Showing posts with label whore. Show all posts
Showing posts with label whore. Show all posts
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Heart of a Girlfriend, Imagination of a Whore
I have a new tagline: Galiana Chance, Phone Sex Operator with the Heart of a Girlfriend, Imagination of a Whore.
I made new banners, too! I love that the pictures were taken very recently (less than a month ago), so I don't feel guilty about having my first pictures be over a year old old. Good. Grief. Time flies.
I took the picture on the left before the kinky Christmas party where my husband and I first met Devant (iPhone self-portrait for the win), and the one of the right was my photo shoot with Sir Wallter.
I just realized (after testing the phrase on a dozen people, making the banners, and posting the banner on my blog) that I used to have problems with both the word "girlfriend" and "whore", and yet now, here I am, using them to summarize myself. I'm nothing if not ever-changing. That's good, right? In a "the unexamined life is not worth living" kind of a way? Or does it just mean that I have loose mental morals as well as sexual ones? It's hard to tell.
Anyway, for a while, I didn't like the phrase "girlfriend experience" (also known in the business as GFE), because I had unpleasant associations with the word "girlfriend" (I went to a liberal arts university in the early 90s - I can totally redefine words!), but my objections seem to have melted away since I've picked up a new in-person lover who likes to call me his girlfriend. Awwww. Now the word makes me all happy. Plus, even before that, several callers had let me know they feel like I'm girlfriend-ey with them, which was enough to melt my resistance.
I also used to shy away from the word "whore", probably mostly out of my pride as claiming myself as a slut. I don't have to get paid to fuck, dammit! I'm a slut! Oh, wait, but now I do get paid to (phone) fuck, so now I'm a... ? Ummmm. Yep, yep, yep, I'm a whore.
So here I am, announcing myself as a girlfriend/whore. Archetype much, Galiana? It's not quite Madonna/whore, but it's in the same vein. Maybe when I choose my next tagline, I'll have to go to back to pagan mythos and pitch myself as a maiden-matron-crone...
One day, I'll at least attempt to think of my readers instead of just amusing myself. Maybe. Don't hold your breath for that, though.
Back on target: the tagline. I like it because I think it's true: I care. I give a shit. I have a big fuzzy heart. What the person on the other end of the phone feels matters to me. And inside that caring is a whole big wide world of deliciously erotic ideas waiting to bubble out at the slightest provocation (and sometimes even with no provocation, to customer service representatives over the phone, but that's another story altogether...).
I'd love to know what you think!
I made new banners, too! I love that the pictures were taken very recently (less than a month ago), so I don't feel guilty about having my first pictures be over a year old old. Good. Grief. Time flies.
I took the picture on the left before the kinky Christmas party where my husband and I first met Devant (iPhone self-portrait for the win), and the one of the right was my photo shoot with Sir Wallter.
I just realized (after testing the phrase on a dozen people, making the banners, and posting the banner on my blog) that I used to have problems with both the word "girlfriend" and "whore", and yet now, here I am, using them to summarize myself. I'm nothing if not ever-changing. That's good, right? In a "the unexamined life is not worth living" kind of a way? Or does it just mean that I have loose mental morals as well as sexual ones? It's hard to tell.
Anyway, for a while, I didn't like the phrase "girlfriend experience" (also known in the business as GFE), because I had unpleasant associations with the word "girlfriend" (I went to a liberal arts university in the early 90s - I can totally redefine words!), but my objections seem to have melted away since I've picked up a new in-person lover who likes to call me his girlfriend. Awwww. Now the word makes me all happy. Plus, even before that, several callers had let me know they feel like I'm girlfriend-ey with them, which was enough to melt my resistance.
I also used to shy away from the word "whore", probably mostly out of my pride as claiming myself as a slut. I don't have to get paid to fuck, dammit! I'm a slut! Oh, wait, but now I do get paid to (phone) fuck, so now I'm a... ? Ummmm. Yep, yep, yep, I'm a whore.
So here I am, announcing myself as a girlfriend/whore. Archetype much, Galiana? It's not quite Madonna/whore, but it's in the same vein. Maybe when I choose my next tagline, I'll have to go to back to pagan mythos and pitch myself as a maiden-matron-crone...
One day, I'll at least attempt to think of my readers instead of just amusing myself. Maybe. Don't hold your breath for that, though.
Back on target: the tagline. I like it because I think it's true: I care. I give a shit. I have a big fuzzy heart. What the person on the other end of the phone feels matters to me. And inside that caring is a whole big wide world of deliciously erotic ideas waiting to bubble out at the slightest provocation (and sometimes even with no provocation, to customer service representatives over the phone, but that's another story altogether...).
I'd love to know what you think!
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Summer Fling
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| I Heart Summer Flings |
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,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:
"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.
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.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Five Blowjob Night
I just had to stop writing for a moment to go get a lollipop. I will clearly need something to suck on while writing this. Hooray for oral fixations!
The first call was a nice, slow guided masturbation, but he was in the mood to tease me through my clothes, dammit. He was gently talking smut in my ear while telling me how to stroke myself, and I started begging for him to touch me, fuck me, shove his cock in my mouth, anything more than this tormented non-touch, please... He was standing over me, enticing me, and eventually gave in to my pleadings and slid himself to the back of my throat as he allowed me to cum, which tipped him over the delicious edge as well.
I like begging so much more before I start begging, and later when I think about it, than I enjoy begging when I'm in the middle of it. Funny how that works.
The second caller has fantasies of using me as a whore, as impersonally as possible, just meeting in a hotel room, getting sucked off, and then tossing me on my way. He wanted to hear stories about times I'd given head when the guy couldn't have cared less about my pleasure, when he just used my mouth like a glory hole.
As it turns out, I have a few of those stories: college spring break when my friend brought home a random hookup and his friend, I got stuck with the friend, and I obliged him with oral sex so he'd let me go to sleep; the drunk boyfriend who fucked my face while I hung my head off the edge of the bed and then passed out; my husband and I completing our sex-in-every-room tour of the new townhome with an unreciprocated blow job on the back porch, loud enough to meet his "slurpy" preference, but quiet enough to hide from the people in the nearby pool.
You'd think that guy would be the type to hang up right away after coming, wouldn't you? But no, he's surprisingly cuddly and chatty afterward, and wants to know all about my life. Such an amusing juxtaposition.
The third caller was in a tender mood, and wanted "something languorous, luscious... like the most sensual fellatio you can imagine." So I covered his body with kisses and massaging caresses, worked my way to his cock, and then took my time, enjoying the heat, the scent, the taste, the feeling of the rhythm building, the pulsing of his flesh under my tongue, the intimacy of him looking down into my eyes as I swallowed him whole time after time.
He was slurring his words from sleep or alcohol when the call started, so his sleepy, satisfied "Mmmmm, g'night Galinana" was hardly a shock. So cute.
The fourth caller told me a story, of why he had hung up on me last time he had called: because I was describing a three-way I had with a couple in 2002, where both of us girls were going down on the guy, and the caller had been driving during our previous call, and had gotten turned on, so he had pulled over, in the middle of nowhere, to masturbate while I described it in vivid detail... and a cop pulled up! Yikes! He got his dick back in his pants and convinced the policeman he was napping on a multi-hour road trip, thankfully. But wow, yeah, that's a valid excuse to hang up suddenly!
