Showing posts with label inner cast. Show all posts
Showing posts with label inner cast. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
A Year and A Fortnight
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| Galiana A Year and A Fortnight ago |
I wrote blog posts about my quarter anniversary and my six-month anniversary. Then on July 15, 2011, I completely forgot to write about my 1-year anniversary. When I realized it, two very socially busy days later, I figured I'd wait until my blog anniversary (8/15) and do something then.
On July 24, 2011, I got an email, with the subject line, "No?" and content of, "No big, one-year anniversary blog post?"
I felt so loved. When I saw the email on my phone, I was having lunch with my mom, casually checking to see if anything time-sensitive had happened in the past hour, and she immediately said, "Well, THAT got a reaction, what was that?" I got choked up while explaining it to her. Although she certainly wishes I were physically able to do other types of work, her response was a very supportive, "Awwww. That's very sweet. I like him."
So much has shifted since I started being a phone sex operator.
A year ago, both my husband and I were working from home in Austin, where he could be in charge of letting the dogs in and out of our quarter-acre back yard. The big yard also meant that ensuring they had enough exercise was as simple as taking a 15-minute break to play fetch, or rile them up via tug-of-war until they chased each other along the well-worn path around the perimeter.
My husband also took care of all the shopping for groceries and necessities. So I was free to lounge in the Fuckatorium for 10-12 hours a day, waiting for the phone to ring, writing blog posts, and hanging out on IM chat in case I could entice someone that way. We had friends in Austin, but I rarely went out socially more than twice per week, so most of my time was free to feel sexy and take calls.
Since then, we've moved to Houston, where I am more social, because my family is close by, which is awesome and emotionally nourishing, but puts a strain on me vertigo-wise. My husband got a fantastic job which requires a lot of travel, so I have much less financial pressure, but more responsibilities: chores, groceries, dog parks.
I started taking horse tranquilizers, which has obliterated my capacity to multi-task (thus the death of my casual IM chatting), but has helped ease my vertigo symptoms drastically, allowing me to go from about 30-40% pre-vertigo capacity to 50-60% pre-vertigo capacity. My increased ability to get stuff done means I regularly overshoot my medicines and wear myself out like the overachiever dork I am. Silly Galiana.
So these days, I'm logged on for phone sex less often. Although there still are bills relying on my income (including the extremely motivating category of "my spending money"), the reality is that I'm not a full-time phone girl anymore.
I think one reason I missed my anniversary is because I couldn't figure out what to put here. It seems anti-climactic to say I've gone from full-time to part-time. I still can't tell which story needs to be told. So I'm making this up as I write, feeling my way along, hoping it turns into something coherent here soon. (We can tell, it shows)(Oh hush, there's no need to be rude to yourself)(Ummmm, too late for that).
Plus, I wanted to have something special to offer, or announce, like a commemorative picture set or a "if you do this then I'll send you free minutes" kind of a thing, but nothing stood out to me as The Perfect Celebratory Offer.
In fact, I meant for this blog post to end a few paragraphs back until I figured out The Perfect Celebratory Offer, but now my Inner Therapist and Inner Writer have conspired, and have momentum, and well, who am I to stop them on the principle of posting an anniversary blog post on an actual anniversary date? Pffff. Details. So on we go.
Of course, there are numbers I could share, because I'm a data girl:
* Callers I've blocked (which means they can no longer contact me): 4 - I am happy that number is so low.
* Customers: 781 - although people who delete their accounts don't show up, so it's actually a tad higher than that.
* Most times someone has called me: 57 - I am supremely confident in my ability to get him aroused and leave him satisfied.
* Highest amount I've made from one customer after NiteFlirt's percentage: $2707 - and it is a different guy than my 57-calls customer, and about a quarter of that amount is from pay-to-views and tributes. Not bad for a girl who doesn't advertise for financial domination, right? And if you're wondering if it's you, then no, it's not you, because he knows his financial totals with me, because the money is part of his fetish.
* Verification of the 80/20 rule (80-ish% of my revenue comes from 20-ish% of my customers): yep, almost exactly.
* Overall Revenue from non-calls: about 5% - pretty good considering I don't do nearly as much to advertise my pics and videos as I could, and I never ask for tributes unless I'm doing something custom.
* Times I have rewritten my main listing: 18. Well. That's just embarrassing.
* Calls: 1840, which technically averages out to a little less than 5 per day, but I've taken off a lot of days (Slacker)(Shut up)(No, you shut up)(No, you shut up yer shuttin' up)(/giggle), so really it's a bit higher than 5. (And yes, these parentheticals are real conversations I have with myself)(Psycho)(No YOU!)
Although numbers can sometimes tell a story, in this case, they don't do justice. Not by a long shot.
A year and a fortnight ago, I thought I was more submissive sexually than dominant. After repeated exposure to the raw, powerful lust I can inspire by bringing my leadership and management skills into the bedroom, I now find the thought of a man kneeling before me, offering his mind and body as my plaything... distractingly, exquisitely, deeply arousing.
A year and a fortnight ago, I thought I would never find sexual stimulation in humiliating another person, and even if I did, I wouldn't be very good at it. After making someone come twice in ten minutes from scathingly deriding his lack of sexual adequacy, leading to an adrenaline-fueled big fat POW of an orgasm for me while I told him he could never get me off that well, I concluded I had been mistaken.
A year and a fortnight ago, I thought I was pretty savvy about kinks. After weekly exposure to new fetishes and the fetishists who crave them, I am no longer surprised when I am surprised.
A year and a fortnight ago, I wondered if my size XL body would keep me in such a small niche in the market that it would not be worth the effort to be a phone sex operator. After being begged to get on cam, produce photos, and shoot videos, I have found even more to appreciate about my body.
A year and a fortnight ago, I didn't know if I would ever be able to financially provide for myself in case of an emergency. After I knew I could, the relief and sense of empowerment has been profound.
