Becoming The Answer

I turned 42 this year, which means I am now The Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything (follow the link for the geeky reference).

So for my birthday party, I gathered a few local kinkster friends with a very specific set of criteria:

• I had to believe they wanted good things for me
• I had to believe they would not be offended or bothered by sexual play (many kinksters, especially BDSM players, only play with pain outside their primary relationship, but they don't include overtly sexual acts)
• I had to believe they would say "no" to my request if they were uncomfortable in any way (not everyone will)
• I had to believe they would enjoy running their hands over my body (not everyone would)
• I had to believe they would not be traumatized if I cried in front of them

The first unbelievably wonderful thing about my birthday is that I had to pare down my list: there were enough people fitting those criteria in our kinkster community that I couldn't invite everyone who I wished could have been there, because the sheer volume of people in our home would have been counterproductively overwhelming.

So. Yeah. This is the part where my brain goes -splork- from disbelief with how crazy wonderful my life sometimes is.

-splork-

Here is what I said to kick off the party after everyone had gathered, also known as Easily The Most Insane Speech Ever:

Thank you all so much for coming here tonight.

I'm almost sure you all know this, but just in case: in addition to this being a birthday party, it is also 2 days before my disability insurance settlement hearing. We've waited three years for this hearing, and it's been a crazy hard road.

[start to cry, spend the rest of the speech powering through tears as best I can]

So this week, to prepare for the hearing, I am doing lots of things which normally wipe me out - but nothing that would have made me dizzy in 2008 before I got vertigo - and I'm pretending like it's 2008 and I don't need to recuperate between activities. I'm pretending that there is no vertigo wall for me to crash into.

However, what only three of you know, and this is hard to say out loud, but... something shifted in my neurological balance over the summer, in June some time, I think, and some things have been wiping me out even more than usual since then. And unfortunately, one of those activities has been having orgasms, especially with a partner. So, I just haven't been. Having orgasms. With other people. Not really at all for a few months now. Poor guys. [gesture to my husband and my local lover]

My local lover: No, poor you [I nod, catch my breath again, take in the empathy I feel in the room]

So, hmmm, let me see, if I'm trying to do things I enjoy this week without worrying about getting wiped out... what could I possibly come up with that I might enjoy? [everyone laughs]

So I figure that if I'm going to have a non-solo orgasm, I might as well go big and... y'know... throw a party and invite everyone in the party to help bring me to orgasm. Cuz... y'know... go big or go home, right? [gentle cheering]

So that's the goal. Now for logistics. I'm going to explain an insane amount of information and caveats, after which you can make an informed decision whether or not you want to participate.

First of all, I was tested for Sexually Transmitted Infections earlier this week, and they all came out negative, and the copy of my STI report is right here if you want to see it [wave a paper].

Next, before we start, I'm going to be a crazy controlling control freak and ask everyone to wash your hands so I don't get the flu on Monday [everybody laughs at me].

Also, I bought a bunch of those single-use toothbrushes Colgate Wisps, so if you want to kiss me or lick me, feel free to brush your teeth first if you'd feel more relaxed about it, or use the mouthwash in the bathroom.

Also, if you want gloves, we have some non-latex gloves, and feel free to wear them.

Also, in what is perhaps the most embarrassing and awkward thing to admit to a sex party ever, I ... ummmm... deep breath... I started my period yesterday [groans of "oh fuck I'm sorry" from the women], so I just douched and I have in a menstrual cup, so there shouldn't be any blood, but if that freaks you out, feel free to avoid touching my cooch.

Okay. Now I'm gonna die a little. [crazy face while waves of "I can't believe I'm doing this, I can't believe I just said that" wash over me]

Okay, I'm back. So. What's gonna happen is, I want you to help me undress, then guide me to that table, and then you're gonna gather around me, and you're gonna touch me, kiss me, lick me anywhere on my body until I have as many orgasms as I can stand.

Well, except, don't touch me anally, because if anybody did that, it would probably be over too soon, and it would be a harder intensity orgasm than I want. The same for pain - no pain, because it would escalate me too fast, and I want this to last as long as possible.

So you'll use your hands and/or mouth. I got some flavored body butter that smells and tastes like cake [side note: it totally does], so if you want to rub it into me or lick it off me, feel free.