So for this call, thankfully, he was not driving, and he wanted me to start the story over from scratch, and give every lascivious detail. Since that weekend I spent with that couple is one of my favorite erotic memories, I was happy to oblige.
Then the fifth and final caller of the night wanted me to rim him while jacking him off, but it morphed into him guiding my head with his hand in my hair, me deep-throating him, while I fucked his ass with my finger to the same rhythm. He said he shot clear up to his neck he came so hard. Awww. That made me so happy. Isn't that what every girl wants to hear?
Then I logged off and looked over my notes to make sure I hadn't left anything out, and realized I'd had an all-blowjob evening. My fingers were pruney from sucking on them so much, my husband was frustratingly out of town, and my panties, uncharacteristically still on my body at the end of the evening, were soaked.
Why, hello, there, favorite vibrators with fresh batteries lying by my bed. Do me a favor and help me out with a little fantasy I've been working on, would you? It involves me on my knees...
Friday, July 1, 2011
Sugar Daddy Musings
In theory, developing an in-person relationship with a new lover with Sugar Daddy energy would be perfect for me. My husband and I are openly non-monogamous, he often travels for work, and I have bills to pay and love to share.
So earlier this week, I found a few "dating" sites specifically designed for Sugar Daddies/Mommas to find Sugar Babies (also of both sexes - hooray for GLBTQ progress) and signed up for the two with the most interesting combination of features.
After a brief flurry of activity, this letter arrived in my brain:
Don't get me wrong: I have had success in developing relationships with lovers from online sites. But it takes time, and energy, and patience, and the emotional fortitude to keep up your hope and hold fast to your standards. Add in my bizarre circumstances (I'm married, I'm a phone sex worker, I have vertigo...), and it starts to feel ... well ... it feels like a job.
And you know what? I have a job already, thank you very much. A job I love. Honestly, Galiana, the last thing you need is to be distracting yourself by having to politely turn away dozens of men who can't read or write complete sentences. If I wanted to do that, I would answer my email on my OK Cupid profile, which states I'm not looking, but I still get email (I set it up to be see callers' profiles to help them with their listings - I'm a damn fine profile coach if I do say so myself).
But just like with other dating / hookup sites, the majority of people on the Sugar Daddy sites are of average intelligence. It makes sense mathematically - the majority is average - that's not cruel, that's just the math (well, it might be the mean... heh, nerd joke).
I will not be a good long-term match with someone of average intelligence. So in order to find a good match, I need to take the time to sift through the majority to uncover the gold, which is less than 1% by volume. Hmmm, in that metaphor, the majority is dirt, and I'm not comfortable with that, because all people have value, but I can't quickly think of a better metaphor at the moment. But just to be clear: nobody is dirt, even if I don't happen to want to fuck them.
I'm picky. I know. I need a someone who is smart, funny, honest, free of STDs, willing to use condoms, committed to usually doing the right thing (however it's defined for him), understanding of my circumstances, patient with my limits, has Sugar Daddy tendencies, and is filled head to toe with insatiable lust for me. Quite a combo.
Also, frankly, the whole dynamic still freaks me out, because it feels like I would be whoring myself out if I evaluated a potential partner based on how much of a girlfriend allowance he could give me. I mean, it would be whoring myself out. That's clear to me. And it doesn't fit me right, like a new shoe with a pointed toe in the wrong shape: it pinches me, and I want to take it off and walk around in my hippie free love bare feet again.
Maybe I'll return to the idea some time when I feel like I have an extra hour or two per day to sift. That day is clearly not today, because this afternoon, I'm going to the airport to pick up my smart, funny, honest, STD-free, do-the-right-thing, compassionate, patient, generous, lusty husband, and that makes me the luckiest girl in the world already.
See ya tomorrow :)
So earlier this week, I found a few "dating" sites specifically designed for Sugar Daddies/Mommas to find Sugar Babies (also of both sexes - hooray for GLBTQ progress) and signed up for the two with the most interesting combination of features.
After a brief flurry of activity, this letter arrived in my brain:
Dear Galiana in 2011,
Remember when you developed a fantastic long-distance BDSM relationship with a Dom over about six months, met him in person, it was awesome, then tried to quickly replicate it via an online kink site, and it ended in disappointment?
Remember when you developed a fantastic long-distance flirting relationship with a bi girl / straight guy couple over about six months, met them in person, it was awesome, then tried to quickly replicate it via an online swingers site, and it ended in disappointment?
So even though rumor has it that you might or might not have recently developed a fantastic long-distance lover relationship with a gentleman with Sugar Daddy tendencies over about six months of having phone sex with him, met him in person, and it was awesome, perhaps you have already learned the lesson that you cannot replicate such relationships quickly via online sites.
Do us a favor and skip the disappointment.
Love, Galiana from 2003
Don't get me wrong: I have had success in developing relationships with lovers from online sites. But it takes time, and energy, and patience, and the emotional fortitude to keep up your hope and hold fast to your standards. Add in my bizarre circumstances (I'm married, I'm a phone sex worker, I have vertigo...), and it starts to feel ... well ... it feels like a job.
And you know what? I have a job already, thank you very much. A job I love. Honestly, Galiana, the last thing you need is to be distracting yourself by having to politely turn away dozens of men who can't read or write complete sentences. If I wanted to do that, I would answer my email on my OK Cupid profile, which states I'm not looking, but I still get email (I set it up to be see callers' profiles to help them with their listings - I'm a damn fine profile coach if I do say so myself).
But just like with other dating / hookup sites, the majority of people on the Sugar Daddy sites are of average intelligence. It makes sense mathematically - the majority is average - that's not cruel, that's just the math (well, it might be the mean... heh, nerd joke).
I will not be a good long-term match with someone of average intelligence. So in order to find a good match, I need to take the time to sift through the majority to uncover the gold, which is less than 1% by volume. Hmmm, in that metaphor, the majority is dirt, and I'm not comfortable with that, because all people have value, but I can't quickly think of a better metaphor at the moment. But just to be clear: nobody is dirt, even if I don't happen to want to fuck them.
I'm picky. I know. I need a someone who is smart, funny, honest, free of STDs, willing to use condoms, committed to usually doing the right thing (however it's defined for him), understanding of my circumstances, patient with my limits, has Sugar Daddy tendencies, and is filled head to toe with insatiable lust for me. Quite a combo.
Also, frankly, the whole dynamic still freaks me out, because it feels like I would be whoring myself out if I evaluated a potential partner based on how much of a girlfriend allowance he could give me. I mean, it would be whoring myself out. That's clear to me. And it doesn't fit me right, like a new shoe with a pointed toe in the wrong shape: it pinches me, and I want to take it off and walk around in my hippie free love bare feet again.
Maybe I'll return to the idea some time when I feel like I have an extra hour or two per day to sift. That day is clearly not today, because this afternoon, I'm going to the airport to pick up my smart, funny, honest, STD-free, do-the-right-thing, compassionate, patient, generous, lusty husband, and that makes me the luckiest girl in the world already.