A year and a fortnight ago, after a year of not working and not being able to go out in crowded public spaces very often, my circles of social and professional connections had contracted, and I missed the feeling of meeting new people. After developing at least a dozen crushes on callers, and at least a dozen mutually supportive co-worker relationships, and making so many connections that I have to turn off chat because I can't multi-task enough to keep up with the barrage of friendly interaction requests, my social meters are pleasantly full any time I wish.
A year and a fortnight ago, I deeply missed feeling useful. I can't explain how frustrating that was for me, and how much energy I spent trying not to feel useless.
Now, after a year and a fortnight of listening to confessions, playing catch with complex balls of emotional and sexual energy, gaining proficiency in dozens of kinks, and - most importantly - helping hundreds of callers make the transition from "I'm so horny I can't fall asleep, but I'm too distracted by thoughts of my crappy day to finish myself off alone" into the far more pleasant "Oh, wow, that felt good and /yawn and /stretch and /whew, finally I can sleep! Thank you, I needed that", now I feel extraordinarily useful as a buddy, a confessor, an outlet, a supporter, and very clearly, as a sleep aid.
(Oh, no, really, this blog post does not need the Galiana Sleep Aid commercial now playing in my head. Please turn that off. Seriously.)
You, and you, and you, and you, and especially you, you all made my first year and a fortnight as a phone sex operator possible, and fun, and exciting, and enriching, and sexy as fucking hell. Thank you.
(So what's the special offer gonna be?)(Oh, for fuck's sake, I just wrote a lovely little ending. Can we leave it at that until I figure out a worthy offer later?)(Sure thing... ya slacker.)(NO, YOU!)
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Who Is This Material Girl?
In college, I had a job building sets, doing props, and being stage manager for a local high school, so my car frequently looked like I had just robbed a hardware store. Although I wasn't in a sorority, I knew a lot of frat guys, and I got asked to formals on a regular basis because I loved to dance and I didn't get embarrassingly drunk.
One day, these seemingly dissociated facts collided: I had picked up my go-to little black dress from the dry cleaners, the one I'd gotten on sale for under $50 and worn four times already, and had loaded in some lumber to build platforms, and on my way down the highway, I thought, "This is exactly me."
It was the juxtaposition: lumber and lace (well, velvet and taffeta, but that's not the point...). It symbolized being practical, flexible, and fun, and I loved the image of myself as a strong, tough, capable girl who wasn't afraid to gussy up now and then, but who didn't take her gussying up too terribly seriously.
I was a fancy girl growing up: I begged to wear extravagant costumes to school, and my favorite part of the circus was the sparkles...
And I was a tomboy growing up: I would come home bleeding from a scrape on my knee, and when Mom asked what had happened, I would have no idea, but maybe when I fell out of that tree...
But by high school, I had decided that spending money was best used on entertainment, travel, and decadent meals with friends. The memories were what I wanted, the connections with other human beings, not "frivolous" material things.
And yet, this week, I have been delighted by lingerie, and chocolate, and shoes. And it has made me ask, on a surprisingly deep level, "Who am I now?"
Well, first, the lingerie and the chocolate...
My first gifts to my PO Box! A hypnosis caller who loves to please me (he asked for it, I promise...) asked me two days in a row what would make me happy, and I reluctantly came up with lingerie and chocolate. I'd open the box and show you the pretty chocolate morsels, but ... well... it's partially ravaged, so I'd rather just stick with the elegant closed box.
I'll be taking pictures with the super-happy sparkly red top when my new camera arrives. Yay fun!
And now that these have arrived, apparently, it was time to indulge me further, so he told me that he was ordering me this from Secrets In Lace in black:
I love. It. So. Much.
Like, my heart skips a beat when I think of wearing it, I love it so much.
Like, I need to upgrade my body wash to make my skin luxurious enough to deserve to wear it, I love it so much.
Like, I need new shoes, and new panties, and stockings and a bra and a haicut and to get my eyebrows waxed...
I had this chat exchange with a friend from college about it:
I'm going to have to reorganize my closet, aren't I?
I will never value things more than I value relationships. But, if it just so happens that a relationship can be enhanced by my acquisition of things, well then, how can I say no?
One day, these seemingly dissociated facts collided: I had picked up my go-to little black dress from the dry cleaners, the one I'd gotten on sale for under $50 and worn four times already, and had loaded in some lumber to build platforms, and on my way down the highway, I thought, "This is exactly me."
It was the juxtaposition: lumber and lace (well, velvet and taffeta, but that's not the point...). It symbolized being practical, flexible, and fun, and I loved the image of myself as a strong, tough, capable girl who wasn't afraid to gussy up now and then, but who didn't take her gussying up too terribly seriously.
I was a fancy girl growing up: I begged to wear extravagant costumes to school, and my favorite part of the circus was the sparkles...
And I was a tomboy growing up: I would come home bleeding from a scrape on my knee, and when Mom asked what had happened, I would have no idea, but maybe when I fell out of that tree...
But by high school, I had decided that spending money was best used on entertainment, travel, and decadent meals with friends. The memories were what I wanted, the connections with other human beings, not "frivolous" material things.
And yet, this week, I have been delighted by lingerie, and chocolate, and shoes. And it has made me ask, on a surprisingly deep level, "Who am I now?"
Well, first, the lingerie and the chocolate...
I'll be taking pictures with the super-happy sparkly red top when my new camera arrives. Yay fun!
And now that these have arrived, apparently, it was time to indulge me further, so he told me that he was ordering me this from Secrets In Lace in black:
I love. It. So. Much.
Like, my heart skips a beat when I think of wearing it, I love it so much.
Like, I need to upgrade my body wash to make my skin luxurious enough to deserve to wear it, I love it so much.
Like, I need new shoes, and new panties, and stockings and a bra and a haicut and to get my eyebrows waxed...
I had this chat exchange with a friend from college about it:
Galiana: I think this robe will always mark a turning point for me
Her: How so?
