Tell Me You Love Me

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

tell me you love me

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

tell me you love me

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

tell me you love me

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

tell me you love me

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

tell me you love me

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

tell me you love me

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

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

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

Tell me you love me.

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

 

Summer Fling

I Heart Summer Flings

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

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

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

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

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

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

Him: And what gets you over that edge?

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

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

My Entire Inner Cast: OH FUCK.

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

It only got more intense from there.

I went to bed exhausted and dizzy, but happy.

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

My Entire Inner Cast: Awwwwww /sniffle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"good girl"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Question of the Day

Since my two other usernames have been dormant for so long while I'm (ostensibly) rewriting them, I am considering renaming them as well as reworking them.

The one that was known as "Mistress Galiana" (which I'm about halfway done rewriting) will be changing to "Ms Galiana". I considered and rejected "Lady Galiana" "Queen Galiana" "Domme Galiana" "Vixen Galiana" "Minx Galiana" "Goddess Galiana" "Galiana In Charge" "Galiana Leads" and plain old "Galiana Chance". My reasons for rejection were many, but it basically boils down to "I think too much about details like this, but fer fuxx sake just pick one already".

I was planning on leaving my hypnosis-focused username as is: "Hypno Galiana" but a long-time caller suggested the possibility of "Galiana Trance".

I can't decide if it's wonderful, or too clever for my own good (or, y'know, both).

Your opinion is eagerly requested.

Tussle-Bunny Fuck-Scrambled

I make up phrases.

Today I was describing what kind of personality I tend to have when I put on an Australian accent, and I said, "I get all tussle-bunny" and then I realized that maybe I'm the only person who knows what that means. I should correct that. Here:

tussle-bunny: playful, with a high sex drive, enjoys wrestling and/or struggling while fucking, usually used to describe a female

Then later, after the sex part of a call, I described myself as fuck-scrambled. At that point, I'm just having a day of making up phrases, and clearly I needed to blog about it. For your edification: 

fuck-scrambled: an inability to clearly and coherently communicate verbally after an intense sexual experience

Feel free to use them as you wish! 

Lover Experience

In the midst of sorting through my pictures from September's photo shoot, I found one that I hadn't focused on before, but now it's my current favorite picture of myself:

First of all, that babydoll has a bra strap around back, so dang, my boobs look amazingly perky for DDs (did I mention that I got fitted for a bra and found out that I'm a DD, not a D like I thought? Crazy.)

Then the soft purple fabric, with the soft scarf-looking headband, and the flowing gypsy-ish earrings, and my flowing gypsy-ish wavy hair ... all together, it's a soft look physically.

But the real attraction for me is my expression: I look as if I am enjoying the company of whoever I am looking at, as if I am open to them, kind, relaxed, and happy.

I've been thinking lately about the term "Girlfriend Experience" (GFE), and whether or not it fits me. As a married, openly non-monogamous woman, I don't consider myself to be in the market for a boyfriend, which, to me, connotates someone that I'm considering as a potential life partner. A boyfriend/life partner has to share chores, help me when I need heavy stuff moved, and listen to me kvetch when I'm moody... the daily things of life.

I care if my boyfriend/life partner can consistently reinforce training with my dogs, how he behaves towards customer service people in public, whether or not he likes hosting parties, if he likes to travel, and what he chooses to do with his money. Details. Encumbrances. And in many cases, hassles. My husband has to be a good fit for all that crap, poor guy, and that's what I would need from someone to call him my boyfriend, too.

But a lover... well, that's different, isn't it?

I had a conversation with my current lover (also married and openly non-monogamous) when we starting about what we wanted to be for each other. We came up with the concept of an amusement park: lots of fun choices of activities, plenty of delightful options to explore, and no trace of the concerns of daily life. We are an escape for each other. I protect my ability to feel sexy when I'm with him by (mostly) shielding him from my unsexy anxieties about logistics and uncertainties and insecurities and disappointments. When I'm with him, we're just fun and good and happy and sexy together. And it feeds both of us.

So what I think I want on the phones with callers is not a girlfriend experience where you would have to help me with all the annoying hassles of life.

I want a lover experience.

I want to be an escape from your daily grind. A new setting. A different mood. A space in which you are free to be any version of yourself you wish to be, and free to discover which version of me responds to you in that way. Permission to luxuriate in your desires and focus on the pounding of your heart when you touch my skin and hear me sigh.

I once had a crazy-luxurious massage combined with a moisturizing salt scrub, washed off by four overhead shower heads, and followed by heavenly-smelling lotion. I got to shed dead skin, release muscle tension, and replace stress and dullness with relaxation and health.

I want to be that: the sexual equivalent of a day-spa-salt-scrub-massage-shower for those who call me.