See ya tomorrow :)
Sunday, June 26, 2011
New Lover Warning Labels
I should have the following warning labels attached to me when meeting with new lovers in person for the first time:
- I tend to avoid looking directly into people's eyes for more than just a brief moment at a time because it makes me dizzy faster (eyes are wiggly)
- Although I go limp and submissive when some people get all rough and tough and toppy with me, other people inspire giggles when they attempt to be growly
- I need to take a break about once an hour; thankfully, I've never been with a lover who can go for longer than an hour straight with no break, either, even without vertigo
- If you are in from out of town with no rental car, and I am providing your local transportation, my car will probably smell like dogs who went straight from a dog park pool to my back seat, because I will probably forget to get my car washed or detailed
- I will probably get a manicure and pedicure before your arrival, just to feel pampered and pretty, but I will probably guess completely wrong whether you prefer women to look natural and neutral or vamped up and slutty
- Our first moments together spent in person, adjusting to each others' energy, might be spent at a grocery store to ensure there are beverages and snacks in the hotel room, and it might not occur to me until later that some people may find this bit of practical planning utterly unromantic
- I'm the type who figures things out by trying, which sometimes results in the jacuzzi jets positioned for the middle back to spray me unceremoniously in the face
- If you insist on trying the whole spend-the-night-together concept despite my repeated attempts to explain my extraordinary levels of sedated grogginess before and after sleeping (anti-vertigo med side effect), I will feel free to use the phrase "Go away now" liberally
- Conversations attempted before noon sometimes result in me staring at you in silence for an inordinately long time; if this happens, please know that I am trying to figure out if I still retain the ability to speak
- I lose track of time in the shower, especially before noon, so if you postulate that "45 minutes should be enough time for you to shower before they close down the breakfast bar", I might stare at you like a grumpy child and shake my head "no" with no further explanation
- If you talk me into seeing where I live, and I do not straighten and clean before your arrival, I will spend at least an hour in an utterly non-sexy "getting stuff done" mode where I straighten and clean, during which any attempts to interact with me around sexy topics will be met with confusion at best, and the phrase "Go away now" at worst
- If I forget to stay caffeinated enough after 11 pm, I may slip into a nighttime version of the pre-noon grogginess which would work fantastically well for someone with Real Doll fantasies, but perhaps might not work as well for people who primarily find stimulation from intelligent interactions with coherent human beings
- If we are staying at my place, and I slip into my Real Doll imitation about midnight, but wake up to go potty in the middle of the night and remember that you have no idea what to do for breakfast, I might leave a bowl, spoon, packets of instant oatmeal, measuring cup, and insane amounts of Splenda in front of your room so you will trip over it in the morning, and neither of us will be able to figure out how any human being could ever require that amount of Splenda in that sized bowl
- If you want me to wear an outfit that you have seen in pictures and do not inform me of this ahead of time, it may not have been worn or washed since I took those pictures, which will certainly cause delays
- If you want me to cook for you... no, no, no, really, honestly, you don't want that, just trust me on this point
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Meeting In Person
Because I am non-monogamous, I've had callers ask if I would ever consider meeting them in person. For a platonic lunch? Sure. For hours on end of rambunctious sex? That's tricky.
A favorite caller of mine is going to be in town this summer, and asked me to write out my realistic caveats and expectations for meeting in person. I've been musing about the topic since I became a phone sex operator, so it's about damn time I put together a blog post already.
The trickiness boils down to this: because of the combination of (a) my mysterious neurological vertigo and (b) my dependence on phone sex to pay the bills, I protect my time and energy very carefully to ensure that I am available to work as often as possible.
So I limit my activities in life, including regularly missing out-of-town events which I would eagerly attend if I did not have that unfortunate combination. Don't get me wrong: I love my life, my life is worth living even if I have to miss a few celebrations, and I love that sometimes I can say yes and join in.
And I love being with a new lover for the first time - I love that a lot. And I love the idea of meeting a new lover by having them be a phone sex caller first -- the chance to get to know how we turn each other on that way is pretty damn sexy. And I'm comfortable with my ability to discern who I would be compatible with meeting in person -- remember, I was a slut before I was a phone whore, and I've hooked up from the internet after writing/chatting/talking on the phone plenty of times, before I got vertigo. My experience suggests that the longer I know a lover before we meet in person, the better the sex is.
Warning: this blog post is ludicrously long, and chock full of unsexy, fantasy-draining unpleasantries and logistics. Your boner is seriously at risk.
VERTIGO
The uncomfortable truth is: there is no way for us to meet in person and have sex without it making me dizzy.
I've written about some of the issues with my vertigo (in this early blog post, and then also more recently), but here's a summary: I feel drunk all the time. Many things make me feel more drunk, including motion, concentration on complex mental tasks, and being in crowds. The only thing that makes me feel less drunk is spending time being still.
The basic theory behind my vertigo is that my neurons in a few parts of my brain aren’t recharging fast enough, so once they fire, they need more time than normal to be available to fire again. So when I do activities with certain types of stimulation, those neurons wear themselves out and need to recharge. As neurological impulses are re-routed to pathways which are not designed to handle those processes, chaos ensues, which manifests as me feeling progressively dizzier.
What I haven't yet mentioned on the blog is that, out of the 32 medicines I have tried so far, there are two medicines which allow me to be relatively dizzy-free for several hours a time, helpful enough to take now and then, but they have side effects and drawbacks.
The big drawback is rebound: As a drug wears off, I almost inevitably have a rebound effect, which is different for each medicine. The most common rebound experience is approximately like having a sugar crash, after eating ten times more ice cream than you should, on a day when you were already desperately hung over, from taking tequila shots until you puked. So it's not fun. My head feels woozy, my tummy is upset, I'm confused, I'm light-sensitive, and I'm cranky about it.
At its most severe, it feels like someone is holding my skull like a snow globe and shaking my brain inside it. And just like settling a snow globe, the only way to calm back down is to be completely still.
During a rebound crash, I need to be totally alone in a dark, quiet room. No, you can't lie on the bed next to me, because if you so much as move a muscle, I will want to kill you, so for the protection of our relationship, you can't be there when I'm rebounding.
Remember: you were warned about the non-sexy in this blog post. And there's more coming. Sorry.
Ritalin:
Neurological stimulants seem to reduce my dizziness by speeding up the recharge rate to allow my neurons to fire again. I've tried a few uppers, and Ritalin has the most tolerable combination of side effects for the amount of anti-dizzy time I get. But, like most stimulants, the effects degrade with repeated use.
Behaviorally, I am irrationally talkative on Ritalin, and I'm convinced all my funny stories are hilarious.
Assuming I'm well-rested and haven't taken Ritalin in at least a week, so I have a nice, fresh brain, here's what happens:
* 1st day: I'm euphoric and comparatively dizzy-free for 6-8 hours; I can do almost anything (including sustained vigorous fucking); the rebound crash lasts about 1.5 hours.
* 2nd day: I'm euphoric and comparatively dizzy-free for 4-6 hours; I can do almost anything (including sustained vigorous fucking); the rebound crash lasts about 3 hours.
* 3rd day: I'm comparatively dizzy-free for 2-3 hours if I'm lucky, but jittery feelings drown out euphoria; I can do most things, but fucking would have to be gentle; the rebound crash lasts for 4 hours; my blood pressure rises to unhealthy levels.
* 4th day: The entire experience is basically one big rebound crash for hours on end, and my blood pressure rises to get-to-an-emergency-room-right-fucking-now levels. Not good.
* the day after: even if I just take Ritalin for 1 day, the day after I take it, I feel hung over most of the day: I have low energy, I am easily confused, and I am less interested in social interactions.
I love taking Ritalin for things I would not otherwise be able to participate in very easily (like Christmas morning with wiggly children, or my friend's wedding last October), and it is worth the rebound + hangover for such events. Better than not having those memories.
