Talking About You

Giggling

I had a fun afternoon yesterday with a cross-dressing, dildo-sucking slut of a caller. Just before I got online with him, I was talking to a new potential local lover, and I said, "I have to go now. I get to see a pretty sissy boy dressed up and sucking a giant dildo!" and his response was, "Wow. I think I'd like to watch that!"

I didn't think much of it, because duh, of course he would - it's super fun! But near the end of the call, I mentioned the exchange to my caller (who... seriously... can shove a thick long cock down his throat, even it's anchored to his desk and he's wearing a collar -- it's a choke-inducing combination at that angle for any but the most talented). He got incredibly excited that I'd been talking about him.

Of course I talk about him. I talk in generalities about anyone who hasn't asked me not to (I never ever include names or anything I may know that's identifying, of course).

My social circle loves to ask, "Any fun calls lately?" to hear about the latest advances in fembot technology from The Robot Boys (my nickname for the ASFR callers), new humiliation scenarios from my super-pathetic Mattress-Humping Storyteller (pathetic is his word of choice), or how many times I heard my favorite ballbuster smack himself and groan before he came.

But sometimes, the mention is spontaneous. While discussing a mutual friend's dissolving marriage, the conversation turned to biological imperatives, and I brought up how many callers request impregnation fantasies (many), and how many callers can get driven right over the edge if I beg them to knock me up (you know who you are). It makes sense, right? I mean, the whole point of sex is procreation from an evolutionary standpoint, so it stands to reason that men who find it sizzlingly sexy to think of impregnating a woman would manage to make babies and pass on that urge.

Or this afternoon, when I was finding myself more snide about something than I was happy with myself for being, I said to my husband, "Or, as a caller said last night, 'But then, I like putting rubber masks on women before I fuck them, so, seriously, who am I to judge?'" Exactly.

My conversations are like my blog - I have no idea who I'll talk/write about or when. It all comes to me organically. I don't think I write a blog as much as I channel it. And I never plan to talk about calls, but sometimes, you just come up.

(except for you, that guy who hates to be mentioned (who, by the way, I haven't heard from in far too long...) -- don't worry, I never ever mention you)

Lingerie Bar

Lingerie Bar in The Red Room

My sister came in to help me unpack the last two days. It was amazing to hang out with her relationally, of course, but she's also a whirlwind organizer. Not only did we get the kitchen and guest room completely settled, but she created the Lingerie Bar.

I knew I wanted the Fuckatorium 3.0 (aka The Red Room) to only contain sexy Galiana things. Necessities, therefore, include: a couch (I learned the hard way a couch is comfier than a bed for lounging with a computer for hours), laptop (for blog posts, email, Twitter, and catching up on others' sexy blogs, like Kink In Exile who mentioned me this weekend - awww thanks Alisa!), sex toys (they're in here, but not yet unpacked), and, of course, lingerie. No sexy space is complete without lingerie, right?

A few awesome folks got me housewarming Amazon gift cards, which I used to buy, among other things, an adjustable garment rack, intending it for Fuckatorium lingerie. When it turned out we needed the garment rack for my non-lingerie clothes (I overflowed the tiny century-old closet), my sister immediately saw the possibilities in the shower rod we had replaced (I love curved shower curtain rods - they make the shower feel so much roomier). Why not hang the shower rod from the angled ceiling to act as a clothes rack?

A couple of hooks, a bit of bondage rope, and voilà, the Lingerie Bar was born! I love it sooooo much.

As I hung everything on the awesome new fuzzy-grippy hangers my sister generously provided me, I relished the memories that drifted up: photo shoots, play times with lovers old and new, evenings on cam, evenings shooting videos, the delight of opening gifts, and the look on my husband's face when we were first dating and I knocked at his door wearing *that*. Delicious.

Why yes, that is a shoe rack next to the Lingerie Bar! And yes, those are new strappy silver heels I expect to wear soon, since they match the new silver headband... Not that I've been hoping the Fuckatorium can pass for a robot lab or anything. Pffff. Don't be ridiculous.

Speaking of ludicrous, that splash of plaid is definitely not a skirt headed for a barely-legal babysitter fantasy video anytime soon. That would ridiculous - I'm 41 years old, I could never pull that off, not even in braids if I were sucking on a lollipop.

The same goes for that red cheerleader skirt and pompoms if I were wearing pigtails... Absurd. I mean, nobody would ever fantasize about their middle-aged wife surprising them with a flashback role play, I'm certain of it.

And that satin nightshirt I've had since college, who would want to see a video of me demonstrating how I masturbate myself to sleep while wearing that?

