Galiana In Virtual Oil

My husband paints sometimes to clear his mind, usually digitally with a pressure-sensitive touch tablet (WACOM). The other day he took a pic of me with his phone and then paint-ified it for fun:

Galiana In Virtual Oil

Before he took the picture, he had me shift my top lower to show off my boobs. I told him "thank you" on your behalf already :) 

Now I have an "oil painting" of myself up in my Fuckatorium! So fun!

Sleep-Rate Experiment: Success!

Last night I had a fantastic long call - over two hours - on my sleep-rate (as explained here). I would have completely missed the call if I had just logged out for the night.

So I will continue the sleep-rate experiment for the foreseeable future, since my life allows for me to sleep later in the morning, or take a nap during the afternoon,  if I've been awake from about 4:45 am - 7:00 am. Considering I didn't get to sleep until about 1:00 am, it means my sleep pattern is now seriously unorthodox.

If I have something I'm resting up for, or if I'm starting to feel sleep-deprived, I'll take a night off and not think twice about it. Health first.

But if I am rested and don't have plans, I will probably be staying on almost 24/7 unless I figure out that it is a bad idea for me. For example, if I end up getting a lot of very short calls on my sleep-rate, it's not worth the interruption. But the ability to connect with The Wanker...

Last night, it was The Wanker who called me, complete with his scrumptious accent and love for long edging calls. Yum. It had been a while since we'd spoken, so it was extra-delightful to hear from him, and be able to toy him: stimulated enough to keep him refilling his account, but not quite enough to topple him over the edge. Our conversation about trying the Raise the Rate game got him, though, darn it.

(Raise the Rate is a financial domination phone sex game: in the middle of the conversation, the provider - who is the dominant partner - suddenly hangs up. The caller finds that the provider has raised the rate to continue the conversation. The game is to see how high his need will take him. There are fun little individual power-play variations, but that's the gist of it.)

The Wanker is not my only caller in Europe, and the timing would be better for them if I were available more often during US overnight hours.

It comes down to this: if I log out, there is a 0% chance of talking with me. However, if I stay logged in but raise my rate, then it's up to the caller to decide whether or not it is worth it to talk. As long as I am being realistic with myself about what dollar amount compensates me for sleep-interruption, we're all good.

Well, almost all good. The trickiest part of having a sleep-rate? What if I wake up and have to pee?

Dozen Orgasms

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

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

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

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

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

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

Experimenting With Sleep-Rates

Science must be done.

I'm going to experiment with staying logged in when I'm asleep, at higher rates, but waking up to take calls if they come in. I have a few seconds of information from Madge (the NiteFlirt automated voice, named after the woman who did the computer's voice in Star Trek, Gene Roddenberry's wife, Majel Barrett) to shake off the sleepies and find my sexy.

Probably my notes will suffer. Chances are excellent I won't remember names, although I'll be falling asleep repeating the mantra of "I remember names well, especially when I am tired." I'll have caffeine in the fuckatorium for immediate consumption.

The good thing is that I usually wake up snuggly, which transitions nicely to sexy, so as long as complete coherence is not required, I should be in good shape.

Wish me good data!

Where's The Sluts

Someone found my blog today from a google search for "where's the sluts".

I'm so proud /sniffle. You get me, Google. You totally get me.

Long Off-Topic Letter to Allie Brosh

Warning: This blog post is seriously long. And seriously off-topic. If you read it at your own risk, I'm sorry you were so bored that this seemed like a good idea. /pat

I took about a week to read all the way through the entire blog "Hyperbole and a Half" from beginning to end after I got hooked with this post, which might be the very most awesome blog entry ever in the history of anything (warning: it is a very long blog post, even longer than this one): Dogs Don't Understand Basic Concepts Like Moving

If you went and read that and didn't cry laughing and then want to hug the author, you are an unfeeling cyborg and I pity your lack of ability to feel emotion.

And then I noticed that my speaking / writing style had shifted to be more Allie-like (Allie Brosh is the author). For example, the previous sentence about cyborgs sounded more like Allie than it sounds like Galiana. I've always been a horrible mimic. It was bound to happen. It'll fade and I'll go back to sounding like Galiana as long as I don't start over and read her whole blog again next week. Which I might.

But more importantly, I found myself musing about her blog: She got 100 followers in September 2009, after about 2 months. Now she has between 1 and 2 million unique visitors per month. That's a crazy fast ramp-up. And crazy fast success for someone who often couldn't afford heat last winter. FYI: Not being able to afford heat in Montana is bad.

I have a little theory about how fame is unnatural and psychically disturbing. And I have a hunch that Allie is being psychically disturbed by her new-found fame. Sure, the money is great, but being followed and adored (and vilified) by that many people has to be mind-bogglingly peculiar.

So I wrote her a letter, just in case my little theory makes her slightly happy, to try to repay her for the hours of happy she gave me with her blog.