Galiana: The day I finally embraced my Inner Femme
Galiana: I've been such a tomboy, so practical, and loved that self-identification
Galiana: and something about spending real money on frilly things... I've shied away
Galiana: but I get it now, or I get it more than I have before
Galiana: the human being as art
Galiana: or rather, the human being as a canvas
Galiana: and the fabrics and the textures as the paints
Galiana: and that the beauty has value in and of itself
It amuses me that it took me two decades of adulthood to embrace the celebration of fabrics and colors and textures that I celebrated so naturally at age 6. Somewhere in the middle, avoiding "materialism" was temporarily more important to me than enjoying something luxurious if it is available to me.
I know, I bought new lingerie for my photo shoot in September for my 40th birthday, but those were play things, of lesser value, not objects of quality and art to be admired and treasured. And they were for work, so it was justified. They didn't make me feel like that robe is going to.
It makes no sense that I would value a dinner with friends that cost $139, and yet, the prospect of owning a robe that cost $139 has required serious introspection, to the point of even having to redefine myself a bit... I understand giving a gift of luxury to someone else, and I've done it, but it is taking some emotional growth on my part to accept such gifts for myself.
Well, hello there, Inner Diva. I'm sorry I haven't properly attended to you for so long. Please enjoy the sunlight and fresh air and chocolates. I hope you stay a while.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Being My Self/Selves
My Inner Dialogue has a constantly looping series of thoughts that go approximately like this:
I would have thought that talking with dozens of men who adore different things about me would have eradicated all my insecurities. Don't get me wrong, it helps. It's great. I love it. I'm probably more confident overall now than I have ever been, and "lack of self-confidence" has rarely been a big problem of mine. Thank you all for that. It matters to me. Thank you.
But the crazy-making voices pop up still, from time to time.
Maybe some I day I will have a whole day where I am content to be myself, without having to talk myself down from some knee-jerk impulse driven by fear or insecurity or jealousy.
It's a lovely goal, isn't it?
Inner Worrier: What if someone finds me through a Mistress listing, and it turns them off to see picture packages of me being submissive?Please note: The voices of insecurity have been exaggerated, at least slightly, for the sake of this post.
Inner Voice of Reason: Every successful Domme has the same advice: Be yourself. So sometimes we're submissive, that's who we are. If it turns someone off, they're not meant for us. We wish them well elsewhere.
Inner Pleaser: We should make a listing specializing in (fill in a fetish I enjoy...)) because those people can't find us now.
Inner Voice of Reason: Creating and updating listings is not our strong suit. We have more than enough to do now. When we're done with those, we can think about creating more.
Inner Attention Slut: Blogging is fun! So we should make a micro-blog for each of our specialties and blog about each specialty every day!
Inner Voice of Reason: The blog is not currently driving traffic to our phone sex listings -- our phone sex listings are currently driving traffic to our blog. So micro-blogging would probably just result in more places to feel like we're falling behind.
Inner Jealousy Monster: Look at her site! And hers! And hers! Look, none of these Dommes offer naked pictures of themselves. And look, none of these phone sex operators show their face! And look, these divas are making dozens of fetish clips! We should be as good as all of them all at once!
Inner Voice of Reason: We can't be everything. We have to pick. We have to do our thing. And we have to do it well.
Inner Cast: (panicking) OGOD OGOD OGOD, WE DON'T HAVE A "THING"! WE DON'T DO ANYTHING WELL! AAAAARRRRGGGGGHHHH!
Inner Voice of Reason: Shhhhhh. We do. Take a deep breath and I'll tell you.
(Inner Cast breathes into paper bags)
Inner Voice of Reason: We talk on the phone well. When we're on the phone, we listen well. We pay attention well. We're empathetic. We can pick up instructions and run with them creatively. We bring imagination and creativity and joy into this thing we do, and we make it interactive erotica.
Inner Voice of Reason: (continued) ... And we blog well. We blog honestly. We show people what we love about the job, and what frustrates us, and how our insecurities can make us crazy in this job, just like they could make us crazy in every other job we've ever had, because the insecurities don't care what your job is. We show people how we can usually overcome them, and focus on the positive, ego-boosting parts of the job, and often figure out how to relax and enjoy ourselves. We show people that sluts who love sex can make a successful transition into being dirty talkers for a living by enjoying themselves and being honest.
Inner Slut: Fuck that. You know what you pussies need? To get slammed up against a wall and finger-fucked hard with a big strong hand around our throat and a deep voice growling in our ear to "Come. Hard. Now."
Inner Cast: (simultaneously) Wow... Yeah... Uhhuh... That would work... Whew... Agree!... Yes please....
Inner Voice of Reason: Thank you, Slut.
Inner Slut: No sweat.
I would have thought that talking with dozens of men who adore different things about me would have eradicated all my insecurities. Don't get me wrong, it helps. It's great. I love it. I'm probably more confident overall now than I have ever been, and "lack of self-confidence" has rarely been a big problem of mine. Thank you all for that. It matters to me. Thank you.
But the crazy-making voices pop up still, from time to time.
Maybe some I day I will have a whole day where I am content to be myself, without having to talk myself down from some knee-jerk impulse driven by fear or insecurity or jealousy.
It's a lovely goal, isn't it?
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Or Sometimes I Just Go Nuts
I wrote about how carefully I negotiate BDSM / domination scenes here in this blog post, right? Safe and consensual, it's what I'm all about, right?
Then today I get a call on my Fem Dommes listing, and ... ummmm... went to town on the guy. He said he wanted to serve me and sounded all desperate already, which I've heard dozens of times before, but somehow, his particular flavor of longing unleashed me to not give a flying fuck what his preferences or boundaries were.
Next thing I knew, with no negotiation whatsoever, I was seated on a chair, he was kneeling naked between my thighs, my heels were digging into his legs, and I had hold of a rope that led to his nipple clamps, so it hurt him when I twitched, but he knew it would hurt worse later if he didn't make my pussy feel good enough right then.
What. The. Hell. Where did that come from?
Then today I get a call on my Fem Dommes listing, and ... ummmm... went to town on the guy. He said he wanted to serve me and sounded all desperate already, which I've heard dozens of times before, but somehow, his particular flavor of longing unleashed me to not give a flying fuck what his preferences or boundaries were.
