The Hand Orgy

Tied and Peaceful

January 23 kicked off the Chinese New Year of the Dragon. I ran across this handy explanation:

"Exciting, unpredictable, exhilarating and intense, according to the Chinese tradition, these are the characteristics of the Year of the Dragon. Be warned, following the Rabbit's year of cautious optimism, the Dragon is renowned for its unbridled enthusiasm and has been known to throw caution to the wind! Now's the time to make this your Year of Adventure!"

Well, thank you - I think I will!

Warning: the next picture is even more Not-Safe-For-Work (NSFW) than the first picture. I'm giving you space to look away, although I sincerely hope you don't, because it's good for me when you have sexy images of me stuck in your head.

I realized at our New Year's Eve party that I had to make a choice because of my vertigo: either I could process or deliver pain (flogger, spanking, paddle, crop, etc - they take as much concentration to wield as to receive), or I could stay at the party and be social, but I couldn't do both. Being in crowds makes me very dizzy, taking someone else into pain subspace and back makes me very dizzy, and going into pain subspace and back makes me very dizzy, so I have to choose only one of those things in any given 3-day period.

I'm not gonna lie: that sucks. It's emotionally difficult to be at a party where there are luscious floggers, and people with years of experience throwing them who are perfectly willing to fly me, and other people happy to watch that happen. It is seriously hard to turn that down. It's worth it to be at the party as an observer, building friendships by having happy kinky flirty time, but it's a helluva reminder of my limitations.

So somewhere in this insane blur of a month, we went to a BDSM party where people were playing with painful sensations and impact (several at the hand of my husband, who is as surprised and delighted and turned on as I am that he seems to be kinda in-demand at these types of parties). And although I love watching, I got antsy to participate without triggering my vertigo.

Thankfully for me, a gentleman was there with hundreds of feet of rope and many hours of bondage experience, and he was willing to tie me up with no expectation for hurting me or being sexy after being tied. My husband helped me think of all my caveats: no ties across my neck in case I couldn't differentiate blood loss to my head from dizziness, no standing with my feet bound together because my balance isn't good enough to maintain that, and, as with any bondage, the person tying me had to stay close by as long as I was bound in case I needed a quick release.

I stood first for a rope corset with my hands behind my back, but my legs free, enjoying the pulls and tugs, and relaxing into the feeling of my arms stretched a little behind me. I enjoyed leaning against him as he drew the rope across my flesh time and time again. Then we found a sitting position I could maintain comfortably, and he did an asymmetrical bind to keep me in that position.

And the most beautiful thing happened slowly: I relaxed into a sexy blur, a kind of a sub space, I think, of enjoying the exhibitionism (I was only wearing panties), and enjoying the feeling of increasing restriction (I've always loved bondage, but never done it as an end unto itself without combining it with other sensation play). When he was done and I was testing my bonds and figuring out if I could move (I kinda could scoot on my knees, but it was quite un-graceful), it was fun and floaty and sexy and relaxing without being stressful.

Is it weird that I relax when I'm tied up? Isn't that the point, to let yourself feel a little helpless? Well, it can be the point, I guess. That night, it was the point for me.

Then my husband finished up with the spankings he was delivering to Devant upstairs and they both came down, along with the crowd who had been watching (and "helping" her count, although I hear there was mischief involved around the number 13...).

When he knelt behind me and whispered in my ear how beautiful I looked, suddenly an old desire came back to me, something we've talked about for years, but never had the right space to make it happen: for as long as I can remember, I've wanted to be naked and bound in the middle of a group of people and have them run their hands over me, lovingly, gently, playfully, without causing any pain, just caressing.

All of a sudden, it dawned on both my husband and I at the same time that this was the perfect time to fulfill that fantasy.

And so it was.

Happily, sensually overwhelmed

My husband briefly explained to the people in the room what I wanted and asked for help, and I felt a gentle surge of warm bodies nestling in around me: my husband, Devant, another woman who has played with my husband, the woman who gave us our welcome and invitations to our first play party, the man who had just bound me, and his lover.

Intellectually, I understand that they probably watched my husband and followed his lead, but at the moment, it felt like the world stood still, and everyone magically understood exactly what I needed.

