BBC: Not Just Brit TV

The biggest surprise in the past almost-two-months since I became a phone sex worker is the number of calls I get regarding BBC: Big Black Cocks.

I admit, at first, my Inner Naive had a tiny bit of a response of, "Why are you calling a woman to talk with her about penises? Seriously, it's okay, you can just be gay."

But quickly, the calls piled up. Dozens of calls. Dozens of guys. And to clarify: I don't have BBC on my listing. Or anything about size, or race, at all. My listing is basically just that I'm smart and open-minded and creative. And yet, maybe as high as 10% of my conversations involve Big Black Cocks.

Some of these men tell me a large penis holds some mesmerizing sway for them, as if it is a center of power. I've heard: A man with a huge dick is stronger than me, more deserving than me, better than me. Obviously smart men suddenly seem hypnotized, enchanted, drained of their own power, humiliated just by being in the presence of a monster cock, as if somehow they are immediately less of a man. And these men-under-the-influence who consider themselves straight find themselves with the urge to serve that big dark meaty hunk of flesh.

Some men with BBC fetishes are openly bisexual, and they tend to want glory hole fantasies, or for me to invite over my friends to use them if they're submissive. Some are cuckolds: their wife runs around and fucks hung guys while they serve, fluff, and clean up, and the story seems to take on an extra charge if the hung stud is black.

And then, as I was planning to write this blog entry, I got a call from a black guy who has an average penis size, and... wait for it... he was fascinated by Big White Cocks. I'm stunned I made it through the call without dropping into total shock.

The conclusion I have reached, based on my statistically insignificant sample size, is that the fascination is inherently with "Other" - that which is different from yourself.

Well, my other conclusion is that I need to go buy a big black dildo and take pictures with it, to send to those 10%.

Ok Trends Awesomeness

I love data. I love the management book "First, Break All The Rules" because it's based on data collected from over a million workers. I love sex. I love hearing why people chose to get into relationships together.

So, is there anything I could possibly love more than OK Cupid's data-laden blog analyzing hundreds of thousands of dating profiles and responses (http://blog.okcupid.com/)? It's possible the answer is no.

OK Cupid is not only cool for their analytics, but also, the site is free to use. And I have cool single friends with profiles there. But mostly, I love the brilliant analysis. Well, and the insight into their analysis methodologies. Oh, and the questions they choose to ask. Okay, I admit, I love it every way I can.

(side note: I make zero money from this. I'm just randomly gushing about something I love which might help some of you single readers - and if it does, drop me an email and let me share your joy!)

If you are reading this blog and you can prove to me that you're on the OK Cupid data analysis team, I will send you a fistful of free minutes and get off with you while you tell me about your job. That is a serious standing offer right there.

Sometimes reading their blog, I feel like I'm at the end of "2001" breathlessly saying, "my god.... it's full of data..."

Seven Things At Once

Yesterday, I seemed incapable of focusing on one thing at a time. It started with re-organizing my lingerie and sex toys, which had been scattered and un-categorized by being photographed and taken to playtimes. Things around me need to remain categorized. It's best for everyone, really.

That led to me cleaning off the bedside table, which had a bluetooth headset on it, which I kept meaning to find the charger for, which led to me unpacking and re-categorizing a veritable Radio Shack full of chargers and cables.

Which led me to find the cable to connect the camera (photo not video) to my laptop, which made me curious if the battery drained or charged that way, so then I managed to read most of the instruction manual for the camera, because now we're using it again. Not-yet-quite-organized sex toys, lingerie, cords, cables, and electronics were everywhere.

Oh, and someone paid for a mani/pedi and wanted pictures, so I had to hook my phone to my computer, which led to a software update, which would have been fine, except my phone sex line rings on both my land line and my cell phone simultaneously, and I got a call that I'd been eagerly anticipating, and it sent it to my voice mail before I could catch it, twice, which set me to Away on the phone sex system, and then required a reboot of my system, so I had to call via the land line to set myself back to Accepting Calls, after I stopped panicking, and try to remember what I had open on the computer to answer emails and get pictures out, so I could reboot as fast as possible so I could shoot him an email to tell him I was so so so sorry I missed his call, and then, thankfully, he called back (thank you for your patience, "Dirty Reader").

And his first words were, "Hello, Galiana. Let's test your multi-tasking skills, shall we?"

Perfect.

Pics Of You

I love getting pictures from the people who call me.

First, it's great to put a face with a voice, so all of you don't look like generic mushy blobs in my head. Second, it's FASCINATING to see how close I am when I guess.

I was closest with "Inception Guy." But before I got his picture, I knew he was a programmer from the Midwest. Since my first career, as an IT professional, started in Chicagoland, how far off was I going to be, really? He looks like the type I usually date, just like I thought he'd be.