Next thing I knew, with no negotiation whatsoever, I was seated on a chair, he was kneeling naked between my thighs, my heels were digging into his legs, and I had hold of a rope that led to his nipple clamps, so it hurt him when I twitched, but he knew it would hurt worse later if he didn't make my pussy feel good enough right then.
What. The. Hell. Where did that come from?
Inner Dominatrix: Hello, Galiana.Great. It seems there's a new addition to the crew that I have to watch out for. And she's definitely a hijacker. As if it weren't crowded enough in here already...
Galiana / Chooser: You've got to be kidding me.
Inner Dominatrix: (smiles, licks her lips, and patiently straightens the strands of her flogger)
Inner Storyteller: Oooo! Fun! Welcome to our Inner Dialogue cast, Ma'am. (whispering) Love the boots.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Hi, Reddit!
If you're here from Reddit, hi! Glad you found me! The best place to start is the cleverly named "Where to Start" page, kind of like a Guided Tour of Galiana: http://galianachance.blogspot.com/p/where-to-start.html
For the rest of you... I'm doing a Reddit IAmA ... AMA today.
Reddit is... ummm... gosh, how to describe Reddit. If I just send you to reddit.com, it'll be overwhelming, unless you're already addicted to it, in which case you will mock others for feeling overwhelmed. It's like a series of community discussion boards strung together by caffeine, awesomeness, geekery, red and grey robots, and sometimes narwhals and rainbows, but usually less brutal than 4chan.
That didn't really help did it?
Well, for example, there's a section called IAmA, where eople post starting threads like my personal favorite of yesterday: "IAmA (Retired) Cat Burglar - AMA" (AMA="Ask Me Anything"). And people do ask anything at all. The cultural norm is that the person who started the thread sticks around all day to answer as many questions and respond to as many comments as possible.
Today I'm doing "IAmA phone sex operator with an IQ of 142 - AMA".
If you're a phone sex worker reading this and thinking "oh great idea, I'll do one!" please let me advise you to wait at least 2 weeks since the last person did one, and understand how to avoid being accused of "trolling", or your thread will go suffer a horrible death by way of a flaming ball of downvotes.
I expect people to call me fat. I will /pat them on the head, remind them my opening statement contained "I am 50 pounds overweight" and point them to this blog post about weight. I will not let those people affect how sexy I feel, nor will I miss them when they pass forever out of my life.
The possibility exists that someone who knows me from my off-phone life will have an unpleasant shock (IAmA has almost 200,000 subscribers, so that's not a completely crazy thought). I don't mind most people knowing, even ex-coworkers, because I don't seem to be headed back to a tech career any time soon. And if anyone has a moral objection to phone sex, hopefully they won't go poking around in the thread in the first place. And if they do, we'll deal with it
Most importantly, the people I am closest to already know ... except for three. None of those three read Reddit, but they're married to people who might, but the odds are slim. So if your initials are CD or RL or MC and you're married to one of my best friends, please call me first before you tell them, so we can figure out timing that will minimize their trauma. Sorry!
The logistical down side to doing an IAmA is that it's likely to wipe me out today - the scrolling and reading and commenting will make me dizzy. The up side is that Friday afternoon and early evening are the only slow times in my week I've been able to accurately anticipate, so I'm okay with that.
I love talking about what I do. I love sharing my thoughts and observations and ideas. And I love amusing geek boys while doing that. So. Much. Win!!
But really, the big compelling up side is: it's likely to be extraordinary fun for my Inner Exhibitionist. I haven't had much public sex lately, so she's been getting cranky, and when my husband had the idea for an IAmA, she became so insistent that I haven't been able to say no. I expect her to end the day as a limp, sweaty, glassy-eyed, blissed-out ragdoll, being dragged off to sleep by the rest of the gang while mumbling "one more comment... just one more..." One can only hope!
For the rest of you... I'm doing a Reddit IAmA ... AMA today.
Reddit is... ummm... gosh, how to describe Reddit. If I just send you to reddit.com, it'll be overwhelming, unless you're already addicted to it, in which case you will mock others for feeling overwhelmed. It's like a series of community discussion boards strung together by caffeine, awesomeness, geekery, red and grey robots, and sometimes narwhals and rainbows, but usually less brutal than 4chan.
That didn't really help did it?
Well, for example, there's a section called IAmA, where eople post starting threads like my personal favorite of yesterday: "IAmA (Retired) Cat Burglar - AMA" (AMA="Ask Me Anything"). And people do ask anything at all. The cultural norm is that the person who started the thread sticks around all day to answer as many questions and respond to as many comments as possible.
Today I'm doing "IAmA phone sex operator with an IQ of 142 - AMA".
If you're a phone sex worker reading this and thinking "oh great idea, I'll do one!" please let me advise you to wait at least 2 weeks since the last person did one, and understand how to avoid being accused of "trolling", or your thread will go suffer a horrible death by way of a flaming ball of downvotes.
I expect people to call me fat. I will /pat them on the head, remind them my opening statement contained "I am 50 pounds overweight" and point them to this blog post about weight. I will not let those people affect how sexy I feel, nor will I miss them when they pass forever out of my life.
The possibility exists that someone who knows me from my off-phone life will have an unpleasant shock (IAmA has almost 200,000 subscribers, so that's not a completely crazy thought). I don't mind most people knowing, even ex-coworkers, because I don't seem to be headed back to a tech career any time soon. And if anyone has a moral objection to phone sex, hopefully they won't go poking around in the thread in the first place. And if they do, we'll deal with it
Most importantly, the people I am closest to already know ... except for three. None of those three read Reddit, but they're married to people who might, but the odds are slim. So if your initials are CD or RL or MC and you're married to one of my best friends, please call me first before you tell them, so we can figure out timing that will minimize their trauma. Sorry!
The logistical down side to doing an IAmA is that it's likely to wipe me out today - the scrolling and reading and commenting will make me dizzy. The up side is that Friday afternoon and early evening are the only slow times in my week I've been able to accurately anticipate, so I'm okay with that.