So why did I combine that picture with this discussion about offering a lover experience? Because that picture, to me, looks like how I feel as a lover. Calm, relaxed, kind, open, confident, attentive, enjoying your company, and fully aware that you're probably missing all of that because you're distracted by my boobs.

/grin

It's totally okay. They're awesome.

So kick off your shoes, lover. Come on in. Let's play.

Variety Fetish

I have finally realized what my fetish is: variety.

The definition of having a fetish that makes the most sense to me is: sexual stimulation which you require in order to achieve sexual satisfaction.

The definition of having a kink that makes the most sense to me is: sexual stimulation that is unusual or non-mainstream which you enjoy.

By those definitions, I don't have a fetish for any particular activity, because the activities of any one sexual encounter may be completely different than the activities of another sexual encounter, and I can find both encounters thoroughly satisfying.
But here's what I could never find satisfying: the same encounter, with the same partner, over and over, with nothing else in the mix. And really, I need to switch both factors regularly to have a sex life that is satisfying to me on the whole: I need different activities, and I need different partners. Because while trying different activities with the same partner is awesome and fun, and while trying the same activities with different partners is awesome and fun, the real big bang of happiness for me is having both.

On a related note, have I mentioned how much I fucking love my job?

Yes, I can hear your question, and yes, I do understand that the concept of variety and the concept of fetish as I have defined it here are fundamentally at odds with one another. Perhaps that contributes to why I love the idea of claiming my variety fetish so much. Not only do I think it accurately describes my sexual proclivities, it is also inherently emotionally and intellectually complex.

Perfect.

And back to the definitions, to explain a bit more fully, I think it is most accurate to say that I have a variety fetish with a wide range of kinks, because the list of kinky activities I enjoy is long and distinguished. Feel free to check out my FetLife profile (membership is required to view my profile, but membership is free, easy, confidential, does not result in spam, and could help you find kinky / educational events in your area and yes, you're free to friend me). I chose from FetLife's list of "Fetishes" according to my definition of the word kinks. By perusing only their most popular 63 choices, I am interested in 42. A quick glance at the complete list suggests I would end up with hundreds if I were being thorough.

Callers often ask me what gets me off, what I like, what is my fetish. Since listing several dozen actions, or launching into discourse about the definition of fetish versus kink seems unlikely to be what most callers want, I developed a bit of a decision tree to help narrow the discussion. But sometimes, even the tree is too much, so if I'm feeling a vibe of "just pick something so I can get off and know I've made you happy", then I choose something that honestly sounds good.

On the one hand, it is not a lie to reach into a bag of truth and pull out one item, but on the other hand, it is not the entire truth. But back to the first hand, it is efficient to pick something and go with it. And it is also good customer service not to chat aimlessly with a man who's ready for action. And if it turns out I was wrong and he ends up in a talky mood, it is easy enough to go back and open up the conversation.

But it has bothered me that I didn't know a concise, simple, elegant answer to the question, "What turns you on?" Whether or not I use the answer in every situation doesn't matter; I wanted to know it for myself. Surely one existed, and on some far back burner, it was simmering.

Then about three weeks ago, I heard myself giving a new answer to the question of what I like: "Whatever I haven't done lately." I guess that caller was giving off the energy of wanting some discourse, because it was an answer that had never popped out of my mouth before, and it obviously needed some unpacking before it would lead to picking what kind of fucking we were going to do. Thankfully, my instinct was on target; we had an interesting conversation about our mutual prurient interests and why we both self-identified as sluts, and then we had scorchingly hot sex.

(side note about that call: it's funny, but I don't remember what actions we did, but I clearly remember calling his name when I came so hard I flipped over and curled into a ball)

While musing after the call, I came up with the term "diversity fetish", but I knew it wasn't exactly right, because it sounds like an interracial thing. And while I absolutely love men and women of every skin tone, it is irrelevant to my satisfaction. I want a package full of enthusiasm and intelligence and creativity far more than I notice how the package is wrapped.

Then a few days ago, I was explaining a slightly condensed version of this blog post to a regular caller who likes to talk theory, and the word variety tumbled out of my mouth, and I saw the shiny glint of gold on the end of my pick-axe, and I rode into town, triumphant, and bought the Inner Cast a round at the saloon and got myself a date with my Inner Whore to rejoice. (Inner Whore was happy to see me again, of course - she's a lovely darling sweetheart, that one is... Wait, why did I just turn Irish?)

So, Galiana, what do you like to do in bed? What gets your motor running? What do you love? Can you answer that in five words or less?

I can. "Variety fetish, with many kinks."

Booyah.