I was overwhelmed. I felt relief to have found something so sexy and so sensual that didn't immediately spin me into extreme dizziness. I felt gratitude for the friends we have made in such a short time with our new community of kinksters. I felt the release of literally years of holding onto this fantasy and having it fulfilled while feeling so safe and beautiful and treasured.

For one magical moment, it felt like I had been transported to a place where the hands of everyone who has ever loved me were caressing me, all at once. The room expanded into the past and the future, the hands multiplied, and I knew all the love of my whole life all at once.

I think I squeaked out something like, "I'm gonna cry if that's okay" and then proceeded to do exactly that while the hands continued, and voices murmured encouragement from every direction.

The quick-thinking person who captured the moment on my phone camera has been profusely thanked.

What has since come to be known as "The Hand Orgy" probably only lasted five minutes, just long enough for the wave of emotion to break over me and subside. Once I returned to only one point on the space-time continuum, I opened my eyes, found my words again, and I was ready to be unbound and rejoin the party.

The after effects, interestingly enough, were the same as returning from subspace after impact play: first I wanted to be still and with cuddly arms wrapped around me, then I needed to drink and snack, and then I was very happy and feeling social.

People who had seen the hand orgy, but had not participated (they came in the room after it had started and were uncertain if they were welcome to join), were very sweet, telling me how beautiful it was. And the hosts thanked me for gracing their home with such a lovely moment. Awwww /sniffle

So if sometime in the past couple of weeks, you happened to dream of running your hands over my body while I leaned into you and whispered, "thank you" through happy tears, now you know why.

Thank you for being there with me in spirit.

Tell Me You Love Me

I just realized, just this moment, that there is a phrase I utter in my fantasies, in my mind, all the time, that I can hear echoing in my head as the prelude to almost any self-arousal, and as an essential part of any masturbation, but I have never uttered it during phone sex:

tell me you love me

Late at night, when I start getting sleepy and snuggly, and I take a deep breath and listen to my body, those words echo through my mind before I know where they will lead, but they set the stage.

tell me you love me

I worry about being manipulative, even though I know sometimes I am, by the nature of the business. But I have lines I try to draw: I never ask anyone to refill their account after the one-minute warning (except for the one guy who asks me if I want you to come back, and I know you do it because you like to hear me beg). If I hear the one-minute warning and I know you're close, I'll push instead of slowing down, even knowing that if you climax, you're more likely to hang up and send me a thank-you note than you are to refill your account.

tell me you love me

Over the weekend, I built a ridiculously intense connection with a caller and told him it sounded like he was telling me he loved me, but there were a million ways for him to sluff off my comment, and I knew he was smart enough to navigate beyond that if he chose to.

tell me you love me

But it's different than the phrase I hear in my head. That one, it is direct, unsluffable. It's needy. It's desperate. It's manipulative. I could never say those words to someone unless I trusted them deeply to hold their own power, emotionally, to not let me coerce them, to only tell me if it's the truth.

tell me you love me

Sometimes the emotion behind someone else's words can hit me square in the chest, or in the gut, or make my head spin, or make my mouth water. It is irrational that I would crave for someone to tell me they love me when I logically find the word to be meaningless without further definition. And yet, the origins of a thousand orgasms are in these words for me:

tell me you love me

... and I don't know why. I've started writing probably a dozen stories with that as the first line, and I get lost in them, unfinished, because they never seem worthy enough to fill in the possibilities the phrase creates.

I won't do it. I won't say those words to you. Not over the phone, not when you're paying for the call. You're there for your pleasure and entertainment, I couldn't ask that of you.

But if you tell me to say them, tell me I can, I will,

Tell me you love me.

But if those words tumble out of my mouth, and you respond, I'll warn you now, I don't know what my response will be, other than ... intense.

 

Summer Fling

I Heart Summer Flings

I started my non-mainstream sexual explorations as a submissive, and have morphed into a switch-leaning-dominant. This week, I invested a tremendous amount of energy and passion in my femdom identity, defending and celebrating male submissives not only on my blog, but also on comments on other blogs that were apparently intelligent enough to be requoted.

So what was the perhaps inevitable response of the universe to ensure my life remains in balance? I had one of the craziest, most intense whirlwinds ever with ... wait for it ... a new dominant male caller.

Everyone who saw that coming, raise your hand. Hmmm, everybody, huh? In retrospect, the only surprise is that I was surprised.