Think gentle in terms of touch. Whole fingers, palms... stroking, not tickling. If you're touching my pussy, think petting, not rubbing. [demonstrate on my arm] If your fingers are inside me, think pressing, not pumping [demonstrate on my fist wrapped around fingers]. I promise it will be enough to make me come, because this is all already very intense for me.

Afterward, after I have an orgasm, I'll probably ask you to just stay with me for a moment while I come down a bit. And, I might crash... I mean, I might have an unpleasant vertigo reaction, and I might cry. It might look like it's hard for me to go through.

But here's the important thing for you to remember: I chose this. I chose you. You are not doing something bad to me. I designed this moment to be exactly what I wanted it to be, and you are here because I trust you and I want to share this moment with you. I believe this will be exactly what I want and need it to be. I'm asking you to do this, even knowing what's going to happen. I am choosing this.

So now... go wash up, and anybody who is willing to participate, gather back here when you're done.

Of course, in reality, all of that came out less well-organized, with clarifying questions, and stuff I forgot the first time, but that was approximately what was conveyed by the time the group re-gathered.

We gathered. I said thank you. I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath and said, "Okay". And I felt my roommate peel my clothes off me, my lover guide me onto the table, my husband's hand over my heart.

And then...

It felt like a sea of hands. Little waves of fingers crested and broke on my skin, replaced by new waves of gentle, rolling touch. It was amazing.

I heard whispering and jostling as the group trial-and-error figured out how to fit everyone into the space - I heard later they were rotating slowly around me so everyone could have a turn, because not everyone fit all at once, with my husband and lover approximately opposite me, with a few people watching from the other room at any given time.

I realized after about three minutes, just as the rhythm was starting to settle in, that I had, spectacularly, remembered to shave my pubic hair, but neglected to shave my legs, which I said out loud in abject shame, and everyone laughed at me and my easy-to-forget peach-fuzz leg hair.

I was rubbed, stroked, pressed, caressed, kissed, licked, suckled, petted.

I heard later that a couple of people got a little overwhelmed and stepped back just to watch, crying quietly, while others continued to rotate slowly around me.

It felt like the same person was gently touching my face the whole time, but I found out later that almost everyone had touched my face. I don't know how that's possible, but it was wonderful.

I felt loved. Cherished. Adored. Supported. It felt like the hands of everyone who ever cared for me were wishing their prayers into me for my good, for my healing, to give me love.

Although it may sound hokey to say, I thought of you some of you: readers, callers, friends I've never met in person, people I would have loved to have be there with us, people who felt like they were there with us.

I could feel the love of everyone who ever loved me.

And I came, twice, I think, although it was more like one that kept rolling into another. As the orgasms washed over me, I was grabbing on to wrists I couldn't identify, pressing against fingers I couldn't distinguish, arching under hands I couldn't place.

It broke over me, and I felt the vertigo washing in behind it, and I tapped something twice and said, "Okay" and then hands all went away, as if they were all one person. "No, no, stay touching, just stay" and they all came back, together, pressing into me, as if they were all from one heart, centered by the hand which was suddenly obviously my husband's over my heart, the hand that was suddenly obviously my lover's pressing into my belly, to ground me.

I cried into all of them, letting that first ugly wave of chaotic backlash hit me. I breathed through it as best I could, tensing up, and releasing, releasing, releasing, as best I could.

Then my breath returned, a bit at a time. I'm sure it was just five minutes maybe ten, but it felt like an eternity. Nobody moved. Everybody just ... stayed.

"Okay" I said again, nodding slowly. "Okay".

Nobody moved.

I smiled a little, snuggled into someone's arm, said, "Okay, I can do this," then let my eyes blink open.

If you've never been lying on a table, surrounded by people pouring intense amounts of love into you, and looked up at all of them all at once, let me assure you: it's incredibly intense.

I believe my response was to curl into a ball, put my hands over my eyes, and say something brilliant like, "aaaaaaaa! too much! too many eyeballs! go away, ya creepers!" At which point, everyone laughed at me, hugged me, reached out for one last touch, and left me with my husband and my roommate and my lover, where they wrapped me in a blanket and cuddled me until I could crawl up one stair at a time to my bed with my husband's help.

A few people came upstairs and cuddled me, thanked me, told me what they had felt, what they had seen, then quietly disappeared again. It was lovely.