(related news: I changed my tagline from "The Blogged Life of Galiana Chance, PSO (phone sex operator)" to "The Blogged Life of Galiana Chance, a Phone Sex Operator with a fetish for variety" ... I reserve the right to continue mucking with the wording at my whim)

Jeepers

I love the creative use of language, and using unexpected words to convey exactly the right tone. I frequently fall back to under-used gems like Nifty! Zoikes! or Swell! for my own amusement.

Yesterday on my last call of the night, in a delightfully winding and conversationally intimate conversation with a self-described Masturbator (but not the Masturbation Superstar I described in an earlier post, who I haven't heard from in much too long...), he said he was having trouble focusing. I asked how I could help him focus, and he drew in his breath, and replied, "Well, jeepers..."

So. Happy. 

Jeepers! I've been looking for you! I've been missing a word lately, and it needed all those soft sounds, to convey feeling a little overwhelmed, but in a good, gentle way. What was coming to mind was "Jesus!" the way it's usually used to proclaim a happy overload, like if your tiramisu melts in your mouth through layers of cake and booze and cream and then holy crap is that cocoa powder dusting on the top oh my gosh I just had a foodgasm. Like that.

The tone of it is right, but I prefer not to use the word Jesus as an exclamation for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is: why would I risk offending someone by a word choice when the world is so full of so many other luscious words with their tasty sounds and rhythms and subtle conveyances?

No, Jeepers is much better. A little humor, a little unexpected, and a touch of a sense of wide-eyed wonder. Perfect.

Thank you, Masturbator. I needed that!

Words, Lies, and Sighs

"The words you choose, they way they tumble out of your mouth, I can feel them hitting me, and they feel like truth." - a phone sex caller

"Words are what we make up, but those sighs, those are the truth." - another phone sex caller, a few days later

Yes.

Seriously, I have the best job in the world. Not only do I get paid to masturbate while relishing someone else's sexual energy, usually several times per day, but also, in post-coital pillow talk, sometimes people say the most interesting things. (Physical + Mental + Emotional) * Stimulation = Win

Oh yeah, I just turned something intensely sexy into algebra. Wow. I can't decide whether to feel mortified or victorious.

But back to the topic at hand... Words, and truth, and sighs, and lies.

Last night, I was role playing a "seduction" scene which had an element of blackmail in it. I said a few things, which, if taken out of context, would be horrifying, like "HR would never believe you that you didn't want me" and "I'm paying you right now to bury your face in my pussy, so eat it like the whore that you are." You can probably figure out the scenario.

I would never, ever, even for a moment, in my real life consider finding anything sexy at all about non-consensual sex. In fact, it turns my stomach. And yet, role playing this scenario with him, I was struggling not to rush the scene so I could freaking come already because ohmygod was I turned on.

The words were lies. But the energy hurling the words at him was raw, unadulterated truth.

But that first caller, we'll call him X, the one who said my words hit him... we had gotten to this place of slow, deep sensuality, a luscious, wandering exploration. He would touch me some place new, and I would find myself asking, "X?" and then he would pause, and I could hear his ragged breath, and he would reply, "Galiana?" and I would have to pause to let the shivers of delight run their course at the way he said my name, and then I would ask him for the next thing my body was dying for him to do. Every word was raw, unadulterated truth.

I remember reading CS Lewis' "The Screwtape Letters" in high school. In case you don't know it, the premise is a senior devil who is writing letters to his nephew, a junior demon, coaching him how best to ensnare and corrupt humanity. In one passage, he described captured souls as if they were wines in glass bottles: most people had bland colorless souls, but the best of them, the truly tortured and hateful, they swirled in agony, with tendrils of delicious regret and rage that you could feel churning in your gut after consuming them.

I think about that mental picture often, of the ribbons of someone else's being reaching toward me, and I relish the exquisite satisfaction of intertwining them with my own, and letting mine reach back and feed him. 

I think I just called myself evil. Or at best, vampiric. But no, because the interaction is two-way with me, and mutually energizing, so that makes me merely naughty at worst. Right?

My callers were both wrong, and they were both right. I think the intention is the truth. Call it energy, intention, emotion, passion, whatever, but that is the thing that is true. And that truth, when it's all flowing exactly right, is what I love. /lick lips

Quote of the Day

"You are a lot of positive adjectives."
   - The Omnivore, thanking me, after having an apparently mind-scrambling orgasm

All About Me

I know my other two posts today have been about calls, and I'm about to do a third post today about a call, and I should really not be damn lazy and try to mix it up with something else, but you know what, Inner Editor? Look at the title of this post and guess if you're gonna win. 

I just spent 29 minutes* talking with a gentleman in a hotel room, relieving himself of his travel boredom. He had emailed me about continuing his fantasy from his last phone call, but "before we start" this time, he wanted to ask me a few questions. What did I think about... how did I feel about...