Xanax:
Neurological anti-anxiety drugs like Xanax seem to reduce my dizziness by relieving my mind of the background process of anxieties and worries, leaving more neural networks free to focus on the task at hand. Plus they block dizzy signals from the inner ear (which are clearly scrambled in my case), which is why they are often used for motion sickness.
The effects of Xanax degrade less than with Ritalin, but the side effect of making me lethargic and sleepy progressively strengthens.
Behaviorally, while I'm on Xanax, I act sleepy, giggly, stupid, and stoned; I have very little impulse control, so I say insane things, and should not be out in public for fear I'll take off my bra and toss it at someone like I'm a groupie at a Tom Jones concert in the 1970s. Therefore, I have to trust someone a lot to take Xanax with them, because my judgment is clouded, and I won't do heavy BDSM or bondage play on Xanax.
Also, when I'm on Xanax, I need a constant influx of caffeine just to stay awake. By "constant influx" I mean I need to drink significant caffeine every 15-20 minutes. This results in frequent potty breaks, so suspension shibari would be out of the question anyway.
(side note: I'm uncommonly sensitive to drugs... these effects are from the lowest possible doses, and I split pills in half)
Assuming I'm well-rested and haven't taken Xanax in at least a week, so I have a nice, fresh brain, here's what happens:
* 1st day: I'm delightedly stoned and comparatively dizzy-free for 5-6 hours; I can do almost anything (including sustained vigorous fucking); the rebound crash lasts about 1 hour.
* 2nd day: I'm delightedly stoned and comparatively dizzy-free for 4-5 hours; I can do almost anything (including sustained vigorous fucking); the rebound crash lasts about 2 hours.
* 3rd day: I'm comparatively dizzy-free for 3-4 hours, but the urge to sleep is increasingly difficult to overcome; I can do almost anything (including sustained vigorous fucking); the rebound crash lasts about 3 hours.
* 4th day: The entire experience is basically one muddled and unmotivated rebound crash until I go to sleep.
* the day after: no matter how many days in a row I've taken Xanax, the day after I take it, I feel sluggish and unresponsive, easily confused, and I am less interested in social interactions.
Ritalin and Xanax combined:
Doesn't help. I tried. All the side effects, none of the benefits. Rats.
With my daily medicine:
After I first wrote this post, I discovered a daily medicine, phenobarbital, which I affectionately refer to as my "horse tranquilizer" because it is more often used as a veterinary medicine these days, which allows me to do more on a daily basis, with less dizziness, with the side effect that it makes me groggy.
If I'm fully settled, I can do dizzy-inducing activities for a while, but then I need to rest, and the ratio of activity-to-rest keeps degrading. If I don't rest in time, the degradation speeds up exponentially, as if my vertigo were rolling downhill and picking up speed. So having sex off meds looks about like this, even if none of it is overly vigorous:
* fuck for about 90-120 minutes then rest for about 60 minutes
* fuck for about 45-60 minutes then rest for about 90 minutes
* fuck for about 30-45 minutes then rest for about 120 minutes
* fuck for about 15 minutes and then I'm done for the day
The day after I did that full of a pattern, I'd feel dizzier than usual, and less social than usual.
FINANCIAL CONSIDERATIONS: THOUGHTS
When I feel anti-social, easily confused, or have problems completing sentences, it has a profound effect on my ability to earn money. There is no vacation pay as a PSO - either you're being paid to be on the phone or you're not. So when a day goes by and I'm not logged in, I forever lose the income potential of that day.
I would only take a new lover if I were attracted to them, no matter how much money was involved. Really, if someone I was not attracted to took me to the Bunny Ranch, registered me as a legal prostitute, and offered me $25,000, I would say no.
But assuming there is enough attraction for me to consider enjoying you as an in-person lover, romping with you in the flesh will knock me off the phones for a day or two.
It's complicated, right? Because if I'm attracted to you and want you to be my lover, then in some ways, that's like any other life-thing, and I shouldn't be compensated for it.
However, I am extraordinarily picky about how I spend my off-phone, social time. Honestly, I'm pickier about that than I am about who I would theoretically have sex with. There are lots of people I would love to fuck if I had all the time and money and non-dizzy energy in the world, and yet, I've only chosen to have two in-person lovers other than my husband since I got vertigo.
Another factor: while I'm not morally opposed to prostitution, I am opposed to breaking the law, so I won't take money for sex unless we're in a legal brothel and I'm registered as a legal prostitute.
However, money does make it possible for me to be away from my job as a phone sex operator.
I realized that if I had all the money in the world, and I had a friend in the same situation, and I wanted to visit with my friend, I would happily give her a gift of a few days' earning potential to spend one day with her wearing her out doing something she loved, so she wouldn't have to worry about the financial impact of her time off.
Once I realized that, I accepted that, although I won't take money for sex, I would take a gift which allows me to take worry-free time off work.
Sex would not be guaranteed, just as sex would not be guaranteed for anyone I would be meeting in person for the first time - chemistry would have to align, I'd have to feel safe, and I'd have to feel non-dizzy enough. Those caveats not only keep me legal, they are just plain true.
For safety and sanity, as with any potential partner I haven't yet met in person, we'd meet in public and share a nice meal first to mutually decide whether or not to become lovers.
Just in case we do mutually decide to become lovers, we'd both bring recent STD test results showing we're free of anything unpleasantly contagious, we'd both bring condoms to show our commitment to remaining STD-free, and if we became lovers, we'd use condoms during penetrative sex.
If several days in a row were an option, here's what I think would work best for my vertigo, but this theory is untested, so the degradation of my vertigo may be more severe than this:
* Day 1: Ritalin - 6-8 hours together
* Day 2: Xanax - 5-6 hours together
* Day 3: Ritalin: 5-6 hours together
I would not be willing to try more than 3 days in a row, mostly because I can't spend that much alone time with anyone without going a little bonkers, and unfortunately, we can't break up the time with museums or movies or concerts, because those are just as non-restful for me as having sex.
FINANCIAL CONSIDERATIONS: THE NUMBERS
So, what is "a gift which allows me to take worry-free time off work"?
* My highest 24-hour take (my portion) was $356.
* My lowest 24-hour take where I was available full-time (at least 12 hours) was around $100.
* My goal on a normal full-time day is $150.
* I make my goal, or more, about 90% of the time when I'm available for 12 hours.
* Realistically, it would take $250 for me to feel totally stress-free about taking a day off work.
* Realistically, on day(s) we meet, I would need to board my dogs ($75 / night).
FINANCIAL AND VERTIGO CONSIDERATIONS: CONCLUSIONS
MEETING LOCALLY
It's simpler to meet on my turf in Houston, of course.
* You pay your way to get to Houston. You get a car for yourself. You get a hotel room for yourself.
* My set up: (day of pampering and rest before, day of rest after): $500
* 1 day together ($500 set up + $250 for the day off for me + $75 to board the dogs): $825
* 2 days together ($500 set up + $500 for 2 days off for me + $150 to board the dogs): $1150
* 3 days together: ($500 set up + $750 for 3 days off for me + $225 to board the dogs): $1475
(Math you don't have to do: 3 days is the best per-day rate at $491/ day. You're welcome.)
TRAVELING
Traveling is more complicated, because I need to take off the day I travel, plus the day after to recover- traveling is by far my most dizzying activity (which is a heart breaker because I love to see new places!).
