes, it even feels like a bit of an honor to share their secrets, and to wish them well in becoming the person they feel they are meant to be.

The Trevor Hotline at 1-866-488-7386 is just one of dozens of resources available, that I hope people use when they need it. And, like every suicide and domestic abuse hotline, I hope someday, nobody needs to use it at all.

Pretending I Help

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

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

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

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

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

Dirty Words: Request For Help

I need your help.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leave 'em in comments or Thanks!

You Like What You Like

As a human being, you have preferences. You might not mean to, you might not choose to, but you do. You have a favorite weather pattern, textures you love, foods you enjoy more than others, and scents you despise.

There may be rational, memory-based reasons for some of those things (leaving outdoors where you were playing in the leaves on a crisp cool fall day to come into a kitchen that smells like chocolate-chip cookies...), but ultimately, it does no good to search for rational explanations of why we prefer one thing over another, we just do. 

And yet, when it comes to sex, people seem to judge what they want, instead of just accepting it as a part of them. I bet your kink is probably no more explicable, and probably no more based on your moral choices, than your preference in ice cream flavors. 

How you ACT on your sexual urges? Those are your moral choices. But which urges you HAVE to start with? I think those are just your body, having physical urges, like it does. 

I've had a few callers confessing to me what they crave, in hushed, stammering speech. I interrupted fast with my caveats: I'm the wrong girl to tell if you're going to confess anything illegal, or anything that would require medical intervention to recover from. Thankfully, my confessors have been within my comfort bounds. 

One found a used condom, and knew who had used it, and it was HUGE and full of semen, and he can't stop thinking about it. One wants to be stripped of his gender identity. One wanted to allow someone else to utterly control him. One wants to be blackmailed with video of him in drag. If they were faking the hesitant confessions, they were all very good at it. 

I told all of them: try not to judge yourself. Try not to judge what you want. You can't choose what you want, but you can choose how you act. What you want doesn't hurt anyone else, so don't beat up on yourself for wanting it.  

(FYI: I would feel much differently if the impulses were for self-destructive or nonconsensually harmful acts - those need help, but these were all just fantasies about power and sex)

So, if you're wondering if you're broken, or a freak, or if you're fascinated by something and need to get it off your chest, call me. I'd love to hear it! 

More Time?

When the automated lady warns that we have "One minute remaining," and the gentleman I'm talking with asks me, "Can I add more time? Do you have more time to talk?", the answer is:

Yes.

Feedback Slut

Hello, I'm Galiana. And I'm a Feedback Slut. (Helloooooo Galiana!)

Yes, of course, I love the official feedback - the kind that raises my ratings, bumps me up listings, and gives me a permanent pick-me-up (my "My Feedback" page is where I go when I haven't had a call for 3 hours to remind myself that sometimes people call me and like talking with me). That feedback is obviously beneficial, and I love it a LOT.

My favorite official feedback has to be from phonejack35 who said, "I never talk to girls after i cum but i talked to Galiana for awhile...could have talked all day. Such an awesome body...think i'm in love:)" Awwwww - there's even a smiley face! How could I not love that SO MUCH?

The positive official feedback also led to one of my favorite conversation-starters, from a gentleman I'll call "Perv Card", who started our first phone call by saying, "I've been reading your feedback, and, well, frankly, I'd be kind of a dumbass not to call." Thank goodness I wasn't drinking anything when he said that, or I would have spit it all over the place from laughing so hard!

But my other craving is real-time feedback. It takes everything in me to keep from asking these questions constantly: Is this okay? Are you enjoying yourself? What can I improve? What else can I be doing? Do I need to pick up the pace? Slow down and give more lingering details?

Sometimes I break down and ask, but never more than once per conversation. On calls where I'm submissive, I'll beg to be told I'm a good pet/slave/slut. On calls where I'm in charge, I'll make them tell me how turned on they are, or ask what they want more of (and then toy with that a bit... I do relish a good cat and mouse dynamic). If the call is interrupted to add more time, when we come back, I might ask "Is this what you want? Anything I need to shift?" before we restart.

And at the end of calls, I frequently invite callers to let me know before our next call if they want anything differently. If I know, I can adjust: I can get meaner, sweeter, nastier, faster, slower, louder, softer, breathier, more intense, beg more, panic less, talk less (Ummmm... Hmmmm. Really? You can talk less? Wellllll. Maybe. Sometimes. Although now that I think of it, "Bondage J" did keep having to tighten my gag... He said it was cute when I tried to talk, though, so I didn't know whether to keep trying to talk, or give up and just whimper... It's confusing sometimes!).

So yes, I crave adjustment feedback, whether it's direct, "Galiana, actually, maybe talk dirtier to me and call me more names" or subtle-in-character, "Now just calm down, Galiana, we'll work out a way for you to pass the semester, but just stop panicking and breathe." Or after the fact, so I can take notes to jog my memory  for next time (yes, I will read your notes to you if you ask!)

But also, of course, I crave the positive real-time feedback. "Good girl" or "That was fantastic" or "Damn, I just made a huge mess over here, wow."

Or of course, the very best: "I can't wait to call you again." /melt

The Kindness Of Strangers

In Streetcar Named Desire, a battered Blanche DuBois comments as she is being escorted to the looney bin, "I have always relied on the kindness of strangers." The audience weeps for her, remembering her abuse at the hands of a non-stranger, and her illustrious history as a glamorous sex worker, and thinks, "Well, ain't that the truth."

So now in my job as a phone sex operator (PSO), I also rely on the kindness of strangers. Someone who does not know me in real life needs to listen to my voice for 15 seconds, or read 7000 characters or less of HTML, and decide they are willing to pay to talk with me in order for me to succeed.

