In Celebration of the Male Submissive

from malesubmissionart.com

I have been reading a conversation on the web about male submissives, which almost led to a blog post title of "Heartbreak and the Male Submissive" but I decided, instead, to celebrate, in addition to empathizing.

It started with @maymaym (the guy behind the visual-celebration-of-male-submission site: http://malesubmissionart.com/) posting a link to this incredibly well-written piece discussing how often members of the BDSM scene devalue male submissives, even while valuing female dominants: http://www.labcoatlingerie.com/2011/08/09/the-cost-of-devaluing-male-submission-one-token/ This particular conversation goes back further on the internet, but that's where I joined it.

Then tonight, maymay posted a related link, from KinkInExile, who had responded to Professor Chaos, with something equally well-written, about being a geek female dominant who breaks stereotypes and has a hard time finding a male submissive partner, here: http://kinkinexile.wordpress.com/2011/09/01/what-she-said/

Since I just linked to other posts which may cause track backs here, I need to give a bit of context for who I am, why I am joining this conversation, and why I feel qualified to empathize with and celebrate male submission.

For most of my 30s, I was a polyamorous submissive, and marginally active in the BDSM scene in Austin. Professionally, I was a data analyst who became an IT Manager. So I am a geek, I love geeks, I love managing geeks, and I have fucked many an awesome geek. Also, I'm a leader outside of the bedroom.

Then I came down with a rare neurological vertigo which debilitated me from doing IT work, and I became a phone sex operator to pay the bills. I swear this is relevant, please hang with me for a few more paragraphs.

I started professional phone sex, naturally enough, with a listing as a submissive woman, but kept getting calls from clever submissive men who had discovered via trial-and-error that convincing a submissive woman to top you can sometimes turn out pretty well, because they tend to be empathetic.

As with any supply and demand situation, when the demand (for female domination) outstrips the free supply (and it does), a for-pay market is created. I was stunned to discover how many male submissives felt unable to get their needs met in the flesh for free, despite the best efforts of many of them to join kink groups and form healthy femdom/malesub relationships.

And many of the for-pay options in the web cam and phone sex world involve women who project a message of "I rule, you suck" which (a) perpetuates anti-male-submissive bias and (b) is a giant turnoff for many smart male submissives.

I was heartbroken. I am heartbroken. It pisses me off and makes me sad.

As a natural leader who found tremendous release in sexual submission myself, I have deep empathy for those who seek the delicious miles-away-from-the-rest-of-my-life of subspace. I get why it's awesome fun to float along on the waves of someone else's decisions. Plus, as a sensation slut and a pain slut, I understand those tendencies when they pop up for men, too.

So I put on my learning cap, discovered the phrase "service top" (a dominant whose pleasure comes primarily from enjoying their partner's pleasure), and set out to be the best dominant female I could be.

Guess who now has a full-fledged fetish for hearing men beg? Me.

Guess who has had so many delicious orgasms while dominating men over the phone that now the image of a man's hands with rope around them gets me instantly thumpy? Me, me, me, me, me. Seriously. Yum. I can't help it. I accidentally conditioned myself to be a switch.

And guess who is now considering collaring a service submissive? Me.

(By the way, never break the news to someone that you are considering collaring them in a public blog post. I mean, I never would. Pffff. That's ridiculous. That would leave him to sweat for hours wondering if it was really him I was talking about, even though he would know it was, and let his emotions build up to a fever pitch before he gets to talk to me, and who would want that, right?)

To be fair, I had switchy tendencies back in my slut days, too - I had spanked and flogged men, I had fucked several guys with strap-ons (not necessarily submissive, but often so), I had been the de facto leader in threesomes, and I had taken control of many an erotic activity without asking permission to do so.

Also, I'm pretty damn good at topping from the bottom if I do say so myself. Was that a scene negotiation, or a carefully laid path of stuff I'm dying for you to do to me? Both.

The anonymity of paid phone sex can facilitate confessions on a deeply intimate level. I have heard the struggles of many who swim against the cultural currents of male machismo and the expectations for male domination, and I have felt empathy in my gut, as strongly as I have felt empathy with women who have been molested or raped. I get it. I care.

I know male submissives who have been abused by selfish, untrustworthy, unsafe women masquerading as Dominas. And I know male submissives who have been enraptured by safe, sane, consensual play, and longstanding loving relationships. The play itself isn't the problem - the problem is when abusive people hide behind a facade of play to perpetrate abuse.