When callers cross-dress, I love getting pictures. After all, they've gotten all dolled up, and I know I love sharing when I dress up. Plus, I've ended up getting fun tips on how to apply makeup and where to shop online, so it's a huge win-win. My favorite was a picture where she had written "whore" down her arm in lipstick, and I asked if she wrote it backwards or flipped the picture on the computer. She was excited that I knew how difficult it is to write on yourself in a mirror so that it comes out right in a photo! It did not distract one bit from the beauty of that corset. (Not jealous, not jealous, not jealous...)

Then there was "Sweet And Slow," who I got utterly wrong. We started on the phone, and he was telling me with his soft voice how much he enjoyed my pictures, and we were savoring each other, building up slow, just getting into such a sweet space. In my head, he was a short-ish white guy with smushy lips and a bit of a beer belly and a gentle hand shake. He asked if I could hop online to watch his cam (which I love doing, so yes, of course!).

And DAAAAAAAMN. That tender, soothing voice was coming from this HUGE black guy in fantastic shape, with a HUGE cock. He's probably 6'4", and he can palm a basketball, and yet, when both fists are wrapped around his meat, there's still dick to spare. Off the fucking charts. Plus, he has this gorgeous, adorable face to go with that smokin' hot body. Since then, he's sent me more pictures, and now I pull them up whenever I'm doing a BBC fantasy with someone else.

So yes, please, feel free to send me pics of yourself if you wish!

He Called Me Brave

We're all painfully aware that I'm a narcissist. The volume of my blog alone shows that. And my addiction to feedback. And what I want for my birthday is for people to say nice things about me. Yep, yep, yep, I'm a narcissist.

It's no surprise, then, that I try to start calls with new callers by asking them, "What made you decide to talk with me today?" Some have followed up with, "What made me decide to call a phone sex line? Or you specifically?" and the answer is, "Yes. Either. Both." 

Why Phone Sex is fascinating because I'm still new to this gig (less than two months), and Why Me is fascinating as market research (what's helpful to emphasize), and also as guidance (for clues on what turns him on specifically), and also as a ridiculously high-volume boost to my ego lately. I mean really, who gets to ask everyone they meet to tell them good things about themselves? I have the best job ever.

So let's all imagine together, then, how I felt when a new caller, we'll nickname him "True Sighs," said that he had clicked through from my listing to my blog and spent an hour wandering around it, and what he liked is that it didn't feel like a persona, that I felt like a whole character, and he thought I was brave. 

Brave. 

I've been mulling for a few days why I have the urge to happy-cry when I think about it. These responses aren't rational, so sometimes they take a while to unravel themselves into words. 

I'm not fearless about this job. I'm certainly not free of insecurities. Every hour I'm logged in without calls is another battle on my back mental burners, a struggle between rationally knowing that I'm doing well and it's not personal that the phones aren't ringing right this second, and irrationally feeling like I must have failed everyone somehow. Maybe I wrote something too personal. Maybe I shared something unattractive. Maybe I chose unflattering pictures. Maybe I shouldn't remind people of their dental phobias if I'm trying to turn them on (was that a mistake yesterday? I can't tell if it's endearing or off-putting to share life issues like that, but it was all I could think about, so I shared it, but now I wonder if it was a bad idea...). Yes, insecurities exactly like that.

I love doing this work, even more than I thought I would. I love the connections I've made with people, the adventures I've had, the kudos I've gotten to soak up. And, of course, the attention. I love the attention with each and every atom in my whole body. 

So I do feel energized, intrigued, and gratified. But I don't feel unafraid. I'm doing this the best way I can figure out to do it, the way that feels the most honest to me, and therefore, the most sustainable. If I'd created a persona who was very different from me, I'd never be able to sustain her. So I keep it as true as I can to who I am, while still responding to the specific desire of the person on the other end of the line. 

And it feels like I'm taking measured risks with my heart, and with my energy. Yes, I've had a lot of therapy, and yes, overall I'm emotionally stable and resilient, and yes, I've had practice absorbing other people's issues without letting them eat away at me, and yes, I know many ways to rest and nurture myself if I start to feel drained. But, still, I do feel a little brave, in that John Wayne way of, "Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway." 

It was astonishing to have someone else see that, recognize it, and put it into words.

Thanks, True Sighs. It was a lovely gift. 

All Better

Even though I had a big bad dental day yesterday, I woke up this morning feeling all better. I'll take Tylenol preventatively, but I bet I forget to take more at noon.

Apparently, on the way home, while I was still heavily medicated ("conscious sedation" is the term they use), my husband read my post-operative instructions to me. They included "keep talking to a minimum for 48 hours." I asked him to start video on his cam phone, and flipped him off. I can only assume that meant, "Fuck you, instructions, I'm talking anyway." I'll post the video if I figure out how to make that happen - it's amusing.

But in all seriousness, ignoring medical advice is not generally my thing, but since these instructions cover all kinds of oral surgeries, including extractions and wisdom teeth, and I had something put in my mouth, not taken out (mmmm just the way I like it), I think I'll stick with my consciously sedated assessment of that restriction, and carry on business as usual today.

Galiana Chance, authoring extraordinarily long run-on sentences for over 20 years. Also not a great tagline.

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?