So, for example, if you wanted to meet Friday-Saturday-Sunday in Vegas, I would need to travel on Wednesday, recover on Thursday, play Fri-Sat-Sun, travel back on Monday, and recover Tuesday. Even though it's only 3 days of play, I would be off work for 7 days, and boarding my dogs for 6 nights.
So if you wanted to meet me somewhere other than Houston, and you wanted me to have no anxiety about taking plenty of time off work, you would need to give me a gift of:
* You pay my airfare, and you pay for a hotel room for me - if you also are in a hotel in town, I need my own hotel room, or at least my own bedroom, to ensure I can be completely alone when I'm recovering.
* My set up: ($1000 for four days off - day of travel before, day of rest before, day of travel after, day of rest after + $225 to board my dogs on travel days): $1225
* 1 day together ($1225 set up + $250 for the day off for me + $75 to board the dogs): $1550
* 2 days together ($1225 set up + $500 for 2 days off for me + $150 to board the dogs): $1875
* 3 days together: ($1225 set up + $750 for 3 days off for me + $225 to board the dogs): $2200
(Math you don't have to do: 3 days is the best per-day rate at $733/ day. You're welcome.)
CAVEATS
As with anyone with an unpredictable physiological condition, if we meet in person, I reserve the right at any point to bow out of any activity and take care of myself physically at any time in any way I see fit.
Since dollar amounts are simply gifts to allow me to take anxiety-free time off work, and no specific activities are guaranteed, there would never be refunds.
Ugh, I worked as a consultant too long... I can think of a bazillion other caveats, but I think I'll stop now before I get my lawyer ex-co-worker friends involved.
CONCLUSION
This topic is mind-bogglingly complicated for me when I try to make the leap from fantasy to reality. Hopefully this blog post has explained why.
But emotionally, in the world of fantasy, I love the idea of getting to know a caller on the phone, recognizing our mutual attraction and comfort, and meeting in person to become in-the-flesh lovers. What a great way to find potential partners!
Plus, the phone sex after meeting in person would be that much hotter, wouldn't it? Soooooo fun to think about...
A favorite caller of mine is going to be in town this summer, and asked me to write out my realistic caveats and expectations for meeting in person. I've been musing about the topic since I became a phone sex operator, so it's about damn time I put together a blog post already.
The trickiness boils down to this: because of the combination of (a) my mysterious neurological vertigo and (b) my dependence on phone sex to pay the bills, I protect my time and energy very carefully to ensure that I am available to work as often as possible.
So I limit my activities in life, including regularly missing out-of-town events which I would eagerly attend if I did not have that unfortunate combination. Don't get me wrong: I love my life, my life is worth living even if I have to miss a few celebrations, and I love that sometimes I can say yes and join in.
And I love being with a new lover for the first time - I love that a lot. And I love the idea of meeting a new lover by having them be a phone sex caller first -- the chance to get to know how we turn each other on that way is pretty damn sexy. And I'm comfortable with my ability to discern who I would be compatible with meeting in person -- remember, I was a slut before I was a phone whore, and I've hooked up from the internet after writing/chatting/talking on the phone plenty of times, before I got vertigo. My experience suggests that the longer I know a lover before we meet in person, the better the sex is.
Warning: this blog post is ludicrously long, and chock full of unsexy, fantasy-draining unpleasantries and logistics. Your boner is seriously at risk.
VERTIGO
The uncomfortable truth is: there is no way for us to meet in person and have sex without it making me dizzy.
I've written about some of the issues with my vertigo (in this early blog post, and then also more recently), but here's a summary: I feel drunk all the time. Many things make me feel more drunk, including motion, concentration on complex mental tasks, and being in crowds. The only thing that makes me feel less drunk is spending time being still.
The basic theory behind my vertigo is that my neurons in a few parts of my brain aren’t recharging fast enough, so once they fire, they need more time than normal to be available to fire again. So when I do activities with certain types of stimulation, those neurons wear themselves out and need to recharge. As neurological impulses are re-routed to pathways which are not designed to handle those processes, chaos ensues, which manifests as me feeling progressively dizzier.
What I haven't yet mentioned on the blog is that, out of the 32 medicines I have tried so far, there are two medicines which allow me to be relatively dizzy-free for several hours a time, helpful enough to take now and then, but they have side effects and drawbacks.
The big drawback is rebound: As a drug wears off, I almost inevitably have a rebound effect, which is different for each medicine. The most common rebound experience is approximately like having a sugar crash, after eating ten times more ice cream than you should, on a day when you were already desperately hung over, from taking tequila shots until you puked. So it's not fun. My head feels woozy, my tummy is upset, I'm confused, I'm light-sensitive, and I'm cranky about it.
At its most severe, it feels like someone is holding my skull like a snow globe and shaking my brain inside it. And just like settling a snow globe, the only way to calm back down is to be completely still.
During a rebound crash, I need to be totally alone in a dark, quiet room. No, you can't lie on the bed next to me, because if you so much as move a muscle, I will want to kill you, so for the protection of our relationship, you can't be there when I'm rebounding.
Remember: you were warned about the non-sexy in this blog post. And there's more coming. Sorry.
Ritalin:
Neurological stimulants seem to reduce my dizziness by speeding up the recharge rate to allow my neurons to fire again. I've tried a few uppers, and Ritalin has the most tolerable combination of side effects for the amount of anti-dizzy time I get. But, like most stimulants, the effects degrade with repeated use.
Behaviorally, I am irrationally talkative on Ritalin, and I'm convinced all my funny stories are hilarious.
Assuming I'm well-rested and haven't taken Ritalin in at least a week, so I have a nice, fresh brain, here's what happens:
* 1st day: I'm euphoric and comparatively dizzy-free for 6-8 hours; I can do almost anything (including sustained vigorous fucking); the rebound crash lasts about 1.5 hours.
* 2nd day: I'm euphoric and comparatively dizzy-free for 4-6 hours; I can do almost anything (including sustained vigorous fucking); the rebound crash lasts about 3 hours.
* 3rd day: I'm comparatively dizzy-free for 2-3 hours if I'm lucky, but jittery feelings drown out euphoria; I can do most things, but fucking would have to be gentle; the rebound crash lasts for 4 hours; my blood pressure rises to unhealthy levels.
* 4th day: The entire experience is basically one big rebound crash for hours on end, and my blood pressure rises to get-to-an-emergency-room-right-fucking-now levels. Not good.
* the day after: even if I just take Ritalin for 1 day, the day after I take it, I feel hung over most of the day: I have low energy, I am easily confused, and I am less interested in social interactions.
I love taking Ritalin for things I would not otherwise be able to participate in very easily (like Christmas morning with wiggly children, or my friend's wedding last October), and it is worth the rebound + hangover for such events. Better than not having those memories.
Xanax:
Neurological anti-anxiety drugs like Xanax seem to reduce my dizziness by relieving my mind of the background process of anxieties and worries, leaving more neural networks free to focus on the task at hand. Plus they block dizzy signals from the inner ear (which are clearly scrambled in my case), which is why they are often used for motion sickness.
The effects of Xanax degrade less than with Ritalin, but the side effect of making me lethargic and sleepy progressively strengthens.