The day we met, he called me twice, for a total of (never remind 'em how much they've spent on you) minutes. He greeted me warmly enough, but when his voice changed to tell me what to do, I felt my Inner Submissive shove her way to the front of the bus to drive, giggling and clapping like a lunatic.

He asked me if I can come without touching myself. When I groaned and laughed a little, he asked what I meant by that, clearly intrigued.

Me: Because if I tell you I can, you'll make me do that, but I really want to be touching myself already, but I haven't because I know you haven't told me to, but you probably won't let me shove this vibrator inside myself if I tell you I can come touchless...

Him: And what gets you over that edge?

Me: Ohgod that's not fair. (he laughs) Don't laugh at me. (we both laugh) It's... ummm... the command, you telling me to, the intensity of it, the intention behind it, if it has enough energy behind it... if I'm there in my mind...

Him: Well. That's a pretty red flag for you to wave for me, isn't it? How long do you think I'll wait before I give you that command? Will I make you beg to have an orgasm like a bitch in heat?

My Entire Inner Cast: OH FUCK.

He had me stand in front of the mirror, wearing only my panties, hands behind my head, appraising my own flesh, when he gave the command to climax, and ordered at me to keep my eyes open and watch myself come. It didn't feel like a script, it felt like something he was inspired to do by my responses.

It only got more intense from there.

I went to bed exhausted and dizzy, but happy.

We spoke again early the next afternoon, soon after I woke up. His first words, obviously full of genuine concern, "I read your blog. Be honest. Did I make you dizzy last night?"

My Entire Inner Cast: Awwwwww /sniffle

During that call, I hoped sincerely he had read this blog post about Love, The English Language, And Not Completely Pretending, and this one about the ways sometimes words tumble out of my mouth If I Call You "Love" because at one point he asked me how I felt, and I mumbled the crazy answer that was bouncing around in my head...

"When you call me a whore, it sounds like you're telling me you love me..."

Seriously. I said that to him. We had been talking for less than 24 hours. Fucking insane.

Thankfully, he seems to be a version of lunacy which is compatible with mine, because his response was to tell me say it again. Louder. And again, even louder. And again. Louder, you fucking whore, again. Each time, I grew more horrified and embarrassed at the ridiculous words I was shoving out of my throat, and simultaneously, more thoroughly convinced that the sentiment was true. I paused, my voice ragged, shaking to hear his response.

"Listen to yourself. A brainy sub trying to get a single sentence out, forced to enunciate it clearer and louder even as the sentence grabs your pussy and your heart and squeezes for all it's worth? How could I not love you?"

It wasn't a commitment to a future together, to any traditional use of the word love, or to anything at all other than a mutual appreciation of a really fantastic connection at a truly amazing moment in time.

Well, no, that's probably not true. There probably was a commitment, just a bizarre one: that both of us will probably always remember the way we were able to crash into each others' desires and feel delightfully alive in the wreckage we somehow created in each other.

I wrote him afterward, telling him the rest of the story I only partially told this blog post about my first BDSM lover, I Know Why:

... but what that entry doesn't explain is that moment when I was tied to a door frame, flogged bright red across my ass and back, with a vibrating egg trapped in my panties to ensure I was being properly conditioned to associate pain and pleasure, when he pressed himself against me, my entire backside on fire from the touch of his skin after the flogging, slid one hand around to my breast, and with the other hand, held my head up in a bit of a choke so I could feel him whisper-growl into my ear as his fingers pinched electricity through me,

"good girl"

... and I felt the world go black and I felt a wave of power, of certainty, of pride. I knew I could take it, more than I knew I could stand, and more. Much more. I knew I was strong. I knew I was adventuresome. I knew I was sexy. And I felt huge, as if I had grown, and I wanted more with a hunger that made me feel like I could eat the world.

... and that was the moment I knew that I would be okay, no matter what.

His response was to tell me to find a publisher. Isn't that sweet? Wait, how can I associate the word sweet with anything at all in this fucked-up blog post? Oh, I know, I can call this sweet, where he quoted a paragraph from that blog post:

I had worked so hard in therapy to take responsibility for my feelings and my actions. I had worked so hard professionally to teach myself technically and be in a position of leadership. I had worked so hard socially to choose friends who gave as much as they took, and treated me with respect. And I had worked so hard personally to admit to myself that I needed to leave the man I thought I’d be with for the rest of my life.