The kindness of my phone partners (some of whom no longer feel like strangers at all) has been fantastic, in many of the ways I had hoped to find when I started this adventure.

But the really surprisingly kind strangers have been other PSOs. After a couple of weeks on the job, "Buttery Bellina" welcomed me to her category... because I had just slipped ahead of her in the listing rankings. Yikes. It's a lot easier to be happy about moving up when you don't know who you just passed... Bellina shared her experiences as an office-based PSO (sooooooo fascinating!!), and about experimenting with her rates. I'm significantly older than she is, but I feel like I gained a big sister!

Then "JungleFeverForever" dropped me an email out of the blue to let me know that one of my pics would break the Terms of Service (TOS) because it showed bare ass. You can show a thong-clad ass, just not a bare one. If your listing gets pulled, after you fix it, it goes to "pending" and has to be reviewed, which it can take 2-5 days!! Yikes! Thanks!

Then yesterday, "BBWbarelylegalAngie" dropped me a note and asked about my photographer, and also let me know that one of my new pictures also violated the TOS because it had sex toys in it. I wasn't touching any of them, mind you (which is what I thought would be a problem), they were just spread out in front of me. Really? That's a problem? She also shared some of her experiences as a BBW video goddess in case I ever want to head down that path. Thanks tons, Angie - you're a life saver! And grats on breaking 1400 on your main listing! You go girl!

So now, as I browse listings by other women, I've sent TOS-violation emails to three others, hoping to keep my karma balance high, and happy to save others from the dreaded pending limbo.

Truth be told, I have never relied much on the kindness of strangers much in my life. I've always been a bit stubbornly independent. It's hard enough for me to ask for help from people I love, much less to expect help from people I've never met in person. And yet, here I am, and strangers are showing up and being kind. And I love it. A lot.

Straight-A Insecurities

"Inception Guy" helped me put something about myself into words: I'm basically a secure person, with an intact sense of self / ego / safety. I believe that I will always be fine, that everything will end up for the best, and that most days can have more fun and joy than pain and sorrow, if you choose to enjoy available pleasures.

But in any given situation, I can become concerned that I'm not doing everything perfectly, which can trigger situational insecurities.

I'm accustomed to doing things well when I put my mind to it. I only made one C on any report card ever during my academic career, and it was in "Conduct" in first grade. Because I talked too much (shocker, I know).

My only report card B was in Theater in high school because I calculated that it wouldn't ruin my semester average, which is all colleges saw anyway. So I skipped a huge assignment - the benefit of keeping the straight-A streak wasn't worth the cost of missing that much sleep that week. Apparently I also jumped on the bed a lot as a toddler, fully expecting  it would get me a time out, because, as I explained to my mother, the fun was worth the time out.

Sorry, I got sidetracked on my ability to run my life according to personal cost-benefit analyses, which is not the point. The point is that I want to do well at everything I do. I really want to. If I'm giving it my all, I crave to have someone notice and tell me I'm doing well.

My Inner Feminist absolutely positively fucking HATES it that I crave sexual affirmation from men. I should be self-confident, self-assured (and in the big picture, I am), and not need reassurance (and in the big picture, I don't). And yet, I hunger for it.

If I'm working hard on a phone sex call to please a partner, it makes me irrationally giddy to hear that I'm doing well, that he's pleased, that he feels good, or that I'm a "good girl" (I'm in Texas - people who know I'm 39 affectionately call me "girl" all the time - that phrase has no creepy age-play connotation for me).

So if you want to crawl into my primal happy spaces, set up a scenario where I have to "prove myself" and then reassure me that I did well.

Inner Feminist: This is horrible, stupid, degrading thing to tell people.
Inner Slut: Hush, bitch. It's sexy as hell!
Inner Feminist: Editor! Please tell me you're not going to click "Publish Post"!
Inner Editor: Fem, we all agreed that Slut gets to drive this blog. Are you... pouting?
Inner Feminist: Shut up, shut up, shut up! I can't hear you! La la la la....

Just another day with my noisy, conflicted inner dialogue :)

Awesome Support

I'm a fortunate woman. Unbelievably fortunate. Oh, sure, I have a crazy mysterious disease which lost me a career, but that's not the most important thing in my life.

In the past month, we've told my sister, my mom, my aunt (the three of whom comprise my entire living "immediate" family), our roommate, my parents-in-law (not kidding!), a friend from college, and two of my husband's friends that I'm now doing phone sex work.

ALL of these people have responded supportively, after making sure my safety was not being compromised. Most have been fascinated, and have continued to ask questions, even writing me emails in the middle of the night as my new job occupies their insomnia thoughts!

My mom said she was thrilled that I could do something concrete to feel productive again, because she knew how hard it had been on me to feel like I wasn't contributing financially (we don't have kids, and I used to make more than my husband did). And my friend from college said it really seems to fit me well and combine "the best of" my skills and talents. How great are those responses?

What's been surprising? The support of my phone partners. Yep, the people who call me! "Hypno Man" warned me about keeping my boundaries intact. "Breathe Man" encouraged me not to try to resolve any therapeutic issues via phone sex. "Gravely Moon" reminds me not to get picky about my calls, even when they are not high-connection, because "their money is green too". "Butt Slut" asked me enough questions about what I wanted from clients to help me hone my listings to better attract those kinds of callers. And all four of them helped me work through my questions about how best to use pictures and free minutes to build customer loyalty without becoming a spammer.

I knew I had a great family and friends who'd watch out for me. I never would have guessed that I also would have felt supported by some great phone partners.

Luckiest. Girl. Ever!