Behaviorally, while I'm on Xanax, I act sleepy, giggly, stupid, and stoned; I have very little impulse control, so I say insane things, and should not be out in public for fear I'll take off my bra and toss it at someone like I'm a groupie at a Tom Jones concert in the 1970s. Therefore, I have to trust someone a lot to take Xanax with them, because my judgment is clouded, and I won't do heavy BDSM or bondage play on Xanax.
Also, when I'm on Xanax, I need a constant influx of caffeine just to stay awake. By "constant influx" I mean I need to drink significant caffeine every 15-20 minutes. This results in frequent potty breaks, so suspension shibari would be out of the question anyway.
(side note: I'm uncommonly sensitive to drugs... these effects are from the lowest possible doses, and I split pills in half)
Assuming I'm well-rested and haven't taken Xanax in at least a week, so I have a nice, fresh brain, here's what happens:
* 1st day: I'm delightedly stoned and comparatively dizzy-free for 5-6 hours; I can do almost anything (including sustained vigorous fucking); the rebound crash lasts about 1 hour.
* 2nd day: I'm delightedly stoned and comparatively dizzy-free for 4-5 hours; I can do almost anything (including sustained vigorous fucking); the rebound crash lasts about 2 hours.
* 3rd day: I'm comparatively dizzy-free for 3-4 hours, but the urge to sleep is increasingly difficult to overcome; I can do almost anything (including sustained vigorous fucking); the rebound crash lasts about 3 hours.
* 4th day: The entire experience is basically one muddled and unmotivated rebound crash until I go to sleep.
* the day after: no matter how many days in a row I've taken Xanax, the day after I take it, I feel sluggish and unresponsive, easily confused, and I am less interested in social interactions.
Ritalin and Xanax combined:
Doesn't help. I tried. All the side effects, none of the benefits. Rats.
With my daily medicine:
After I first wrote this post, I discovered a daily medicine, phenobarbital, which I affectionately refer to as my "horse tranquilizer" because it is more often used as a veterinary medicine these days, which allows me to do more on a daily basis, with less dizziness, with the side effect that it makes me groggy.
If I'm fully settled, I can do dizzy-inducing activities for a while, but then I need to rest, and the ratio of activity-to-rest keeps degrading. If I don't rest in time, the degradation speeds up exponentially, as if my vertigo were rolling downhill and picking up speed. So having sex off meds looks about like this, even if none of it is overly vigorous:
* fuck for about 90-120 minutes then rest for about 60 minutes
* fuck for about 45-60 minutes then rest for about 90 minutes
* fuck for about 30-45 minutes then rest for about 120 minutes
* fuck for about 15 minutes and then I'm done for the day
The day after I did that full of a pattern, I'd feel dizzier than usual, and less social than usual.
FINANCIAL CONSIDERATIONS: THOUGHTS
When I feel anti-social, easily confused, or have problems completing sentences, it has a profound effect on my ability to earn money. There is no vacation pay as a PSO - either you're being paid to be on the phone or you're not. So when a day goes by and I'm not logged in, I forever lose the income potential of that day.
I would only take a new lover if I were attracted to them, no matter how much money was involved. Really, if someone I was not attracted to took me to the Bunny Ranch, registered me as a legal prostitute, and offered me $25,000, I would say no.
But assuming there is enough attraction for me to consider enjoying you as an in-person lover, romping with you in the flesh will knock me off the phones for a day or two.
It's complicated, right? Because if I'm attracted to you and want you to be my lover, then in some ways, that's like any other life-thing, and I shouldn't be compensated for it.
However, I am extraordinarily picky about how I spend my off-phone, social time. Honestly, I'm pickier about that than I am about who I would theoretically have sex with. There are lots of people I would love to fuck if I had all the time and money and non-dizzy energy in the world, and yet, I've only chosen to have two in-person lovers other than my husband since I got vertigo.
Another factor: while I'm not morally opposed to prostitution, I am opposed to breaking the law, so I won't take money for sex unless we're in a legal brothel and I'm registered as a legal prostitute.
However, money does make it possible for me to be away from my job as a phone sex operator.
I realized that if I had all the money in the world, and I had a friend in the same situation, and I wanted to visit with my friend, I would happily give her a gift of a few days' earning potential to spend one day with her wearing her out doing something she loved, so she wouldn't have to worry about the financial impact of her time off.
Once I realized that, I accepted that, although I won't take money for sex, I would take a gift which allows me to take worry-free time off work.
Sex would not be guaranteed, just as sex would not be guaranteed for anyone I would be meeting in person for the first time - chemistry would have to align, I'd have to feel safe, and I'd have to feel non-dizzy enough. Those caveats not only keep me legal, they are just plain true.
For safety and sanity, as with any potential partner I haven't yet met in person, we'd meet in public and share a nice meal first to mutually decide whether or not to become lovers.
Just in case we do mutually decide to become lovers, we'd both bring recent STD test results showing we're free of anything unpleasantly contagious, we'd both bring condoms to show our commitment to remaining STD-free, and if we became lovers, we'd use condoms during penetrative sex.
If several days in a row were an option, here's what I think would work best for my vertigo, but this theory is untested, so the degradation of my vertigo may be more severe than this:
* Day 1: Ritalin - 6-8 hours together
* Day 2: Xanax - 5-6 hours together
* Day 3: Ritalin: 5-6 hours together
I would not be willing to try more than 3 days in a row, mostly because I can't spend that much alone time with anyone without going a little bonkers, and unfortunately, we can't break up the time with museums or movies or concerts, because those are just as non-restful for me as having sex.
FINANCIAL CONSIDERATIONS: THE NUMBERS
So, what is "a gift which allows me to take worry-free time off work"?
* My highest 24-hour take (my portion) was $356.
* My lowest 24-hour take where I was available full-time (at least 12 hours) was around $100.
* My goal on a normal full-time day is $150.
* I make my goal, or more, about 90% of the time when I'm available for 12 hours.
* Realistically, it would take $250 for me to feel totally stress-free about taking a day off work.
Bunny Trail:* Realistically, I would need a "set up" before meeting a new lover in person: one day off before we meet to rest and prep (which would include getting a manicure-pedicure to help me feel relaxed and pretty, but that would be included in my day of rest), and one day off after we meet to recover.
Here's some info about my overall earnings, in case you're curious, because I don't mind sharing:
- Although I get $54 / hour at my current rate when I'm talking, I am logged in and waiting for the next call for approx 3-4 hours for each hour spent talking - if you count all my logged in time as "working", I average about $15 / hour.
- If I were available full-time every day (I'm not), and hitting my goal all the time (I don't), I'd be available about 80 hours / week, and make about $1,000 / week.
- Other operators (based on people I trust revealing their earnings, and some extrapolation from hints): My earning potential is lower than Mistresses who require regular Tributes, and lower than operators who produce a lot of content which sells well (pictures and videos and recordings), but higher than many other phone-only women who don't seem to attract as many repeat customers or long conversations as I do. I'm probably smack dab in the middle.
- My guess is that most people who work 60+ hours / week at phone sex average between $750 and $1,200 a week (before taxes, with no benefits, and with wild unpredictable fluctuations week-to-week). I'm sure established high-end Dommes can average $2,000 / week. I imagine outliers make more, but the odds of making $5,000 / week doing phone sex are about the same as the odds of getting a multi-million-dollar contract in pro basketball.
* Realistically, on day(s) we meet, I would need to board my dogs ($75 / night).
FINANCIAL AND VERTIGO CONSIDERATIONS: CONCLUSIONS
MEETING LOCALLY
It's simpler to meet on my turf in Houston, of course.