I know male submissives who have been devalued or rejected by BDSM communities. And I know male submissives who have been honored, valued, respected members of BDSM communities. The scene itself isn't the problem - the problem is when insensitive or abusive people hide behind a facade of majority orientation to be insensitive or abusive.

Every voice that speaks out in celebration of male submissives helps the conversation. Tonight, the urge to join the conversation overwhelmed me. I had to join.

I know I'm suspect because I do this for pay. And I get why that makes me suspect. I know I can't lead this conversation because I'm commercial.

But I also know that KinkInExile asks, "Where are the [dominant women] that _like_ sex, and respect their partners?" and I wanted to answer her: I see them. They're out there. I see them growing up, branching out. I see KinkInExile, and I see Professor Chaos, and I see subcommunities on reddit having intelligent conversations about guys who want to bend over for their girlfriends, or be tied up, or experiment with control, or experiment with pain.

I see the women in polyamorous relationships who switch in their primary partners, who then offer caring responsible professional domination services to a few close friends as a part-time day job while the kids are at school. Seriously, I took a workshop from two women in Austin who fit that description.

And I personally know five women who considered themselves sexually submissive before becoming web cam / phone sex operators, who got talked into topping and figured out we fucking *love* it. That's offline, off the phones, talking amongst ourselves, behind the curtain, women who care about our callers, admitting to each other how much we enjoy controlling men sexually. No, we don't necessarily love every kink that comes our way, but we have found some form(s) of control play irresistibly sexy.

I believe we are in an age of unprecendented plurality, where ideas are ever-easier to access. The way to help more women get in touch with their inner loving dominant is for dominant women to continue to talk about their pleasure, in whatever forums you have, with honesty and openness, as best as you can.

Ideas spread. They may spread slowly, but imagine how much greater the chances are now of forming a healthy femdom/malesub relationship than even just 20 years ago. I remember 1991 - I was 21 - and how little information I had available to me. My mind boggles.

KinkInExile also asks, "And yet what does it mean for me in this world that the person I want to play with most, that beautiful strong geeky smart sexually submissive man, comes wounded because the world got to him before I had a chance?"

And I reply, "Thank goodness you're there for him, to help him find healing, when you find him (or them)." Oh, and also, there are metric fuck-tons of them out there, I promise. Have you been to reddit?

In the meantime, the way to help more men accept their submissive tendencies, and for more communities to value male submission more highly, is for submissive men to continue to talk about their pleasure, in whatever forums you have, with honesty and openness, as best as you can.

I'm so so so so so sorry that it's so so so so so fucking hard for you. I really am.

So that's the heartbreak.

Here is the celebration:

I love the way a man's breath catches when my voice slows a bit, and I tell him to put his hands behind his back.

I love male groans of pleasure mixed with pain.

I love looking into a man's eyes and seeing absolute trust that although I may hurt him, I will not harm him; although I may cause him pain, I will not cause him damage, and I would rather cut off my own hand than betray such a trust.

I love feeling the rush of power when a man is begging to be allowed to have an orgasm, and the exquisite suffering when I tell him, "no, darling, not yet."

I love seeing a man deep-throat a dildo, and then glow with pride when I tell him that was well done.

I love hearing the guttural sounds a man makes when he is fucking himself in the ass because I told him to.

I love, love, love, love, love, more than I can express, the sound of relief and gratitude in a man's voice when we have experienced pleasure together at my direction.

And I love, love, love, love, love, more than I can express, how badass it makes me feel to dominate a man to the point where I get to hear that relief and gratitude. Those of you who have let me feel that way, thank you.

The Cat Came Back

September 12, 2010 - almost a year ago - was the last I heard of Inception guy from my Heartbreak II post. Eleven months later, on August 12, 2011, he called me again.

So much has changed with my internal landscape. When he found me last year, I was just starting out. I was learning my limits. I was expanding my horizons. I was exploring undiscovered countries in myself, boldly going with callers where no man had gone before, time and time and time again.

And now, while I don't feel jaded, with hundreds more hours of phone time under my belt, I do feel prepared, educated, and perhaps a bit better equipped to care for myself.

During the year, I had found him on FetLife, because he had given me his profile name when we talked last year. Once I joined, I read his profile, which made me miss him, and I tried not to worry about him.