Then I was happy with what I wrote, so I wanted to share it with someone, but my off-phone Facebook account includes too many teenagers and religiously conservative friends of my mom to share it there, because it says "Fuck" a lot, and I don't think Facebook should feel assaulting to the nice people who prayed for me when I was growing up.

So I'm sharing it with you. You know I say "fuck" a lot, and yet you choose to read me anyway.

And I won't lie: in the back of my mind, the possibility exists that Allie will think it's the best letter ever and link to my blog and then I'll become famous on the internet and end up being the Dan Savage of phone sex workers.

But since the odds of that happening are approximately the same as me wandering down the street and having a mega-millions-winning lottery ticket blow into my face and stick there, I'll just share it because I'm narcissistic and I want people to tell me that I did a nice thing, and it was well-written.

And I want to post it here because it makes me happy that I wrote it, and when I review old blog post titles, I like being reminded of things that make me happy, like magical barfing dogs.

So here it is:
**************************

Allie,
I attempted to leave a huge comment, but it rejected it saying it was too long, on this blog post: http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2009/12/im-sorry.html

So instead I'm mailing you the comment. Here's what it said:
=============================

I spent about a week reading through your whole blog, and this entry has stuck with me, and I wanted to write you what I was thinking in case I'm having a hunch and it's right.

Here's my hunch: fame and high blog traffic are super-duper weird for you.

Here's my theory: human beings aren't created for celebrity.

Here's my guess: When you had 125 followers, it felt great, and you could totally keep up with everyone, and it felt like a cozy community. As that number grew, you started losing track and feeling guilt, but then when it hit about 450 people wanting to interact with you, it started getting very fuzzy. You had to make some new rules to protect yourself, like "it's okay if I don't answer everything".

Here's why I guess that: 125 is the number that most churches and social organizations cannot overcome no matter how hard they try. 450 is the number where companies tend to explode or implode. They are irrationally magic numbers.

Here's my pseudo-scientific reasoning, which I'm pretty sure I read somewhere when reading about church growth theory: ... irrationally magic numbers... unless you consider that our hunter-gatherer backgrounds make it difficult to sustain hunter-gatherer groups of more than about 125 - they tend to split about then, and once there are four groups of 100-125 each in an area, wars break out.

So as a human being, you're not really biologically equipped to keep track of more than 450 people ever. It's not your fault, you're just human. It feels weird to have a million visitors a day because **it is weird**. It's totally fucking bizarre. One person shouldn't be known by a million other people. It's totally fucked up. There's no way in the world one person's brain, no matter how awesome, can wrap itself around that freaky shit.

Here's my strong advice to you: don't try to wrap your mind around it. Just pretend like it's only 125 people. Like you're still starving, and your hunger is still driving you, but now sometimes things magically pop up like heat and the ability to eat at a restaurant, but those are magical, and certainly don't come from anything as fucked up as internet celebrity.

Here's why it's probably especially troubling: A year ago, the thought of going home for the holidays overwhelmed you one day, and you wrote about it, and your little cozy community helped you with it. But now you make long posts with lots of pictures, and cake and dogs and spiders and bricks, and lots of people see those posts. But those posts probably don't feel as personal as the one you wrote last December. And it's possible that in the back of your mind, you wonder if you had another day like that, if you wrote another post like that, would it all come tumbling down forever? Or could a million people be as cozy as 125?

Here's my guess: No, a million people could not be anywhere near as cozy as 125. But fuck 'em. All of 'em. All of us. Fuck us all to hell. Your blog got popular because you did what you felt like doing, and some of those things ended up being popular.

Here's my observation: Reading through your blog, there was a spot in early 2010 where Boyfriend said, in exasperation, "draw it - it'll make you feel better" because he knew you, and you did, and sure enough, that drew people to you.

So let's repeat that. Slowly. For dramatic effect.

You did the thing that made you feel better, and it drew people to you.

Keep doing that, Allie. That's all you have to do. Everything else is stupid bullshit and deserves to be "It" in Brick Tag.

*internet hug*

=============================
Galiana

Twitter to Blog to Call!

I just had my first call where the caller found me from Twitter! That led him to my blog, which led him to call me.

I NEED CAPS TO EXPRESS HOW EXCITED I AM!

All right. Seriously. The caps lock thing has to die here. I get that. I know. It's just not okay to keep over-caps'ing you guys. But it's justified in this case. Completely.

But in the meantime... I am thrilled! So far, people have found my blog / Twitter via NiteFlirt, which has led them to call me, but never the other way around. Except I can't say that any more - because now they have!

Wow. I have such renewed energy now for Twittering and blogging. I brought in a brand new person! All by myself! 

And best of all: I brought in a fucking yummy person. Remember how my favorite kind of call is when I'm just sleepy enough to start contemplating logging off, and I get what will probably be my last call of the night and I have one or two big fat delicious wonderful orgasms to put me to sleep with nice happy energy? It was that kind of a call. Luckiest. Girl. Ever.

Thanks, Prof! I look forward to your next office hours!