* You pay your way to get to Houston. You get a car for yourself. You get a hotel room for yourself.
* My set up: (day of pampering and rest before, day of rest after): $500
* 1 day together ($500 set up + $250 for the day off for me + $75 to board the dogs): $825
* 2 days together ($500 set up + $500 for 2 days off for me + $150 to board the dogs): $1150
* 3 days together: ($500 set up + $750 for 3 days off for me + $225 to board the dogs): $1475
(Math you don't have to do: 3 days is the best per-day rate at $491/ day. You're welcome.)
TRAVELING
Traveling is more complicated, because I need to take off the day I travel, plus the day after to recover- traveling is by far my most dizzying activity (which is a heart breaker because I love to see new places!).
So, for example, if you wanted to meet Friday-Saturday-Sunday in Vegas, I would need to travel on Wednesday, recover on Thursday, play Fri-Sat-Sun, travel back on Monday, and recover Tuesday. Even though it's only 3 days of play, I would be off work for 7 days, and boarding my dogs for 6 nights.
So if you wanted to meet me somewhere other than Houston, and you wanted me to have no anxiety about taking plenty of time off work, you would need to give me a gift of:
* You pay my airfare, and you pay for a hotel room for me - if you also are in a hotel in town, I need my own hotel room, or at least my own bedroom, to ensure I can be completely alone when I'm recovering.
* My set up: ($1000 for four days off - day of travel before, day of rest before, day of travel after, day of rest after + $225 to board my dogs on travel days): $1225
* 1 day together ($1225 set up + $250 for the day off for me + $75 to board the dogs): $1550
* 2 days together ($1225 set up + $500 for 2 days off for me + $150 to board the dogs): $1875
* 3 days together: ($1225 set up + $750 for 3 days off for me + $225 to board the dogs): $2200
(Math you don't have to do: 3 days is the best per-day rate at $733/ day. You're welcome.)
CAVEATS
As with anyone with an unpredictable physiological condition, if we meet in person, I reserve the right at any point to bow out of any activity and take care of myself physically at any time in any way I see fit.
Since dollar amounts are simply gifts to allow me to take anxiety-free time off work, and no specific activities are guaranteed, there would never be refunds.
Ugh, I worked as a consultant too long... I can think of a bazillion other caveats, but I think I'll stop now before I get my lawyer ex-co-worker friends involved.
CONCLUSION
This topic is mind-bogglingly complicated for me when I try to make the leap from fantasy to reality. Hopefully this blog post has explained why.
But emotionally, in the world of fantasy, I love the idea of getting to know a caller on the phone, recognizing our mutual attraction and comfort, and meeting in person to become in-the-flesh lovers. What a great way to find potential partners!
Plus, the phone sex after meeting in person would be that much hotter, wouldn't it? Soooooo fun to think about...
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Maybe A High-Class Whore
Tour Guide called me yesterday after reading my blog entry about accepting my Inner Whore. He told me he'd had high-class call girls before, and had some wonderful experiences, how he truly enjoys the company of a beautiful woman for dinner, and for carnal delights afterward. And he told me about manipulative women in his life, "princess types" in his words, who toyed with him to maximize the number of dinners and shows they could extract.
I hate that kind of entitlement mentality. I hate that kind of sexual manipulation. It gives women a bad name. Men should be worth more than their wallet to you. Women should be worth more than their pussy. But those kinds of games reduce us to that, and it disgusts me.
Then he asked me how I would feel if I were bought for a weekend. Taken someplace luscious, decadent. Treated to the deepest pampering. Escorted to exquisite dinners, lovely parties, and lush hotel rooms. And then used. Like a toy. The way he wanted me. For his pleasure.
And my guts clenched up and my mouth went dry and I was filled with want. And then confusion. I've never pursued those kinds of luxuries, even when I had the money to do so, except as the occasional treat. And I never pursued people who could give me a life full of them. I have contempt for women who crave those things as ends unto themselves. Where is the want coming from?
I replayed what he had said, and I heard the lust in his voice, and then, finally, I heard what he was seeing: Me enjoying myself. Me being pampered, knowing he had provided that. Me savoring an extraordinary dessert, knowing he had given me that pleasure. And it pleased him to think of watching me relax that way, to watch me be pleased by him.
Oh. Ohhhhhhhhhhh. Yeah. Yes. Ohhhhh. Of course. Now I get it. Of course. Duh. Took me long enough.
I have always enjoyed pleasing people. I know you can't healthily take responsibility for making anyone else happy. I believe that everyone who is not in physical pain at the moment is actively choosing their overall level of contentment to some extent. I understand that I can't make someone else happy. But I love being the catalyst to a grin, a laugh, a pleasantly surprised gasp, or a deeply cathartic orgasm. I treasure the moments when I can provide pleasure to others.
So I can imagine choosing to spend inordinate amounts of money to watch someone enjoy herself for days on end. Of course I can. If it were the right person, it would be a delight. In fact, in my if-I-won-the-lottery spreadsheet, a whole tab calculates the cost of taking my extended family on a cruise every summer and a ski vacation every winter, just to enjoy their company and provide them all a low-stress getaway. So yeah, I get it now.
Gravely Moon and I talked about this as well. Money has never been about sexy for me (which is why he thinks I'm a bad whore. Don't deny it, you totally said that). Money has always been about security for me, and about generosity. It is practical, not sexy.
Then Tour Guide helped me realize that generosity could easily be a motivation to hire a weekend traveling companion. After my a-ha! moment, he described exploring and using my body, and I kept thinking, "What if I'm not good enough?" But when he said "This is exactly what I want" I came, immediately, and explosively.
Maybe I could possibly sort of deal with thinking about being that kind of whore. Wow, as soon as I edge from fascinating role play towards off-phone reality, the rest of my body and brain just yell, "NO." So, no. Not in my physical real life. But I sure as hell can fantasize about it now.
Thanks, guys. I'm gonna have fun with this.
Thanks, guys. I'm gonna have fun with this.
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.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Good Girls Gone Naughty
I love being surprising. In high school, I made straight As, dressed as a clean-cut preppy with simple makeup and comparatively natural hair for the 80s. If I had a reputation, it was as a good kid, officer in choir and theater, and one of the first two people in the school to make a perfect score on an International Baccalaureate exam (the program had just started).
So when people saw me out with friends, at a party, or at the inexplicably densely populated yet utterly uneventful parking lot where teens gathered, and they saw me smoking, the reaction was often one of shock. YOU smoke?
I loved that reaction. I loved the attention, the fact that someone would feel like they knew me, and the fact that they didn't know everything. And I loved the confused lingering glances as I felt them wondering what else I did...
(FYI: I haven't smoked in several years, thankfully)
So imagine my delight with the outcome of this luscious fantasy:
I was a college student, working my way through school as a prostitute, and I hang out in nice hotel lobbies looking for lonely business travelers. Once I discover their fetishes, I use that knowledge to close the deal and get them to the hotel room.
This particular client was a well-educated gentleman, with a soft vocal demeanor, and polite word-choices, so I matched his tone and his tenor. I was sweet, smart, inquisitive young woman, who drew out of him that he has an oral fetish, and a fantasy about being with a hooker. I combined the two by letting him know I was for rent and then sucked his finger slowly into my mouth - it was almost too simple.