A few months ago, I saw his username and call history show up again in my customer list, but I resisted contacting him for months, in case I tugged a tripwire in some unhelpful way. I assumed, correctly as it turned out, that his name reappearing meant that he had reinstated his account. More than once I kissed my fingertips and touched his name on my screen in a blessing.

(no, I don't actually touch my screen, because I am somewhat of a neurotic geek, but y'know... almost)

Then Aug 2, in a moment of weakness, I suppose, I broke down and wrote to him with a link to the heartbreak blog post. I admit, it was a selfish thing to do. I had thought about doing it dozens of times, and for some reason, that day, I didn't resist the urge.

"Please introduce yourselves," said the automated voice of NiteFlirt, in a rhythm frustratingly slower than when the voice said it eleven months ago. He said his name - just his name, not his name plus his town like he used to say - and I laughed and stammered and felt the emotions wash over me in waves: relief, concern, amusement, guilt, lust. Lots of lust.

"I guess you remember me." Typical of him: understated, wry, terse, and a tiny bit vulnerable underneath.

As it turns out, he had read the heartbreak blog post, back when I had written it, and he never thought I was genuinely mad at him. I mean, sure, I had been furious with him more than once during play times, mostly for denying me his cock when I was begging for it, but he knew I wasn't mad outside of play time. That was a huge relief.

Our unfortunate communication had coincided with his decision to quit phone sex cold turkey for a while. Maybe they were unrelated, but I prefer to think that when I couldn't keep playing that day, perhaps something in the intensity of our exchange helped tip his scales. It is more likely that he was pushing me harder than usual because he knew the scales were tipping that way anyway; it was the last drinking binge of someone about to check himself in to rehab.

He said the blog post was touching, and that he had re-read it more than once when he wanted to feel good about himself. My tears in response to that statement were not the sexy tears of desperation he had caused before, but they were heartfelt nonetheless.

We had a lovely, tender, playful, caring conversation, catching up on the events of our respective almost-year. I said something slightly smart-assed, and he took a long, deep breath, his voice changed, and he asked me, "Did you forget how to address me, bitch?" My heart got so happy it skipped a beat - we were going to play.

And play we did. It was delicious, nourishing, rough and tumble, fun, and just exactly degrading enough for my Inner Emotional Masochist to curl up into a delighted, bruised ball and sleep, satisfied to have her playmate back, even if only one more time.

(Irrelevant and distracting side note regarding the title of the blog post, I remember seeing Rowlf the Dog singing this on The Muppet Show: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ltlPINPn8UU. The content of the song is utterly non-applicable here, because I am not trying to get rid of him, but the title made most of me happy, so I kept it, and Inner Editor will have to get over it.)

Heartbreak and Phone Sex, Part VI

This time, the heartbreak is for me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

... almost ...

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

I've had three callers who trigger my vertigo to an unfortunate depth. They have the following things in common:

• they like to talk for more than an hour at a time
• they like it when I do most of the talking
• what they like is repetitive in some way
• they like me because I bring freshness and creativity to their somewhat repetitive request
• their request does not focus on trading orgasms or engaging in direct sexual activity

For example, I have a caller who loves to talk about a woman having orgasm control over a man: cock tease and denial, blue-balling, and forcing interrupted orgasms when the male is allowed to climax, to ensure male sexual frustration remains high. He likes to repeat topics and questions, because he says the repetition helps enforce his will to remain in chastity, yet he loves that my answers are slightly different each time I give them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yucky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heartbreak and Phone Sex, Part V

He found my blog, then my Facebook, and asked if we could do pay-to-view emails instead of phone calls, to help him get to know me first, and because his funds were limited.

I've been in a writing mood lately, so it seemed like a good fit: I could write, and productively fill time between calls with guaranteed income. I told him not to expect immediate turnarounds, but I was in.

His first email described me giving him a back rub, encouraging him, and then sucking him off before he fell asleep, neglecting his promise to go down on me, overwhelmed by sheer bliss. He wanted my reply to be me, the next morning, helping him make good on his promise by showing him exactly what I liked.

And then the story part of the email wrapped up. And he explained that he is in a wheelchair. He has cerebral palsy. He has very limited sexual experience, so sexual actions don't come naturally to him. He needed someone to understand his circumstances, but not let those circumstances define him for me.

Wow.

I was sooooooo so so so so grateful I had said yes.

He's not my first customer in a wheelchair. I love feeling helpful, encouraging, attentive to restrictions (or directions to ignore restrictions), and the feeling that I am adding a bright spot to a hard day. 