I love talking about what I do. I love sharing my thoughts and observations and ideas. And I love amusing geek boys while doing that. So. Much. Win!!
But really, the big compelling up side is: it's likely to be extraordinary fun for my Inner Exhibitionist. I haven't had much public sex lately, so she's been getting cranky, and when my husband had the idea for an IAmA, she became so insistent that I haven't been able to say no. I expect her to end the day as a limp, sweaty, glassy-eyed, blissed-out ragdoll, being dragged off to sleep by the rest of the gang while mumbling "one more comment... just one more..." One can only hope!
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
I Am For You
At the end of "Perfect Mate", the Star Trek: TNG episode that gave me the phrase "empathic metamorph" (as I describe in nauseating detail here), the empathic metamorph says, "I am for you, Alrik of Val." By that statement, she means that as an empath, she will know what Alrik of Val will want from her, and as a metamorph , she will transform to meet that need. Her priority will be his needs, not hers, because she is for him.
(I know, technically, she's not a metamorph anymore at that point because she had bonded with Picard, which gave her a high regard for her moral and civic duty, even at the cost of great personal sacrifice, but let's just gloss over that explanation for the sake of narrative efficiency in my blog, shall we?)
For a while, I couldn't pin down an answer to the question, "What is the difference between Galiana and your off-phone self?" because I bring so much of my self to the phone, and into Galiana. But finally, through a series of fascinating conversations with friends and family and callers, I can answer it:
Galiana is for you. My off-phone self? Not as much.
It's not that my off-phone self is uncaring, it's just that she ... wait... I shouldn't call myself she... ummmm... let's give her a name, shall we? Galiana is my phone sex self, and my off-phone self is... Chooser! That makes sense (at least if you've read this blog post). Okay, so where were we?
Galiana is for you. Chooser is for me, at least as her first priority. Chooser makes sure that before I lavish attention or affection or assistance on someone else, that my needs have been met, so that any giving is from a place of strength. Chooser makes sure I don't forget to eat, or drink, or go to the bathroom between calls.
And sure, Chooser makes choices that help others. The wedding last weekend is a great example of that: I ran myself ragged helping out as a bridesmaid, not hesitating to go up and down those stone stairs again because some message needed to be conveyed, not picking a seat for my husband and I until I knew the families had room to sit together, not getting food until everyone else seemed settled, standing by the door for the last hour to guard the party-favor-truffles from thieving munchkins (how often do you have the chance to use the phrase "thieving munchkins"? Not nearly often enough, I'd wager).
But Chooser also made sure I rested the week before, and that I rested up afterward, and that I handed off tasks to others who could help as often as it was efficient, to minimize the wear and tear on me.
It's a matter of priority. Chooser's first priority is me, and as long as I'm good, then she gives freely to those around her. Galiana's first priority is you, and as long as you're good, then sometimes she gets selfish and begs to come, or spins a fantasy in a way that gets more of her juices flowing, or withholds the really dirty nasty phrase with that word she knows you love to hear until you're allllllmost there because that gasp and that growl and that power in shoving you over the edge like that is just. too. fun.
A recent conversation solidified the difference between Chooser and Galiana:
I'm supportive of my husband's gaming habits, so much so that I joined World of Warcraft with him and played for 5 years (until vertigo hit - too much zooming and swooping). Lately he's been playing Minecraft, a solo world-building game with a cool success story behind it for the guy who single-handedly wrote it, and a growing community of geeky enthusiasts. The first few hundred times that he showed me something cool he'd built, or explained something new he'd found, it was interesting.... but...
We were getting ready for bed, and he was telling me about how he's learning to preserve his gear by building these totem-pole-ish things to mark his spot and putting his treasures into a chest nearby, just in case he falls down a hole into lava. And he was telling me in that "I'm dumping things out of my brain and don't care if you're listening" way, not that "I'm saying something important" way.
And to be clear, it wasn't that Chooser didn't care, Chooser was simply prioritizing "going to sleep" over "keeping myself awake to continue discussing a game I'll never play, which we can talk about tomorrow when I'm more awake." Galiana would have chosen to drink some more caffeine and keep digging into interesting aspects of Minecraft.
She's still me. She's just me for you.
(I know, technically, she's not a metamorph anymore at that point because she had bonded with Picard, which gave her a high regard for her moral and civic duty, even at the cost of great personal sacrifice, but let's just gloss over that explanation for the sake of narrative efficiency in my blog, shall we?)
For a while, I couldn't pin down an answer to the question, "What is the difference between Galiana and your off-phone self?" because I bring so much of my self to the phone, and into Galiana. But finally, through a series of fascinating conversations with friends and family and callers, I can answer it:
Galiana is for you. My off-phone self? Not as much.
It's not that my off-phone self is uncaring, it's just that she ... wait... I shouldn't call myself she... ummmm... let's give her a name, shall we? Galiana is my phone sex self, and my off-phone self is... Chooser! That makes sense (at least if you've read this blog post). Okay, so where were we?
Galiana is for you. Chooser is for me, at least as her first priority. Chooser makes sure that before I lavish attention or affection or assistance on someone else, that my needs have been met, so that any giving is from a place of strength. Chooser makes sure I don't forget to eat, or drink, or go to the bathroom between calls.
And sure, Chooser makes choices that help others. The wedding last weekend is a great example of that: I ran myself ragged helping out as a bridesmaid, not hesitating to go up and down those stone stairs again because some message needed to be conveyed, not picking a seat for my husband and I until I knew the families had room to sit together, not getting food until everyone else seemed settled, standing by the door for the last hour to guard the party-favor-truffles from thieving munchkins (how often do you have the chance to use the phrase "thieving munchkins"? Not nearly often enough, I'd wager).
But Chooser also made sure I rested the week before, and that I rested up afterward, and that I handed off tasks to others who could help as often as it was efficient, to minimize the wear and tear on me.