After about 2 hours, I think, and some bizarre-but-peaceful vertigo dreams (which feel more like vivid hallucinations than sleeping dreams), I had settled enough to venture back downstairs, one stair at a time, with help again, but this time, dressed in my favorite sleep t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. The group dynamics had livened up considerably, more like one of our normal parties. People were rassling and beating and doing all manners of naughtiness to each other. I floated from person to person when people weren't actively in play scenes with each other, thanking them, hugging them, trying to let the snacks and hugs bring me back to earth. I felt and sounded wasted, forgetting words and being ridiculously confused, but everyone was gentle and kind and amused with me.

We opened presents, one of which was decorated in colorful pipe cleaners, which I drunkenly wove into my hair. There were presents for both me and my roommate, and at one point, I stared at the card with my FetLife handle written on it, which is the name I introduce myself as at munches, a personal nickname of sorts, which I hear and use often among my friends, and I genuinely wondered who to give the present to because my brain could not figure out it was for me, for waaaaaay too long. The laughter when I said, "Oh! That's me!" intensified when it turned out the card was a 'getting older' card about how your memory stops working ... priceless.

In case you're curious, here's how I look when I'm brain-drunk beyond belief, with pipe cleaners in my hair, two or three hours after a vertigo crash.

It was perfect. Everyone was amazing. It was exactly what I needed it to be, and more.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, in case you were wondering, is how you become The Answer to Everything. I would have suspected that it required a giant helping of love, which it did, but who could have guessed it also needed pipe cleaners? Well, now we know.

Chastity, Tease, and Ballbusting mp3

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Video: Submissive Slut

I'm pleased to announce my bounciest, ditziest, cutest, perkiest video yet: Submissive Slut Awaiting Master's Visit.

It's a custom video, and the instructions were:

* dress as cute as you can get: pigtails, your glasses, and girly lingerie (check)

* act out the scenario of: you're my submissive slut, and you're telling me how much you're looking forward to my visit this coming weekend (check)

* look sweet and innocent, but talk filthy (check)

* if you can gag on a toy or play with your pussy, all the better (oh hell yeah check)

I was kind of hopped up on caffeine and adrenaline when I shot this. I'd been thinking about sexy things all day and changing into a series of sexy outfits, so I was dying to get off. It was super-easy to let my favorite clit-stimulating pink egg vibrator do its thing while my shoving my favorite cock-substitute red vibrator down my throat.

Ahhhhh, it feels so nice to return to the basics, doesn't it?

Although the runtime is only 5:29, I did manage to have a genuine orgasm on video (and momentarily forgot to keep looking at the camera... some day I'll behave like a pro, I'm sure).

I am in constant motion in this video, never a still moment. Although it is more pronounced in the video than in my usual demeanor, this is absolutely an accurate glimpse into how incredibly damn wiggly I am when I'm turned on.

More than one person with the intention of dominating me in a BDSM way has paused to laugh at me and tell me some variation of, "I'm not sure I can beat you because you look so damn happy." This video captures that side of me exceptionally well.

If you wish to purchase it, it is $10 through NiteFlirt: click the Buy Now button and it'll be on its way to you in a jiffy.


Wow, talk about being the exact opposite side of the coin from my last post, isn't it? Fetish for variety indeed!

Orgasmic: Confirmed

I was a little worried that the horse tranquilizers I'm on for my vertigo might change my sex drive or my ability to have orgasms.

Nope.

Yay!

That is all for now...

A Thousand Times Yes

He'd been away for a while. He asked if I missed him; of course I had. After all, every blog entry is always secretly about him in some subtle way, isn't it? It is, and always will be, according to him.

"We're in such different places tonight," he said. I was all bubbly and bouncy and happy to hear from him again. He was, in his words, darker.

"It doesn't matter what you want to take out on me... how are you going to take it out on me?" I asked. He described himself beating me into sub space, leaving every inch of my skin tingling and alive to the touch, but his heart wasn't in it, I could tell.

"Or I could curl up inside your mature, worldly-wise, seductive imagination..."

"... and lose yourself?"

"...mmhmm..."

Well then.

Sometimes, taking a man's balls in my hand and his cock in my mouth feels like raw, unadulterated power. Sometimes, I can feel his vulnerability, know his desire, taste his need. In those moments, I know that when he empties himself into me, it will release more than fluids.

"Yes," he said, after he gave me every last drop of whatever burden it was that he needed to unload, "yes... yes... and a thousand times yes..."