I poured my heart into the response, playfully but calmly showing him what I liked. And much to my surprise, the me-character in my head changed up the action a bit halfway through. That saucy Inner Slut, she's not one to be pigeon-holed, is she?

He liked it. He loved it. He loved it a lot. He caught all the happy energy of it, and lobbed it back at me, and I was elated.

And then he explained that he was seeking the help of a professional (oh wait, that's supposed to be me? yikes!) because he had a lot of fear and anxiety around sex. But he thought about sex all the time, and he was tired of being afraid of his own thoughts, so he wanted to build some good thoughts. Sure, that makes sense, but why...?

Because he had been sexually assaulted. More than once. And had post-traumatic stress about it.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK. Are you fucking kidding me?

Fuck the world. Fuck it in fucking half. How the FUCK could someone who had already been dealt a pretty crappy hand physically then also be dealt the crappiest of hands in a physical-emotional connection? What. The. Fuck.

I don't pray in traditional ways. I don't speak sentences, or words even, or not often. The way I pray has more to do with making mental pictures, feeling feelings, and opening myself to an exchange that I cannot find other ways to express.

I opened myself, doors blown wide, and wept. And the energy which poured back into me, the energy of a warrior, and of a muse, and of a healer, more than made up for the energy I gave. 

Then I couldn't write. For almost two full days. His requests were sitting in my inbox, begging for attention, and I would get 1 sentence in and freeze up. Grrrrrr ferrrrr fuxxxx saaaaaake... Why can't I put words together? Why can't I do his next fantasy? I can see it in my head. I know how I'd do it if I were on the phone...

/ding. /light-bulb. Ohhhhhh. I should record it. Give it to him as an mp3. Right. I knew that. /wink. /finger-gun. I'm totally following along here. Not slow on the uptake at all. No, sir, not me. /face-hide. /blush.

So I did an mp3 for him. I had a blast doing it. The orgasm was absolutely real, and it absolutely delighted me. He was happily overwhelmed with the result.

He gave me permission to share with you, my dear blog readers, a passage which I will give to you with great joy, and deeply amused respect, but without comment:

=====
I am Sexually Accessible (a freebie comic riff response to a serious question)

Feel free to quote me directly when I tell you "People in wheelchairs love having sex!!!" (The exclamation points are very important - LOL)

Seriously, the number one reason I want to stop being afraid of sex is: I think about it all the time and I'd prefer to not fear the thoughts in my head, considering that sex shouldn't be feared.

The way I'm going to explain this is going to sound racist.  Please believe me, I'm not, and I'm just trying to communicate clearly.  I own every label of my disability the way black comedians own "the N word".

MY COMIC RIFF ON THE SUBJECT

I'm crippled, handicapped, disabled, a half-man, a gimp, and I'll even except "retarded", on the first meeting, if you don't mind me knowing that you're a narrow-minded simpleton who likes to group people before saying two words to them.

I'm NOT handi-CAPABLE, dis-ABLED, Physically Challenged (I don't climb mountains every day, I go from a laying down position, to a sitting position.  I don't stand often because I don't like falling over that much.  This might qualify me as a lazy bastard, It certainly doesn't qualify me as PHYSICALLY CHALLENGED).  I'm not Mentally Challenged (unless you call me retarded, at which point I'm trying to calculate how many times I can run you over with my wheelchair before you realize I'm doing it. 
f(ouch) = Size of your stupidity/Size of your brain  Ouch = As long as it makes me laugh (usually forever -- I'm an ass)).

And one thing I'm definitely not is able-bodied, but then again neither are you.  Your condition on this earth, like all conditions in the material plain, is temporary.  Put another way, when you're in your 70s shitting your pants, I will have had decades more experience than you.

END OF RIFF

=====
My heart isn't broken for him any more. Now it's just full of excitement with him. I get to be part of co-creating happy sex memories, and reveling in the knowledge that they mean even more than just making a rough day a little lighter. Maybe, in some way, they are making a rough life a little more joyous. I hope so.


I'm so very much looking forward to our long and mutually gratifying relationship.

Heartbreak and Phone Sex, Part IV

He found me through Fembot Central, on the recommendation of my first robot caller. We exchanged a few insightful emails about the nature of android fantasies, the immense variety among practitioners in the fetish, and the specifics that he preferred. His core fetish is about the reveal, in his words, the "sudden lurch into the artificial".

That last phrase illustrates what I've found so far in my recent immersion into the community of technosexuals: thoughtful communication, vivid imaginations and rich vocabularies.