It's a matter of priority. Chooser's first priority is me, and as long as I'm good, then she gives freely to those around her. Galiana's first priority is you, and as long as you're good, then sometimes she gets selfish and begs to come, or spins a fantasy in a way that gets more of her juices flowing, or withholds the really dirty nasty phrase with that word she knows you love to hear until you're allllllmost there because that gasp and that growl and that power in shoving you over the edge like that is just. too. fun.
A recent conversation solidified the difference between Chooser and Galiana:
I'm supportive of my husband's gaming habits, so much so that I joined World of Warcraft with him and played for 5 years (until vertigo hit - too much zooming and swooping). Lately he's been playing Minecraft, a solo world-building game with a cool success story behind it for the guy who single-handedly wrote it, and a growing community of geeky enthusiasts. The first few hundred times that he showed me something cool he'd built, or explained something new he'd found, it was interesting.... but...
We were getting ready for bed, and he was telling me about how he's learning to preserve his gear by building these totem-pole-ish things to mark his spot and putting his treasures into a chest nearby, just in case he falls down a hole into lava. And he was telling me in that "I'm dumping things out of my brain and don't care if you're listening" way, not that "I'm saying something important" way.
Chooser: (realizing I was falling asleep standing up) Yaaawwwnnn bored now (walk away)We had been talking about the Chooser / Galiana split, so it was only a matter of time before he used it against me somehow. It was pretty awesome.
Hub: (following me, as if I said nothing)... but I have to make the totems really tall, because sometimes I've gotten very far away before I die ... (continues on for a few more minutes before pausing)
Chooser: (blank stare)
Hub: (expectant face)
Chooser: (with no interest in my voice or face whatsoever) Totem, trunk, lava, find. Mmhmmm.
Hub: (disgusted) I'm gonna tell Galiana. She would totally listen to me.
Chooser: (doubled over laughing)
Galiana: (perky and attentive) Really, honey? What do you lose when you die? Is that just when you die in lava? What if you fall? What can you put in the trunk? What do you have to carry with you? How do make a trunk? How long does it take to get back to it? Where do you spawn after you die?
Hub: (grinning, kisses me) Fuck off.
(laughter all around)
And to be clear, it wasn't that Chooser didn't care, Chooser was simply prioritizing "going to sleep" over "keeping myself awake to continue discussing a game I'll never play, which we can talk about tomorrow when I'm more awake." Galiana would have chosen to drink some more caffeine and keep digging into interesting aspects of Minecraft.
She's still me. She's just me for you.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Dammit, Chance!
Dear Galiana's Inner Slut,
Pay attention, girlfriend. The next time someone wants you to tease and sensually dominate him for 45 minutes, DO NOT get distracted getting your damned rocks off and finish up at 35!
Just because he started begging at 20 minutes, and you know exactly how it feels to be in that position... you remember when someone saner was in charge of Galiana's body, and whoever that dumbass was said you could go for an hour of teasing without climaxing, and then 20 minutes in, once you're completely in charge, and thoroughly fuck-drunk, you were saying things like, "ohdeargod, there's no way, I'm not gonna make it" and begging to come as if your life depended on it. I know, sometimes you didn't make it.
But this is a BUSINESS, woman. Don't be weak. Don't get so sex-scrambled that the only thing you can think you want is to ride that cock till you both explode.
Stay on target. Stay. On. Target.
Would you ... fortheluva... quit licking the juices off your vibrator and listen to me?!?
Dammit, Chance!
Most sincerely,
Galiana's Inner Drill Sergeant
Pay attention, girlfriend. The next time someone wants you to tease and sensually dominate him for 45 minutes, DO NOT get distracted getting your damned rocks off and finish up at 35!
Just because he started begging at 20 minutes, and you know exactly how it feels to be in that position... you remember when someone saner was in charge of Galiana's body, and whoever that dumbass was said you could go for an hour of teasing without climaxing, and then 20 minutes in, once you're completely in charge, and thoroughly fuck-drunk, you were saying things like, "ohdeargod, there's no way, I'm not gonna make it" and begging to come as if your life depended on it. I know, sometimes you didn't make it.
But this is a BUSINESS, woman. Don't be weak. Don't get so sex-scrambled that the only thing you can think you want is to ride that cock till you both explode.
Stay on target. Stay. On. Target.
Would you ... fortheluva... quit licking the juices off your vibrator and listen to me?!?
Dammit, Chance!
Most sincerely,
Galiana's Inner Drill Sergeant
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Day Off Repentance
In reality, I never have to apologize for taking a day off, for logging out mid-day to replenish my energy, or for missing a day of blogging.
In fantasy land with me being submissive, I obviously need to beg for forgiveness and pretend to pout and protest if you threaten to punish me. Oh no (gasp), not a spanking! Heaven forbid!
In fantasy land with me being dominant, I obviously need to reprimand you for not buying pictures of me on MyFlirtStore to keep you company while I was away. Well, all of you except the one who paid to have me featured (thank you, dearest!). The rest of you: Bad bitch. Call to talk about how you can make it up to me.
In reality, both of those paragraphs amused me greatly, and aroused me enough to let me know that I am replenished and re-energized.
In both reality and fantasy land, parts of me missed being on the phone with you yesterday.
(Inner Slut (raising hand enthusiastically): That would be me!)
I haven't had an orgasm in over 24 hours, and I can feel the need for one.
(Inner Slut: or five...)
I'm looking forward to today's return to normalcy all around.
(Inner Slut: me too! me too!)
Slut, darling, we knew that.
In fantasy land with me being submissive, I obviously need to beg for forgiveness and pretend to pout and protest if you threaten to punish me. Oh no (gasp), not a spanking! Heaven forbid!
In fantasy land with me being dominant, I obviously need to reprimand you for not buying pictures of me on MyFlirtStore to keep you company while I was away. Well, all of you except the one who paid to have me featured (thank you, dearest!). The rest of you: Bad bitch. Call to talk about how you can make it up to me.
In reality, both of those paragraphs amused me greatly, and aroused me enough to let me know that I am replenished and re-energized.
In both reality and fantasy land, parts of me missed being on the phone with you yesterday.