And he told me "This Galiana that you created shows your work."

I totally didn't cry when I read that. I mean, it's not like I had been fucked loony for hours on end or anything, so why would that make me cry?

He only plays with phone sex every once a while, in little bursts like this, then he disappears. For weeks. Or months. When he told me he was going away, probably for a good, long time, it made absolute sense to me.

It was the perfect end-of-summer fling: passionate, intense, a lovely stroll down the sensory memory lane of my submissive roots, and cut short by logistical limitations before we ran out of the juice to sustain it and started disappointing each other. (That's totally where it would have gone, right? I mean, I'm not just being cynical here, am I? Don't crazy intense firestorms always end that way? Can I tell myself that anyway, even if it's not true? Thanks.)

There are times I appreciate my life so much that I ache with joy.

Happy

A long-time caller, one of my very first, and a good friend, wrote to me, with a subject line of, "Happy". He opened the email by saying "I was reading your blog and I read about your new medicine. I smiled a lot. I'm still smiling. I'm incredibly happy for you."

What followed was a long email, with fun pictures embedded, detailing some wonderful days he has had recently, and some moments that had given him great pleasure: treasured times with loved ones and new friends. He's a fantastic storyteller, so it was a delight to read, and I felt honored that he had shared his private moments with me.

He closed it with, "Still, none of that compared to the joy I felt when read you felt better."

I keep re-reading that sentence, and it keeps making me cry. I think I'm starting to let myself hope that my new medicines might work out long-term. Somehow, this sentence helped make it real for me: I might be feeling a little better.

Thank you for being happy for me, love. And thank you for telling me.

Feedback Nightmare & Epilogue

Feedback Nightmare

a play in One Act, plus Epilogue

by Galiana Chance

closely based on a very true story

ACT ONE

GALIANA, 40, pleasantly pudgy with casual sexual confidence, lays asleep on her half of her comfortable queen-sized bed. Her HUSBAND, just shy of his 41st birthday, attempts to slip into bed beside her, unnoticed.

Galiana (sleepily, reaching for him):

I had a nightmare...

Husband (unsure if she's talking in her sleep): 

What happened? 

Galiana: 

Someone left me feedback. Bad feedback. It was one-star. He said I wasn't committed because I wasn't available. He didn't know we're packing, we're moving...

Husband (resting his hand on her cheek): 

Fuck your dream makers, honey. Fuck them in half. We're okay.

Galiana (grinning as she drifts back to sleep):

Mmmhmmm.

Commentary: I usually have stress dreams during stressful times. We're packing and moving right now. It's stressful. The stress dream was not a surprise. However, its manifestation as stress about my feedback was a surprise, although maybe it shouldn't have been.

EPILOGUE

A few hours later. HUSBAND lays asleep on the bed as GALIANA attempts to slip in beside him, unnoticed.

Husband (nowhere near fully awake): 

Are you okay?

Galiana: 

I'm fine. I just went potty and got some Aleve.

Husband: 

Why did you need leaves?

Galiana: 

Aleve. I didn't want my back to get sore. The blue pain pill, Aleve.

Husband (with a sleepy grin): 

Are you having salad?

Galiana (patting him condescendingly): 

Yes. That's exactly right. Leaves for a salad.

Husband (snuggling up to her): 

Why are you talking so much? You should be quiet now.

Galiana (grinning):

Mmmhmmm. Sorry, love.

Husband: 

You're horrible at being quiet. I give you one star. Too loud. Too many salads.

Galiana stifles a giggle, only somewhat successfully, remembering the first night they spent together, which was about three hours of delicious fucking followed by an hour of giggling too hard to sleep, mostly fueled by the will-never-be-as-funny-to-anyone-else punchline, "Did you try to teach that sumbitch octopus to ride a bicycle?"

Galiana drifts back to sleep, oddly comforted.

The nightmares do not return.

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.

I Know Why

As my caller reloaded his account, I thought about how I felt when I was first learning about being submissive in a BDSM sense, nine years ago.

I had worked so hard in therapy to take responsibility for my feelings and my actions. I had worked so hard professionally to teach myself technically and be in a position of leadership. I had worked so hard socially to choose friends who gave as much as they took, and treated me with respect. And I had worked so hard personally to admit to myself that I needed to leave the man I thought I'd be with for the rest of my life.