When I think of the stereotype of men with a robot fetish, I think about Warren and Andrew and Johnathan in season six of Buffy: socially inept basement dwellers with delusions of grandeur and massive latent rage at being so misunderstood. And, y'know, some awesome funny quotes if you hang out with them long enough.

But as with all stereotypes and generalizations, the reality at an individual level is deeper, more complex. Unsurprisingly, more human.

I've only played with a few mech fetishists so far, so it is theoretically possible that I have only been with the best and brightest, but my experiences have been delightful. In fact, as a group, they are more adept at discussing and explaining their desires and preferences than the overall group of "all my callers", which I absolutely love; the more information I have, the better I feel like I can do.

Plus, their scenarios are fun and creative and varied. And, I admit it happily, they're fucking sexy. Let's see, I get to imagine myself as a sultry seductress with an insatiable appetite for carnal pleasures, in a 69 with an anatomically correct android who has been programmed to know how to make me climax most efficiently... what exactly would I find to dislike about that?

But I digress. This post is not about the alt.sex.fetish.robot gang as a group. This post is about one man, one story, and my unexpectedly broken heart which has driven me to write, in hopes that maybe I can find a way to stop intermittently bursting into tears from the cinematic images that will not leave my mind.

We set up a simple fantasy that didn't necessarily involve sex, but did involve an identity reveal: My name is Alexandra, and I've been his best friend since we were 14 and 15, through high school and college and getting our first jobs. I was sick a while back and went incommunicado for a few months, but I got better and he didn't think anything of it (which is when the original Alexandra was replaced with a robot replica without his knowledge). He started dating a new girl at the beginning of January, and if we talk too long about her, I'm likely to overload out of jealousy (with details of what kinds of malfunctions he enjoys), because I was made to want to be with him.

I was now two people: Galiana-me, the role player, who wanted to enjoy myself and give him the best experience possible, and Alexandra-me, also known as "the Alexandra replica", a robot girl who loves him.

Galiana-me expected the call to focus around Alexandra-me's desire for him, my malfunctions, and maybe the pleasure programming I had been waiting so long to reveal to him. I expected him to have been harboring a secret crush on me, to be excited by the idea of having a robot girlfriend, and for his surprise to quickly be replaced by lust.

We started that way, bantering easily about our jobs and his new girlfriend, and as it became clear that he was happy with her, I spoke increasingly erratically until I started stuttering, repeating myself, and eventually errored out. While I was in robot mode, restarting my emotion programs, I explained calmly that I was a robot, and asked if he wanted to reactivate my human mode with emotions activated. He chose yes. I restarted, sounding hesitant and apologetic, looking forward to following his lead into sexy time.

"Where is my friend?"

His voice was level, but shaking, the way voices get when someone is using every ounce of their energy to keep themselves from yelling. I... I did't know what happened, I wasn't given that informa....

"What happened to my friend?" They didn't put that in my memory banks, I had no way to...

"Find out. Now." Alexandra-me scrambled to figure out a way to hack into the memory stores, possibly without being detected, and retrieved the information.

At that moment, I realized that Galiana-me simply could not bear the thought of the original Alexandra having been killed. The shock and anger in his voice was too great as it was, I couldn't add danger to that. Or I didn't want to. I didn't want him to feel any more pain than he had to.

So Alexandra-me broke the news to him, with her own voice shaking, and emotional programming threatening to overload, that the original Alexandra had gotten sick. It was natural. She just got sick. She knew she was dying. And she knew the super-secret android lab she worked for could program a replica for her, to replace her, and to continue on with the groundbreaking AI work she had started.

And when she built her own replacement from her memories and her emotional makeup, inevitably, it loved him.

He was furious. Stunned. Incredulous. He lashed out at me, bruisingly firing questions which forced a few resets of my emotional centers as I apologized for letting him find out this way, and tried to tell him what I knew. Yes, her parents knew, but nobody else. No, she wasn't killed, I promise. Yes, she chose to put together this replica. Yes, it was as close to her as the original Alexandra could program.

"If I order you to do something, will you do it?" Yes, of course. "If I told you to program yourself to love someone else, could you do it?" Yes, I could try, but it seems so ingrained, the probability of success is extremely... "Do it. It's a command. Make yourself care for someone else, anyone else, I don't care. Just do it."