I hope you slept well. I know I will.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The DADT of Phone Sex

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dozen Orgasms

I have a wide variety of laughs: giggles, guffaws, belly laughs, snickers, an explosive surprised laugh-bang, and short stifled snorts when I'm trying not to lose the food or drink in my mouth.

When I'm laughing my hardest, I don't make sound or breathe for many seconds, followed by a peculiar high-pitched hissing sound as if air is leaking out of me. The hardest I ever laughed was planning my wedding - I was working long days in a stressful crunch time and not sleeping nearly enough. The final catering menu/invoice for approval said "Shrimp Screwers" instead of "Shrimp Skewers". Could. Not. Recover. My now-husband had to guide me to bed, wiping tears from my eyes, to let me rock myself to sleep with sporadically shaking fits of hysteria.

During my early-30s sexual rampage, I was called a "good squeaky toy" by one lover who liked the variety of noises I make during sex. Gasps, moans, sighs, whimpers, grunts, and that encouraging "mmhmm" hum when a cock in my mouth is getting close to climax.

I've claimed that I probably have a dozen orgasms, but I've never categorized them. Until one Saturday after I became a phone sex operator - also known as today - musing idly between calls, I decided to try. In no order (but numbered for my convenience):

1. Soft External: There's a soft rolling kind that requires gentle, constant stimulation on my clit and inner labia -- ideally from a tongue -- and it feels like warmth spreads all over me and all my muscles pulse gently, then release in a way that leaves me feeling relaxed.
2. Soft External Rolling: When I have a #1 orgasm and the gentle, constant stimulation doesn't stop, and I don't resist climaxing, I can sometimes start having orgasm after orgasm, and they start smooshing together until they blur into this one crazy long thrashing breathtaking rolling orgasm that feels like it will never end.
3. G-spot Fingers: When fingers are rubbing my G-spot, with the same kind of circling, pulsing pressure you'd use to polish a silver spoon, I have muscle spasms all over my body before and during the orgasm. They're a little draining, and either I have to rest for a bit afterward, or they make me ravenous for more, and there's no way to predict which it will be. 
4. G-spot Fingers, Clit Tongue: When I have a #3 orgasm but add in a tongue and lips to stimulate my clit, it's a hard, strong, overpowering orgasm that I can't always control, even if I'm tied up and trying not to come. It feels like a big bang from my tummy that hits all my muscles at once. I almost always need to pause a minute or two after these. And not that playful "oh well then I'll just keep going" kind of request to rest, I mean pause for real or you risk a kick in the face from involuntary spasms.
5. Vibrators: My favorite vibrator combination is one inside me that hits my G-spot, and one external that has a diffused, gentle vibration on my clit. My clit is too sensitive for direct hard, strong vibrations - that just feels uncomfortably painful instead of arousing. (I know, what kind of a lousy pain slut am I? Sheesh) Vibrator orgasms build steadily to a climax that I feel mostly in my legs, with a tingling warmth that makes me want to roll into a ball.
6. Pain Slut: To defend my pain slut honor... If I've been flogged, clamped, pinched, spanked, or a combination of those, the orgasm spreads itself through my whole body, as if it's starting everywhere, instead of starting in my pussy. Usually these involve embarrassingly loud noises and require a bit of a recovery pause after. 
7. Girl On Top: When a man is on his back and I'm riding him and grinding my clit into the base of his cock, I can have these crazy-making sneak-up-on-me orgasms. All of a sudden, I'm past the edge, and I don't know when I got close. And from that moment until I climax, every part of my skin gets exponentially more sensitive to touch and pain, so it is intensified with a well-time smack or pinch or grab. When I'm with a partner I trust, I have been known to spontaneously burst into tears after these orgasms, as if it uncorked a bottle of champagne. Wrapping your arms around me and saying "I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere" is the best way to help me settle back in.
8. Mixing In Anal: Any of the above orgasms are made more intense and guttural and primal with the addition of anal stimulation, whether it be fingers or a butt plug or a vibrator or (in very limited cases with people I trust deeply) a cock. Primal is the best adjective, but I'm not sure I can explain what exactly I mean by that... it just feels deeper and more raw. 
9. Bound and/or Blindfolded: When restraints or restrictions or sensory deprivation are added into the mix, I become more relaxed, oddly enough, and have much more control over my climax. I love feeling myself involuntary strain against cuffs or ropes - that sensation makes all other sensations more like warm liquid pleasure. Orgasms when I'm bound tend to be more deeply satisfying, even if they're not always as loud or as full of thrashing. 
10. While Struggling: I love the physicality of struggling against my partner during sex (with safe words and someone I trust), and the orgasms I have while struggling feel athletic: strong, swift, and full of adrenaline. They make me feel stronger and hungrier, which is bizarrely counter-intuitive.
11. Slow-Build Overstimulated: Regardless of the mixture of stimulation methods, if an orgasm builds over a long time (30 minutes or more) with pauses, interruptions, teases, and direct instructions not to come, I go to a place where my rational brain no longer feels in control, and I'm shaking with lust. When that hunger is finally released, I feel like I'm exploding, like my body and skin are being shattered and scattered. That kind of orgasm can sometimes cause the rare end-of-Galiana ragdoll phenomenon, where I feel limp, impervious to all sensation, and unable to figure out my safe word for a few minutes. Trust required.
12. My Favorite - Missionary: It sounds boring by comparison, I know, but there's something about being under a man, with his whole chest against my whole chest, nuzzling into each others' necks and shoulders, when I'm urging him deeper with my hands and legs and hips, and he's pressing himself completely against me, that grinds into my clit and pussy perfectly. I love feeling trapped when I arch against him, and feeling him respond to my tightening when I come. I've been told sometimes it's a struggle to stay inside me because I clench so hard like that. I feel like my whole body floats and swirls. I love it.