I was tired of working hard. I was tired of being strong. I was tired of standing up for myself. I wanted so badly to find a place I could relax.

I found stories, erotica, of people handing themselves to one another. I envied the submissives, with their hands and legs bound and mouth gagged. I envied their time off from having to make decisions.

I flew a long distance to meet a man who wrote such stories, to let him tie me up, gag me, beat me, use me, teach me. We had written a thousand emails and spoken over the phone dozens of times. I knew he cared for me, and I knew I trusted him, and I knew that I could never explain to anyone exactly why.

For four days, I decided nothing, but I felt everything. I felt every inch of my skin, kissed by floggers and crops and paddles. I felt every curve of my body, explored by his hands and mouth. I felt every muscle, stretched and pushed and twisted in ways I would never have imagined.

The caller came back from reloading his account, holding his breath, wondering what his Mistress had in store for him.

Me: I know why you come to Me
Pet: (barely above a whisper) You do?
Me: You're so strong all the time, aren't you? For everyone else?
Pet: yes
Me: They all need you to be strong, don't they?
Pet: yes... yes
Me: Not with me, pet. You can be weak with Me.
Pet: (crying) yes
Me: I'll take care of you, pet. Let me take it from you. Give it to Me, all of it. Let it go.

... and he did, choking through a release that felt like it loosened a knot in his stomach that had been a lifetime in the making.

Sometimes what I do on the phone is help someone follow a strong biological urge to drain their testicles of sperm.

And sometimes what I do on the phone is help someone feel safe, by hurting them, to let them know they don't have to be in charge.

Thank you, pet. Well done.

The Happiest Confession

I talk to a lot of men who want to confess or discuss their bisexual fantasies or escapades. As you might expect, the calls often overlap with Big Black Cock conversations.

I've heard about trips to glory holes to suck off anonymous cocks that appear through the hole in the wall at adult video stores. And I've heard from a previously straight jock-type guy who was seduced on a cruise by a guy who remained a lover for weeks after, struggling with how his friends would never understand (he thinks... but then, they all probably think the same of him, right?).

But last night, I got a call from a guy, we'll call him "BNGM", which you'll understand in a sec, who started off confessing that he'd sucked his first cock, and been fucked by his first dick, a few weeks ago. I thought it was going the way of most confession calls: he'd describe what happened, I'd be thrilled (because I love gay male sex enough to put that in all caps if I believed in non-acronym all caps), I'd ask questions, and both of us would get off to the gritty details in the stories. Yummy.

But BNGM kept veering off the sex to talk about the guy. What he does for a living. How patient he was while teaching how to give head. How much he loved holding hands with him walking down the street. How tender he was during the first penetration. When he said, "He's out of town tonight," it sounded downright wistful.

I started asking questions. They've been spending the night at each others' places. They've been meeting each others' friends. They'd had a lovely dinner with another gay couple in the building, including an adorably bonding "girls' chat" between he and the flamboyant bottom of the other couple. They joined the same gym. They danced together and shared a kiss in public.

With every description, his voice would catch. And when he would mention the sex, his lust would wash over me through the phone like a wave breaking overhead while body surfing during high tide.

I made up a back story of why he was calling me: he'd called phone sex lines when he was straight. He felt a little lonely and a little horny that night, and calling phone sex is what he knew to do. He meant to tell me sexy stories and get off fast and go to sleep.

But he couldn't get aroused with me, or he couldn't share his arousal with me. He kept backing off of it. And yet, the more he spoke of his lover, the closer he crawled to raw emotion. He had described being happy to be introduced as the "new boyfriend," and his voice cracked a little.

I said, "It sounds like you have an amazing friendship and smoking hot sex. That's the dream, isn't it?"

When he replied, "It is. It feels like a dream. I never thought I'd say this, but ... I ... think ... I think I might be falling for him," something about the way the words choked themselves out suggested he had never said them aloud before.

My eyes welled up with happy tears, and I congratulated him and wished them both the very best. He laughed, sounding a little teary-eyed himself, and said, "I guess you're talking to a Brand New Gay Male."

Yes. Yes, indeed, I was.