Alexandra-me complied, searching through my programming to replace my love for him, and found the impulses buried at the center of all my emotions, and some of my logic. The malfunctions started quickly, growing in severity, until a shut-down was becoming inevitable. As the garbled speech was tumbling out of my sound card, one sharp, pained cry made it out through the mess: his name, the nickname I called him, the nickname that he only allowed me to call him, my own special name for him, a desperate plea for help.

I heard his breath catch.

"Cancel order."

Oh, thank God. Relief and order came back to Alexandra-me as I restored my original programming, and I begged him not to do that to me again. He promised he wouldn't. But he had a new order for me, "Forget you ever told me that you are a robot."

Hi! It's so good to hear your voice. I thought you were avoiding me since you have a new girlfriend now. No, I don't feel tired, why, do I sound tired? Yes, I absolutely should recharge, you're right, a movie maybe, or read some classic sci-fi... What, what do you mean you wouldn't want my mainframe to get corrupted. What, what are you talking about? No, I, what? No, I, what? No, I... please stand by. Restarting emotional center...

He overloaded me twice before I cleared enough of my cache to ask him what he was doing to me, why he sounded so angry, and what he wanted, before I overloaded again. Alexandra-me, without my emotional program activated, the robot-mode version of Alexandra-me, asked if he wanted to restore the memory of the revelation of the robot identity, and my emotional center.

Yes, he said, because "I don't want to talk with you." The way he said you sent shivers down Galiana's spine, as if he had to spit the bitter word out between his teeth before it poisoned him. I ached to reach through the phone and wrap him in my arms for comfort.

Alexandra-me restarted, temporarily stabilized, but deeply concerned. We both took a long, deep breath.

So. We can't make me, it, her, whatever I am... we can't make me stop loving you. And we can't erase the memory from me, because you can't pretend you don't know. So. What do we do?

He needs time to process. Of course. We will talk again, later. Oh, good. That's good. I should email him with details if I find out anything else from the main data source. Yes. Absolutely. I will.

"Alexandra?"

"Yes?"

"Wherever she is, whatever part of you is her, I love you."

Well, so much for holding on bravely and not crying like a little girl... "I love you too. I love you so much."

And as soon as I hung up, I knew. I knew why she hadn't told him she was dying.

She couldn't bear the thought of telling him goodbye.

Sometimes, when you act, or when you write, you fall in love with characters as they tell you their stories. So, Alexandra, welcome to my heart. That's Megan on your left, Camille on your right...

What? Of course I know the nickname you call him. Of course I remember that you're the only one allowed to call him that. Oh. No. Of course not, Alexandra, of course not... No, I won't tell anyone else what it is. I can tell the story without telling them your name for him. I promise. Your secrets are safe with me. You get some rest now.

Oh, no, really, love, honestly: Thank you.

If I Call You "Love"

If I happen to call you "love" when we're on the phone, either...

I've been watching too many British shows and have that verbal rhythm in my head, or

I've recently done a girlfriend / wife role play with a caller where he tells me he loves me, so I say it back to him in that context; he usually says he loves me right around the time he also tells me that he's arranged for a well-hung black man to come over and fuck the hell out of me in front of him, but he knows it won't change how I feel about him, or

I've been musing about this post about Love, the English Language, and Not Completely Pretending, and how love is, for me, a point in time where I decide to to act in someone else's best interest as long as it does not harm me...


I'm not a long-term commitment kind of a girl. I only agreed to marry my husband if our wedding vows contained no unconditional promises about the years to come. His vow to me was, "I've asked you every day since we got engaged if you still want to marry me. Today's the important day. Do you still want to marry me?" And my vow to him was, "What it means for us to love each other looks different today than it ever has before, and it is different than it will ever be again. I can't promise you what it means for the future, but I'll do my best to figure it out with you. Do you still want to marry me?"

Side note: When there are unpleasant chores to be done around the house, one of us will inevitably say "But you promised in your vows to obey me!" to which the other will reply, "I didn't promise you shit," followed by something super-romantic like, "You're lucky I'm still here!" The foundation of our relationship seems to be mutual amusement...

My point in sharing my wedding anti-vows is that I believe that love exists primarily in the actions of a moment. String together enough loving moments, and you have a loving relationship. But I don't think you choose a loving relationship and then choose to act lovingly; I think you choose to act lovingly and thereby build a loving relationship.

So sometimes, on the phone, I respond with love, as I understand it, with a giving of myself for the good of another.