(Inner Slut (raising hand enthusiastically): That would be me!)
I haven't had an orgasm in over 24 hours, and I can feel the need for one.
(Inner Slut: or five...)
I'm looking forward to today's return to normalcy all around.
(Inner Slut: me too! me too!)
Slut, darling, we knew that.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Accepting My Inner Whore
I think "Dirty Reader" is going to be the one to help me accept and love my Inner Whore. (background: why I'm referring to part of myself in third person here, and what I've already written about sluts and whores here)
So why do I have a problem with accepting and loving my own Inner Whore?
I think I tend to reject my Inner Whore for two big reasons: because I want to value people for who they are more than for their material worth, and because I don't want to be dependent on men for money.
I can work through the first issue more easily. I will never stop valuing people for their sense of humor, ability to healthily express emotion, ability to verbally express interesting ideas, or the thousand other reasons I value people. I may professionally prioritize my follow-up efforts towards the well-funded, but that's just good business, not a reflection of a personal valuation. I have enough consulting experience to help me sort through this one.
The second issue is deeper, and trickier. I got the message clearly growing up: never depend on a man for money, because who knows how long a marriage might last, and fortunes come and go anyway (both Dad and Stepdad had salary fluctuations from "can't afford a Coke at the zoo" to "what the hell, let's put in a hot tub"). And there's no family money to fall back on.
So I figured out how to pay for everything. And I felt good about my career. It was part of my identity, my ability to provide for myself, and it feels the same as how men talk about it. Money has never been a factor with who I've chosen to date, and I'm a secretly a little proud of that. (not such a secret now that you're publishing it...)(oh, hush, you)
Intellectually, I understand the difference between depending on one man to meet your financial needs, and depending on men in general to purchase the goods and services I am offering. And I understand rationally that everyone is ultimately dependent for their income: if you work for someone else, they had to hire you, and they pay you; if you work for yourself, you are dependent on customers, or the companies you are investing in. But those cognitive recognitions don't change my gut-level fear of being financially "dependent", whatever that means.
Somehow, I stumbled into this conversation with Dirty Reader. And he started poking around: What if someone offered you as much as you made in a month of phone sex in exchange for a long weekend live? How would that make you feel? What factors would go into making that decision?
I bucked against the idea at first, even just thinking about it. Now, I've met lovers online and I have faith in my safety filters. But wow. Meeting a phone client in person is seriously complicating a relationship that I'm partially relying upon for my livelihood. And would I be more reluctant to uphold my boundaries if I were getting paid? And not to mention: it's illegal! And not to mention: NO. Did I mention: NO? Wave after wave of warning bells went off, which I had to dismiss, one by one, just to sink into the fantasy space of it with him. It took a few tries.
But the math. The math is... attractive.
And when I got to that thought, I felt, for a moment, like a whore. I felt dirty. Unsettled. And... and... what the fuck is that feeling? Valued? Precious? Treasured? Really? Treasured? Where the hell is that coming from?
Right about then, the intuitive bastard said, "I think I'd pay you in cash, by leaving piles of money around the hotel room in small bills, so you'd have to pick it up, handle it, lie on it, crawl over it to get to me. Make you face it head-on, that you were taking money to be with me. I'd stuff fives into your bra and panties as I was undressing you." The severity and absurdity of the mental picture smacked me upside the head, and I found myself laughing and blushing and stammering. And verbally beating against his chest in protest, calling him every mean name I could think of, the dirty filthy fucking pig asshole sonofabitch jerkwad.
But sometimes picturing an extreme helps drive home a point, and the memory of it lingered, and somehow it's helping me to accept that my company as a sexual partner has monetary value to some people (obviously discriminating patrons with exquisite taste). And it doesn't make me dependent or needy or weak to provide that exchange.
So now, I can feel my Inner Whore gaining strength, courage, and a voice - slowly, but steadily. I'm doing my best to encourage her coming-out, and trust that she won't grow too strong or take over or endanger me.
But I'll admit, I'm a tiny bit nervous about her.
Before we begin, let me perfectly clear: I am clearly pro-sex. I am clearly pro-sex-workers. I have long been fascinated by phone sex operators, strippers, and prostitutes. I think sex work can be an empowering, fulfilling career choice.
And I think paying for sexual activities can be a healthy choice. It can be a perfectly valid hobby, not a bad use of entertainment funds. But even as a means of sexual gratification, I can see lots of scenarios where employing a readily available professional can be expedient, fulfilling, and well worth the cost.
I think I tend to reject my Inner Whore for two big reasons: because I want to value people for who they are more than for their material worth, and because I don't want to be dependent on men for money.
I can work through the first issue more easily. I will never stop valuing people for their sense of humor, ability to healthily express emotion, ability to verbally express interesting ideas, or the thousand other reasons I value people. I may professionally prioritize my follow-up efforts towards the well-funded, but that's just good business, not a reflection of a personal valuation. I have enough consulting experience to help me sort through this one.
The second issue is deeper, and trickier. I got the message clearly growing up: never depend on a man for money, because who knows how long a marriage might last, and fortunes come and go anyway (both Dad and Stepdad had salary fluctuations from "can't afford a Coke at the zoo" to "what the hell, let's put in a hot tub"). And there's no family money to fall back on.
So I figured out how to pay for everything. And I felt good about my career. It was part of my identity, my ability to provide for myself, and it feels the same as how men talk about it. Money has never been a factor with who I've chosen to date, and I'm a secretly a little proud of that. (not such a secret now that you're publishing it...)(oh, hush, you)
Intellectually, I understand the difference between depending on one man to meet your financial needs, and depending on men in general to purchase the goods and services I am offering. And I understand rationally that everyone is ultimately dependent for their income: if you work for someone else, they had to hire you, and they pay you; if you work for yourself, you are dependent on customers, or the companies you are investing in. But those cognitive recognitions don't change my gut-level fear of being financially "dependent", whatever that means.