Wow, I do have a dozen orgasms after all... at least. I could probably think of others, but there are vibrators... and a husband... and maybe I can think of better things to do right now... 

Orgasmic Greediness and Insecurity

During some cuddly, chatty afterglow, a caller said, "At one point, I was coaching you to come, really pushing for your orgasm, so much so that I was momentarily distracted from my own stroking, and I thought for a second, 'Wait, who is the phone sex operator here?'"

No kidding.

Somewhat similar to sex-free phone sex, sometimes I've had entire conversations consisting of me having a climax or two, with no reciprocal male orgasm at all. If you've read this blog entry, you can probably understand why I always feel a little imbalanced after those calls. Why did you get your blessing and deny me mine? Did I use up too much time? Too much energy? Did I do something wrong? Was my orgasm not stimulating for you? I have to reassure myself that it's okay, and trust that my partner knows what pleases him.

I love playing with the power dynamic of wanting to have an orgasm, but waiting for permission before I pop. It lends itself to variety: shall I earn the right to come, or just beg for it? And even if we're sharing control with nobody designated as the top, the concept works nicely because it is paid phone sex: it's your call, so maybe I should ask before I hijack the call with my pleasure (not, of course, if I'm obviously in charge - if you've asked me to dominate you or seduce you or teach you, then I'll let my waves rise and crest at whatever speed and frequency I desire).

I am intensely aware that my climax could be distracting for you, and maybe I'm just being greedy. Old issues can pop up, remnants from a time when I questioned if my higher-than-average sex drive meant something was wrong with me, an idea planted during arguments as a relationship dissolved unpleasantly. I  went so far as to have my hormones tested - all normal - and explore with a therapist whether or not I am a sex addict - I'm not. I mean, honestly, almost every day, someone calls to guide me as I masturbate, so if that's not what is happening on this call, shouldn't I be able to hold off until I'm sure you have the enjoyment you're seeking? How much pleasure should one girl need in a day?

Inner Protective Samurai (appearing suddenly but silently, as if materialized from the air): Well, hello there, old voices of shame. You feel familiar, and full of lies. I shall take this opportunity to slice you to ribbons with the sword I spend my days sharpening. (whooshing noises) And now I shall have tea. (disappears)

The rest of the Inner Cast loves Inner Protective Samurai a lot. We think everyone should have one. Her sword is sharpened by the knowledge that "female copulatory vocalization" is common in primates, and has been scientifically proven to arouse the interest of males. It's the way of nature, Galiana, let it flow.

Okay. I will. I'll try. I mean... Could you do me a favor? If you call and we spend a lot of time with me having orgasms, especially if you don't have one, could you let me know that you enjoyed yourself? Thanks.