I'm so happy for you both, BNGM. Sorry I'm not at all interesting to you sexually, but I couldn't be more pleased about the reason why.You go, girl.

P.S. His lover is black and has a huge cock. I swear I'm not making it up, and I don't think he is either. It's not my fault he's the luckiest guy in the world!

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

Love, The English Language, And Not Completely Pretending

In my off-phone life, I have a male lover who shares my views on love. When he launched into what he called his  "Love Speech", I thought it was a practical joke, that somehow he had heard my "Love and the English Language" rant and was making fun of me. No, we just have pretty much identical views on love. Here's how our rants go, when combined:

There is an Eskimo language with twelve words for snow, yet the English language has only one word for love, which is clearly grossly inadequate. We use it to describe how we feel about ice cream, lovers, our parents, our children, our pets, a life partner, or a pair of shoes. When someone says, "I love you" in English, it is almost meaningless without further explanation.

Greek has 4 words for love, which is a little better: one for erotic love (eros); one for the love of family or close friends or a close family-like community (philia); one for the type of naturally protective affection that healthy parents have for their children (storge); and one catch-all love that conveys a pure, selfless, honoring type of love, as in religious adoration, but could also be used to describe one's feelings for a fantastic meal where you would not expect the meal to give anything back to you other than just being itself (agape).

The religious tradition of my upbringing had a movement when I was in elementary school, with the theme of "Love is not a feeling." Love, I was taught, should not describe how you feel about someone, but instead, how you act towards them. If you are willing to put forth effort to be helpful to someone else, that is being loving, showing love, having love. Love could happen anywhere you were willing to create it.

As a young adult in therapy, I refined that for myself a bit, although I continued to embrace the basic idea. My definition of love is approximately: I love you if I am willing to take action (a) that will not harm me and (b) that I believe will result in good for you. If I'm willing to harm myself for you, I'm martyring myself for you, which is almost never a good idea. If I'm acting in ways that I believe will harm you, I'm not being loving in that moment. And if I theoretically want the best for you but am unwilling to put forth any effort on your behalf, it's just affection, but that's not love.

I grew up with an ever-changing array of step-family members (between 3 and 12, my parents divorced, my mom remarried once, and my dad remarried twice). So "family" was transitory, and divorces did not necessarily cancel out the feeling of having been family (I'm still in touch with ex-step-siblings). I didn't love my existing cousins less because I got new cousins, or my existing Mom less because I got new ones.

I understood on a deep level that love is not a pie: when you use some, there isn't less for everyone else. Love is more like a wellspring, or a river, or an ocean: if you use some, just as much remains.

It's not surprising to me, then, that I'm not a monogamous person. The character of Angela on the TV show "Bones" was once told, "You've just never met the love of your life" and she responded earnestly, "Yes, I have, dozens of times." Exactly, you gorgeous sexy hunk of woman, you. Exactly.

I shared a fantasy this morning with a caller, we'll call him "Doc Cupid", who is not dominant in his life, but likes being dominant during sex. Our role plays have always involved him pushing, directing, punishing for "mistakes", and making me earn favors. He's never let me kiss him before.

But Doc was exhausted this morning, and just wanted something quick, simple, and... well... romantic by comparison. He wrapped me up against him and fucked me slowly and deeply, and said in a husky voice so soft I could barely make it out, "You can tell me you love me this time. Just this once." So I did, whispered against his lips, afraid he'd change his mind and punish me for it. He didn't.

It has stuck with me. Of course, it's not a traditional, societally acceptable form of love. Of course not. We're not making plans to meet in person. I'm not leaving my husband for him. He could choose to never communicate with me again, and, although I would wonder how he is from time to time when I reviewed old notes, I would survive unscathed.

But this morning, I heard the exhaustion in his voice, and I chose to meet him there, and I wanted to comfort him, and I chose to act on his behalf in a way that did not harm me one bit, in a way that I hoped would help him, and it felt, for a moment, like love. It wasn't a lie.

"Gravely Moon" has been falling asleep to the sound of my voice lately. He's told me that he knows that I'm "not completely real." And yet, when he ends our calls, he says, "Good night, love." It feels the same, that's it's not a lie, and that it's not completely pretend. Maybe tonight, after writing this and mulling about it, if he calls, I'll finally say it back to him.

I wonder if I'll ever stop being fascinated by this job.