Up in the room, I was ripping his clothes off him, leaving a trail of red lipstick stains down his chest, on my knees unbuckling his belt, when:
Him: (stammering) I ... ummmm...I also kinda like...
Me: (pausing) Yes? You can tell me. It's okay.
Him: When, if... getting an educated girl, a nice girl, to say... ummm... like...
Me: (grinning) To say shit like, "I need you to face-fuck my dirty whore mouth, and use me up like the cumslut I am?"
Him: (whimpering) ohfuckohfuckohyes
The surge of shock and lust and gratitude that poured through the phone at me was deliciously gratifying. I had to stifle a giggle.
I love that image of myself: Galiana Chance, good girl turned naughty, blowing away expectations for over 20 years. It's a little long for a tagline, isn't it?
So when people saw me out with friends, at a party, or at the inexplicably densely populated yet utterly uneventful parking lot where teens gathered, and they saw me smoking, the reaction was often one of shock. YOU smoke?
I loved that reaction. I loved the attention, the fact that someone would feel like they knew me, and the fact that they didn't know everything. And I loved the confused lingering glances as I felt them wondering what else I did...
(FYI: I haven't smoked in several years, thankfully)
So imagine my delight with the outcome of this luscious fantasy:
I was a college student, working my way through school as a prostitute, and I hang out in nice hotel lobbies looking for lonely business travelers. Once I discover their fetishes, I use that knowledge to close the deal and get them to the hotel room.
This particular client was a well-educated gentleman, with a soft vocal demeanor, and polite word-choices, so I matched his tone and his tenor. I was sweet, smart, inquisitive young woman, who drew out of him that he has an oral fetish, and a fantasy about being with a hooker. I combined the two by letting him know I was for rent and then sucked his finger slowly into my mouth - it was almost too simple.
Up in the room, I was ripping his clothes off him, leaving a trail of red lipstick stains down his chest, on my knees unbuckling his belt, when:
Him: (stammering) I ... ummmm...I also kinda like...
Me: (pausing) Yes? You can tell me. It's okay.
Him: When, if... getting an educated girl, a nice girl, to say... ummm... like...
Me: (grinning) To say shit like, "I need you to face-fuck my dirty whore mouth, and use me up like the cumslut I am?"
Him: (whimpering) ohfuckohfuckohyes
The surge of shock and lust and gratitude that poured through the phone at me was deliciously gratifying. I had to stifle a giggle.
I love that image of myself: Galiana Chance, good girl turned naughty, blowing away expectations for over 20 years. It's a little long for a tagline, isn't it?
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Sluts Whores And Housewives
There's an old joke I've known forever, retold to me by "New York Guide" approximately like this:
Well, really, I hate dishonesty and manipulation in general, unless both parties agree to it. In this relationship that we have, you and I, gentle reader (hahahaha, that's funny because most of you are nowhere near gentle!), you are aware that I might be hiding or replacing the technical details of my life to protect my privacy and safety, and I am aware that you might do the same with me. Consensual dishonesty is acceptable.
But dishonesty masquerading as a caring relationship burns me.
There were enough divorces in my family for me to understand that I could not rely on a man to provide for me financially, that I needed to learn to provide for myself. So I did. Quite nicely, in fact. And both my marriages have been with men who have made less money than I have for long stretches, and that's been fine with both of us. Secretly, I kind of even liked it. It was so clear to me that I married for love.
So while I've had a lot of disdain in my life for whores who pretend they are not whoring, I have always had a lot of respect for professional sex workers. And unabashed sluts - what's not to love about women with high sex drives who pursue their own pleasure? One of my favorite entries from TextsFromLastNight.com was approximately "What about us? Where's the Slut Pride Parade?"
So in the Slut vs Whore hierarchy in my mind, I've always sided with the Sluts first, then sex workers (prostitutes, strippers, phone sex operators), then a lot of other people, then housewives who marry for money but not love. Honesty first, then lust, then a lot of other values, then greed.
But I had a funny experience that made me realize that I might be shifting from slut into whore. Or I might have already shifted, and I'm just now noticing.
A caller mentioned off-handedly that he was going to re-up his account, because "the recession hasn't hit me as hard as most." And immediately, internally I perked up and had this strong, visceral "Well, hello there you sexy hunk of man meat, you" response. And then, just as immediately, for the first time in my life, I felt like a whore.
I have now lusted after a man for his money. I feel a little dirty.
Thankfully, he's also smart, imaginative, articulate, funny, and interested in exploring unique territory with me over the phone, so I could tell myself that my Inner Slut and my Inner Socialite were already wildly attracted to him, that was just the response of Inner Businesswoman joining the "Yes" vote.
But in my guts, I know: something has changed. I hope I still respect myself in the morning.
A gentleman is pursuing a lady, and they date for a while, but she refuses to give in to his sexual advances. He starts to offer her things in exchange for her physical affections: dinners, dresses, jewels, and she finally acquiesces when he offers her a fur coat. At the fur store, she picks an extravagant full-length mink, and he suggests perhaps a rabbit stole, or maybe just $1,000 cash. Shocked, she asks, "What do you think I am, a whore?" And he replies, "Well, yes, we've already established that, I was just haggling."I have always had contempt for women who sell sex without being willing to call themselves whores. Women who marry for money, who date for money, or -- I shudder to think of it -- who withhold sex from their husbands or lovers for money. Who wins if you withhold sex?!? Baffling.
Well, really, I hate dishonesty and manipulation in general, unless both parties agree to it. In this relationship that we have, you and I, gentle reader (hahahaha, that's funny because most of you are nowhere near gentle!), you are aware that I might be hiding or replacing the technical details of my life to protect my privacy and safety, and I am aware that you might do the same with me. Consensual dishonesty is acceptable.
But dishonesty masquerading as a caring relationship burns me.
There were enough divorces in my family for me to understand that I could not rely on a man to provide for me financially, that I needed to learn to provide for myself. So I did. Quite nicely, in fact. And both my marriages have been with men who have made less money than I have for long stretches, and that's been fine with both of us. Secretly, I kind of even liked it. It was so clear to me that I married for love.
So while I've had a lot of disdain in my life for whores who pretend they are not whoring, I have always had a lot of respect for professional sex workers. And unabashed sluts - what's not to love about women with high sex drives who pursue their own pleasure? One of my favorite entries from TextsFromLastNight.com was approximately "What about us? Where's the Slut Pride Parade?"
So in the Slut vs Whore hierarchy in my mind, I've always sided with the Sluts first, then sex workers (prostitutes, strippers, phone sex operators), then a lot of other people, then housewives who marry for money but not love. Honesty first, then lust, then a lot of other values, then greed.
But I had a funny experience that made me realize that I might be shifting from slut into whore. Or I might have already shifted, and I'm just now noticing.
A caller mentioned off-handedly that he was going to re-up his account, because "the recession hasn't hit me as hard as most." And immediately, internally I perked up and had this strong, visceral "Well, hello there you sexy hunk of man meat, you" response. And then, just as immediately, for the first time in my life, I felt like a whore.
I have now lusted after a man for his money. I feel a little dirty.
Thankfully, he's also smart, imaginative, articulate, funny, and interested in exploring unique territory with me over the phone, so I could tell myself that my Inner Slut and my Inner Socialite were already wildly attracted to him, that was just the response of Inner Businesswoman joining the "Yes" vote.
But in my guts, I know: something has changed. I hope I still respect myself in the morning.
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