Emotional sadism. Physical masochism. Having a dominant share you with another dominant. Making fun of a man for the size of his penis. Playing over the phone in spaces that may not be possible to exist physically. Role playing people who can easily say things I could never spit out in a million years. The way I visualize someone's sexual energy when I'm toying with it.

It would have been like a sex-free phone sex set-up call, except that we knew each other already, and 26 minutes into the call, he confessed, "It probably won't surprise you, but I've been masturbating while listening to you talk about yourself," and his voice had that raggedy edge, and I knew he was close. I laughed, a surprisingly mean girl laugh if I do say so myself, and said, "No, it doesn't surprise me in the least. You're going to come for me, aren't you?" Heck, yeah, he did.

Is it bad to say that I loved having a call that was all about me?

* As long as we're all about me here... we get points for every 15 minutes of a call, so when the call ends at 14, 29, 44, or 59 minutes, a part of us cringes a little. Yes, we're grateful for every minute, of course, but couldn't you have hung on juuuuuuuuuust a smidge longer? Since feedback also gives points, the only way to make it better is to give great feedback. You, by the way, are not at all responsible for this information. In fact, the correct response is for you to not give a fuck in the slightest and continue on as you were.

Interactive Erotica

I was exchanging some sexual history with "Doc Cupid," who, like me and several other callers, discovered his interest in some kinks by reading about them first. Stuff like Literotica, the Alt Sex Stories Text Repository, my time on ERWA. He said that now he enjoys video more than writing, and added, "and, of course, what you do, which is like interactive erotica, isn't it?"

Why yes! Yes, that's exactly what it's like.

I LOVE THAT DESCRIPTION SO MUCH.

Side note: Maybe I should wait until my happy post-orgasm hormones fade before posting blog entries. They seem to cause spontaneous caps lock.

To The "C" Word And Beyond

Thought Vignettes, brought to you by the "C" word of the day: CUNT

"Dirty Reader", who is fascinated by words, thinks that calling someone "Fat" might be dirtier than "Cunt". We  ultimately decided that "Cow" might be even worse for American women than even "Fat", and yes, it is dirtier to call an American woman a cow than a cunt. British women apparently toss the term around light-heartedly over tea, heaven forbid.

My husband and I casually tease each other with horrible words. We were engaged, staying at his parents' house, and I told him I was going to take a shower, and asked if he wanted to join me. He answered, "No, ya filthy whore," to which I cheerfully responded, "Okay!" I was halfway down the hall before we both realized his parents were right there, in earshot, silently escalating to apoplectic breakdowns. About two weeks into my job as a phone sex operator, I informed him that "Bitch", "Slut", "Whore", and "Cunt" have probably lost what little sting they ever had for me. He now calls me "Jellyfish" when he wants to be especially insulting. For example, "Quit being such a jellyfish and shut your damn pie hole." I feign outrage, to the amusement of us both.

A new caller on my submissive listing had been using the words "bitch" and "slut" as if they were insults. He told me to say, "I have a cunt, and I am a cunt," practically spitting the words through his teeth in disgust. I don't think he expected the response I gave him. I said the right words, but I said them free of shame, lovingly, admiringly, with great joy. I wasn't surprised he hung up on me.

(Side Note: I'm not horribly uncooperative on all my submission calls. I can enter fully into humiliation calls with a little setup, but when someone demands sniveling servitude without an introduction, sometimes I rebel. Plus, at that particular moment, I was kind of annoyed with someone else, so I was probably in the exact wrong frame of mind. Oh well, at least my listing suggests I'm bratty. I love playful domination with someone who takes 3 minutes to get to know me and negotiate before we start, rather than just following someone else's script without any chance for creative contribution on my part. I know, I know, I know, I'm a terrible sub...).

I have a regular caller who wants me to "make" him into an extreme sissy whore, cross-dressed in velvet gowns and garish makeup, sucking dozens of guys a week and giving all his earnings to me so I utterly control his life. He asked to be called "cunt" instead of his name, and for a while, I agreed, but then I realized he was treating the word as if it were an insult, and it annoyed me. Now I call him "shit-stain," which we both agree is adequately insulting.

I believe that words and phrases change meanings depending on who utters them, and what their intention is for the word. I use "gay" as a compliment, not an insult, because I think being openly gay is courageous. I never use the "n" word for people of African descent because it sounds horrifying in my head.

And in the same way, I no longer think of "cunt" as an insult. Cunts are beautiful, mysterious, luscious, powerful, fleshy, yummy things. I can no longer figure out how in the world that could be insulting.

But do. Not. Call. Me. Jellyfish. I will fuck you up. /menacing eyebrow raise