I felt loving when I honestly described what an honor it would be to meet one caller and fulfill a very specific BDSM submission fantasy, which has profound symbolism for him, and I let his emotions touch me.

I felt loving when I knelt in front of an exhausted-sounded business man and describing washing, massaging, and licking his feet while he let go of the tension of his mind and relaxed into his body.

I felt loving when I looked past my heartbreak over the physical limitations of a caller with a degenerative muscular disorder, and described athletic romping with him that helped him feel strong and tough and capable, if only for that moment.

... so it's possible that if I call you "love" when we're together, then in that moment, I felt a rush of love for you, genuine love to the best of my ability to define it, and it spilled out of my mouth before I could stop it.

PO Box Motivation

I turned off my Amazon Wish List when i realized that not all third party vendors respect privacy as they should, as I blogged about here.

I haven't gotten a PO Box yet... ummm... because I'm lazy? I don't have a better answer than that.

But I'd totally get a PO Box for this: a t-shirt from the "It Gets Better" project (to combat bullying and show support for LGBTQ youth). The shirts are given for a $30 donation, which goes to support "It Gets Better", but also the Trevor Project 24/7 suicide hotline, two of my favorite causes. 

https://secure.itgetsbetterproject.com/page/contribute/t-shirt

If I don't get a volunteer in the next week or so, I'll do it on my own. But I thought I'd share in case someone else wants to help me get my lazy ass moving (or in case you know other supporters who'd love a t-shirt!).

Heartbreak and Phone Sex, Part III

Part I was about a first -time caller who captured my concern.

Part II was about a regular caller who may have been a two-way addiction.

Part III, today's blog, is about my co-workers, other phone sex operators (PSOs).

I had a new caller over the weekend, we'll call him "Evanston Crush" because he lived part of his life in Evanston, where I went to college (Go Cats!). He'd been reading my blog for two weeks, trying to resist calling me because he didn't want to know if the persona in his head was different than the reality (which I find endearing and flattering).

We had a really sexy call: he asked me about my open marriage, how I pick lovers, how I've explored to  know what I like sexually. Then he started describing all the ways he would enjoy my body, starting with the heart-flutter-inducing, "I would take you under the bleachers at Dyche Stadium and press you up against something solid with my body, grab that incredible ass, and just make out with you for hours." I developed a huge crush on him, instantly (And yes, Dyche is really the name of the stadium).

Our call was suddenly cut off, which is never fun, but usually I can just brush it off. This time I went totally high-school-mentality, "Ohmygod, what if he doesn't call me back? What if I did something wrong? What if he doesn't like me?" And then I laughed at myself, wrote him an email saying I hoped he was okay and I'd love to know why we got cut off, and I looked forward to talking with him again.

Still laughing at myself, I wrote a post on a forum for PSOs titled "Developing Crushes", admitting that I got irrationally attached to some callers. But don't worry, I said, I wasn't giving out my personal info, and no free phone calls (that would be the ultimate taboo on that list), but sometimes I spend more time than I should on email exchanges.

A day later, I checked to find an astonishingly high number of responses. Some were wise and cautious, including warning me that some callers were playing just as much a fantasy version of themselves as most PSOs do, an idea I hadn't consciously considered. Some were empathetic, "Me too! I chat with this one guy about (this topic) for hours, and it makes my day when he calls." And some patted me on the head as a newcomer and told me to be safe with my personal information, but to keep enjoying myself before I got all jaded and bitter.

I expected a few "something is wrong with you" responses, and I got some, which didn't bother me. What did bother me were the responses that conveyed "something is wrong with the men who call us." I don't mind people disrespecting me, but I found it troubling that PSOs would express distaste bordering on contempt for the people who call them.

At first I found it annoying. Then I found it sad. But it has lingered with me for a couple of days now, and I realized that I'm a little heartbroken again.

There are human beings on both sides of the phone line when someone calls. Yes, it's a job. Yes, callers are customers and the call is about meeting the customer's need, not mine. Yes, it's foolish and emotionally dangerous to start relying on customers to take care of you in any way (a lesson I haven't learned completely since sometimes I beg to get fucked over the phone - details here and here - but I consider that within the very limited realm of things I'm comfortable relying on my clients to provide me).