Somehow, I stumbled into this conversation with Dirty Reader. And he started poking around: What if someone offered you as much as you made in a month of phone sex in exchange for a long weekend live? How would that make you feel? What factors would go into making that decision?
I bucked against the idea at first, even just thinking about it. Now, I've met lovers online and I have faith in my safety filters. But wow. Meeting a phone client in person is seriously complicating a relationship that I'm partially relying upon for my livelihood. And would I be more reluctant to uphold my boundaries if I were getting paid? And not to mention: it's illegal! And not to mention: NO. Did I mention: NO? Wave after wave of warning bells went off, which I had to dismiss, one by one, just to sink into the fantasy space of it with him. It took a few tries.
But the math. The math is... attractive.
And when I got to that thought, I felt, for a moment, like a whore. I felt dirty. Unsettled. And... and... what the fuck is that feeling? Valued? Precious? Treasured? Really? Treasured? Where the hell is that coming from?
Right about then, the intuitive bastard said, "I think I'd pay you in cash, by leaving piles of money around the hotel room in small bills, so you'd have to pick it up, handle it, lie on it, crawl over it to get to me. Make you face it head-on, that you were taking money to be with me. I'd stuff fives into your bra and panties as I was undressing you." The severity and absurdity of the mental picture smacked me upside the head, and I found myself laughing and blushing and stammering. And verbally beating against his chest in protest, calling him every mean name I could think of, the dirty filthy fucking pig asshole sonofabitch jerkwad.
But sometimes picturing an extreme helps drive home a point, and the memory of it lingered, and somehow it's helping me to accept that my company as a sexual partner has monetary value to some people (obviously discriminating patrons with exquisite taste). And it doesn't make me dependent or needy or weak to provide that exchange.
So now, I can feel my Inner Whore gaining strength, courage, and a voice - slowly, but steadily. I'm doing my best to encourage her coming-out, and trust that she won't grow too strong or take over or endanger me.
But I'll admit, I'm a tiny bit nervous about her.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Galiana's Inner Dialogue
I'm probably overdue to explain my inner dialogue, and my Inner Cast of characters.
First, I have been psychiatrically evaluated enough times to assure you that I do not have any real-life split personality disorders. It's a literary convention for me, but it's a darn handy one.
In college acting class, we listed our life roles: daughter, sister, friend, dancer, lover, student, teacher, writer, voice of reason, voice of temptation... All our lists kept growing as we shared them and recognized, "Oh yeah, I play that role too."
I was chosen to play "daughter" with a big burly guy as "father," and I was explaining my classes to him, all clever and guarded and unappreciative, as 20-year-old daughters can be. Then she said "now you're boyfriend and girlfriend" and the instant switch was shocking. Observations flew during post-exercise analysis: we stood closer, our bodies opened up, I touched him more, he looked at my breasts, and I laughed more freely. Both conversations were me, just me in different roles.
So I started referring to my "Inner Cast". I have an Inner Editor, an Inner Therapist, an Inner Brat, Inner Adventurer, and of course, our favorite girl, my Inner Slut. And dozens more.
How I behave depends on who is driving the bus. When Inner Worry Wart is driving, I choose cautiously. With Inner Perfectionist at the wheel, tasks rarely complete. And with Inner Hedonist in charge, I savor textures and sounds and tastes and scents, and clocks cease to exist.
The Inner Cast never fully agrees on anything. Sometimes, the disagreements get heated. My Inner Chief of Operations sometimes has to tie up Inner Slut and Adventurer to get any work done at all (between you and me, they kinda like that -- it gives them time to plot).
I differentiate "myself" from the cast by calling "me" my Chooser. Chooser decides who is driving, so therefore, Chooser is really always, silently in the background, in charge.
This simplifies conflicting interests for me. Inner Socialite wants everyone to like us and think we're sane, and responsible, and cheerful, and polite, especially in public. Inner Hedonist wants to open that can of whipped cream in the grocery store, toss my head back, and suck half of it down, right here, right now, let's go. Chooser lets Socialite win that little spat. Well, usually...
Look for more Inner Dialogue in posts to come!
First, I have been psychiatrically evaluated enough times to assure you that I do not have any real-life split personality disorders. It's a literary convention for me, but it's a darn handy one.
In college acting class, we listed our life roles: daughter, sister, friend, dancer, lover, student, teacher, writer, voice of reason, voice of temptation... All our lists kept growing as we shared them and recognized, "Oh yeah, I play that role too."
I was chosen to play "daughter" with a big burly guy as "father," and I was explaining my classes to him, all clever and guarded and unappreciative, as 20-year-old daughters can be. Then she said "now you're boyfriend and girlfriend" and the instant switch was shocking. Observations flew during post-exercise analysis: we stood closer, our bodies opened up, I touched him more, he looked at my breasts, and I laughed more freely. Both conversations were me, just me in different roles.
So I started referring to my "Inner Cast". I have an Inner Editor, an Inner Therapist, an Inner Brat, Inner Adventurer, and of course, our favorite girl, my Inner Slut. And dozens more.
How I behave depends on who is driving the bus. When Inner Worry Wart is driving, I choose cautiously. With Inner Perfectionist at the wheel, tasks rarely complete. And with Inner Hedonist in charge, I savor textures and sounds and tastes and scents, and clocks cease to exist.
The Inner Cast never fully agrees on anything. Sometimes, the disagreements get heated. My Inner Chief of Operations sometimes has to tie up Inner Slut and Adventurer to get any work done at all (between you and me, they kinda like that -- it gives them time to plot).
I differentiate "myself" from the cast by calling "me" my Chooser. Chooser decides who is driving, so therefore, Chooser is really always, silently in the background, in charge.
This simplifies conflicting interests for me. Inner Socialite wants everyone to like us and think we're sane, and responsible, and cheerful, and polite, especially in public. Inner Hedonist wants to open that can of whipped cream in the grocery store, toss my head back, and suck half of it down, right here, right now, let's go. Chooser lets Socialite win that little spat. Well, usually...
Look for more Inner Dialogue in posts to come!
Monday, August 23, 2010
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 :)
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 :)
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