Law Of Attraction

All day Monday, my first "full" day back after so much time away, I talked with a few old faithfuls for 10-15 minutes apiece  (thanks, guys!), but I also had an unusual number of new callers with either the wrong number (a frustratingly common system glitch lately... they're working on it), or 3-4 minute conversations which had nothing whatsoever to do with me - the paint by numbers of phone sex, where my job is clearly to follow a script.

I knew it might take a few days to pick up steam again. In theory, I was ready for that. In reality, I was a little bored. So on a whim and a prayer, I tweeted, "Smart fun creative sex-loving #phonesex op in search of like-minded callers. 3-min BJs are fine, but I want to explore something luscious!"

It seems unlikely that anybody ever picks up new callers from the #phonesex hashtag, but it couldn't hurt, right. And inevitably, following the #phonesex hashtag on Twitter is a fun bunny trail to find new co-workers to follow, and stay in the right mindset between calls.

Then as early evening faded into later evening, someone bought one of my new picture packages - a $2 package of all my off-phone Facebook profile pictures. Turned out to be one of my earliest callers, "The Wanker." Of course he bought those pictures, because he values my honesty and real-ness. I realized it was crazy early in the morning for him (he's in Europe), and thought he probably wouldn't call.

Ohhhhhh but I underestimated the power of an insistently engorged cock in the hand of a world-class wanker, a mistake I'll try not to make again. He called, and we ended up having a lovely, long, luxurious conversation. It's a battle with him: Can he be strong and hang up before I cause him to finish? Or can I overcome his years of masturbation training and make him hang on with me until I make him climax?

I pulled out every stop I could think of: discuss the power dynamics of trading your financial power for my sexual power, describe to me how you stroke yourself, what would you want if we met in person, and finally, if we were to push the symbolism of wanking to its most extreme practice, what would it look like? (That answer would change from wanker to wanker, of course, but for him: watching an alpha male fuck a beautiful woman, but not be allowed to touch his own painfully stiff cock, so his unsated lust serves only as a stark reminder of the difference between alphas and wankers) After an astonishingly long holdout, I finally won. We got off the phone and I threw my hands in the air and took a victory lap around the living room chanting "USA! USA!"

After I drifted back slightly closer to sanity, I mused that I had written that tweet, and also the blog post yesterday about Orgasms and Power, and then, as if the Law of Attraction were really a law and not just a hippie feel-good theory, The Wanker gave me the very thing I'd been hoping to attract: a fascinating, smart, imaginative, exploratory conversation with a delightful, kind, honest phone partner.

Thank you, Wanker, darling. And ... better luck next time ;)

Orgasms: Power and Control

Long ago, I read a non-Western philosophy of sex, couched as an older male instructing a younger male in the ways of lovemaking, that said that the female orgasm was a blessing to the man who causes it.

I love the idea, but I have to expand on it:

• An orgasm is always a blessing, regardless of the gender of the person having it
• An orgasm is always a blessing, regardless of the gender of the person "causing" it
• Causality for orgasms is a joint effort - both the person having the orgasm and the person(s) helping are at least partially responsible, and therefore, both are blessed 

In my own power-play explorations, I am fascinated by the power and control of an orgasm. 

For example, if I'm being submissive (let's say for the sake of visual effect: on my knees in front of a nice hard cock with my hands tied behind my back), the theoretical power dynamic is that I am serving him, and that he has all the power. And yet, in the moment when he tumbles over the brink into ecstasy, I can sense him losing control for a moment, and I always feel a surge of power, as if I have won something. My grin afterwards always has a bit of victorious gloating in it. Lovers have laughed at me, as in, "Well, you're pleased with yourself, aren't you?" Why yes, yes, I am. 

And when I climax at the hands (or lips or cock) of someone theoretically serving me, I feel that same transfer of power and control. I lose my sense of my self, my ability to choose, my ability to rationally decide, just for a moment. The French refer to an orgasm as "la petite mort", translated as "the little death" (explained well on wikipedia), as a recognition of the expenditure of one's life force in those moments. 

And when I have enough of them strung together in the right way, with enough breathers between them to avoid burnout, I can enter a "sub space" where I no longer want to be in control, where I no longer wish to decide anything at all. It can feel like I'm drifting on a current of air, or sometimes of water, or like I've expanded out into space as if I were universal. Physiologically, I understand that I've simply overloaded my frontal cortex, but emotionally, it can feel blissful. 

I love the endless loop... you serve me to cause me to surrender control to you who uses your power to get me to serve you to cause you to surrender control to me...  delicious.