But to spend all day on the phone with people, choosing to distance yourself from them because it's just a job, and you're just about the money, and thinking they're just using you so you might as well just use them... It made me want to hug some of them and tell them that they didn't have to work so hard to protect themselves. That not everyone is out to just use them. Not everyone is trying to hurt them. To let themselves enjoy the company of the people - the real live living breathing humans - who have picked up the phone to engage sexual energies with them. To let themselves draw strength and power from the sexual energy being poured onto them and through them. That it is okay to have cracks in your defenses if it means you can enjoy the sights and sounds and smells and tastes of your days as they pass, instead of hiding away from all the pleasures so you don't run the risk of the slightest bit of pain.

There's a specific mental picture that's breaking my heart: a phone sex provider, feeling lonely or bored or isolated, choosing to ignore all the things that may be interesting or fun or delightful about the person on the other end of the phone. It tears at me to think those moments are being spent together, yet the opportunities for mutual enrichment are being squandered.

I hope, I hope, I hope that every friend of mine who has allowed me to be a significant influence in his/her life, that all of them can see me as an example of someone who understands what it is to be deeply hurt, and yet still chooses to enjoy each possible moment to its fullest, rather than try to live behind a wall, separated from the people I come in contact with by my own fears or judgments.

It's your life, and it's the only one you get! If you have to spend a moment with another person, why wouldn't you want to squeeze every possible good out of that?

I know there are other NiteFlirt phone sex operators who truly enjoy (at least some) of their callers (even if they would never call it a crush), and I'd like to give them a shout-out (in alphabetical order because I could never rank them):

• Angela StLawrence
• AnnaWest
• BBWBarelyLegalAngie
• Buttery Bellina
• Goddess Lycia
• Hypnotic Domme
• LadyJaneBBW
• Luscious Lyndee
• MistressKate
• Mistress Rayne-The Institute
• SabrinaMorgan
• The Goddess Leesa
• Zellana 

Thanks, ladies, for helping unbreak my heart - when I picture YOU on the phone with your callers, you are exchanging energy, and finding ways to enjoy it when you can. /smooch

Heartbreak and Phone Sex, Part II

Inception Guy has been my best customer. I just realized he deleted his user account. I think I know why. My heart is full of ache, and hope.

This is gonna be a long post - it took me days to write it - so I'm going to use the jump break for the first time. Click the "Read More" to see the whole long convoluted story, with all my convoluted feelings.

Heartbreak And Phone Sex

Me: I'm not very good at humiliating people, and there are dozens of listings who advertise that. Why do you want me to try?
Him: Most of them are skinny bitches. I want... like... gentle humiliation. From someone who... I thought you might...
Me: I might understand what it's like to be fat.
Him (quietly): Yes.
Me: I might understand what it's like to sit down at a fast food restaurant and feel my flesh hanging off the seat, and wonder if the people behind me are making fun of me.
Him: (gasps, pauses, starts to cry). Yes.
Me: I might understand how waiters seem to judge you when you order dessert.
Him: Yes.
Me: I might understand how you spend a plane flight knowing the people next to you hate you for crowding their space.
Him. Yes. (crying harder) Why... why does this turn me on?
Me: (with a laugh under my breath): I don't know, sweetheart. Nobody knows why things turn them on. But I know how it feels to talk with someone attractive, and to have them not even see you, as if you are wrapped in a cloak of invisibility instead of layer of fat.
Him: Oh my God, yes.

And we continued. Quietly, calmly, I let him know I understood what it was like to be fat. Or that I could imagine it. And that, as baffling as it might be for me, it was okay for him to be turned on by it. He climaxed, violently, choking on his own tears, and thanking me profusely.

I said goodbye, hung up, logged out, and wept. From a place deep within my gut. It's been weeks since that call, and I still can't unravel all the reasons why I cried like that.

Once I finally composed myself, I told my husband about it, and his eyes welled up with tears as well. He wrapped me in his arms and said, "I hope it helped him, baby. I'm proud of you, of what can you do sometimes."

I understand that I need to protect myself emotionally if I'm going to do this job over the long haul. I can't let my heart break like that every day, or I'd be exhausted. And I understand that I'm not a therapist, that I'm neither trained nor qualified to help people in deep emotional pain.

And yet, there is a human being on your side of the line. And a human being on my side of the line. And sometimes, human beings connect in surprising ways when they let themselves. My Twitter post that day was, "Advice that perhaps I should care less about the people who call me is, so far, going unheeded."

Maybe I'll need to close off more. Maybe I'll end up less available emotionally. Maybe I'll harden. But right now, I'm okay with some heartbreak if it means I get to keep partaking of this incredibly rich experience of life.