It's not even worth considering putting a lacy bra and panties, a garter belt, and stockings under that feather-lined vintage-inspired robe to discuss my preferences and techniques when I'm wearing a strap-on.

I'm hoping to shoot more video in this new space... it seems I have a decent start on inspiration, doesn't it?

Settling In

I realized today that I've been doing something extraordinary for the past ten days: settling in.

I think my time in Houston never felt permanent enough to feel like I had settled into any kind of pattern. I remember a stretch of four days where I felt a calm sense that I knew what to expect, and I didn't have any looming, unknown, massive tasks. Four days out of seven months is not a fantastic record.

But we plan to be here in the great plains of central Illinois for at least a couple of years (where the sunsets have, I must admit, been far more spectacular than I remembered... I think it's a ploy to lull me into a sense of welcome. It's working.). Hopefully, we'll be in this same quirky, slanty, cozy house with the nice neighbors and the gorgeous trees.

So now that most of the functional unpacking has been done, as well as enough decorative unpacking to make the place feel like it's ours, I'm finding a pattern emerging:

* Early mornings on weekdays, since the hub has to get up anyway, he feeds the dogs and lets them outside, then puts them back in their crates to let me wake up on my own rhythms. On weekends, the dogs get morning routine from whoever can't sleep through them whining at us anymore, or from whoever needs to get up to go to the bathroom first

* When I wake up, I've continued a thing I started in Houston, which is: snuggle time on the couch with the dogs. I set aside about an hour to wake up slowly, sipping caffeine, making a coherent to-do list for the day, playing iPhone games, and giving the dogs the freedom to choose the activity: I always say yes to tug, fetch, and tummy rubs during snuggle time, and eventually I am rewarded with two dozing lap-warmers. Snuggle time ends when they inevitably bound off the couch to investigate a neighborhood noise and I need to stretch my legs and get my day started.

* My days have been mixed. I've tried to group together times when I had to wait for return phone calls, service or repair people, or freecyclers to pick up our packing boxes, because waiting on things like that means it's impossible to log in for phone sex. When I've had appointments (between 10am and 4pm Central time), I've given the pups rawhides and left them safely on the other side of the baby gate in the dog-proofed downstairs, while I head upstairs to The Red Room (aka the Fuckatorium 3.0) to lose myself in delicious fantasies.

* From 4pm to 8pm has become family time: the dogs need dinner and an outside break, the hub gets home for an hour or less of domestic chores, then we have dinner and unwinding together time, possibly mixed with more snuggle time on the couch, and then I lose him to his very steady girlfriend The Internet, with all her fun things to learn and ridiculous memes to giggle over, or to his primary lover Video Games, with all her things to build and strategize and shoot, and I head back up to The Red Room to log in. Eventually, sleepies overtake me and I stumble downstairs and crawl into the bed he's been keeping warm for me.

It's a lovely rhythm. It feels sustainable and calm. It protects enough time and energy for my primary romantic relationship, provides enough affectionate touch to keep me sane, and yet leaves plenty of time and energy for all my other connections: friends, family, and the gorgeous lush playgrounds where I luxuriate with callers.

And luxuriate I have... I've discovered a distinct advantage a roof-slanted room: when I'm lying on the couch, I can anchor one foot against the wall-ceiling angled above me, which lets me buck my hips up in a really interesting way.

Ooo, and I had an extraordinarily happy re-discovery of my Feeldoe: it was the only "dildo" I could find one day on a call before I unpacked my sex toys, so I used the long end of it to fuck myself while using the short egg-shaped end to press against my clit (that's the side that is inside me when I use it as it was intended, as a strapless strap-on). And holy overload, Batman, the sensations are an amazing mimic of the pressure against my clit during missionary fucking if a lover is grinding his pubic bone into me. Which I love. A lot. It's my new favorite thing to feel when I'm masturbating.

The room seems perfect to hold my sexual energy, the couch and desk chair offer lots of options for comfy positions whether I'm typing or fucking, and the glare-free lighting is easy to spend time in. It seems perfect so far.

Welcome to the next season of my life. I think it's going to be wonderful.

Crooked Little House

Casual in The Red Room

The walls aren't straight. The floors aren't straight. The tub in the bathroom struggles a bit to drain because the floor is almost as tilted as the tub. We sleep downstairs, in part, because we're a tiny bit concerned that one day the top of the house might decide to pay a friendly visit to the bottom of the house.

I'm talking about my new home, as of October 1. It's charming and adorable in that way that century-old homes can be, with a spider-web-filled basement and not quite enough electrical outlets, but fun architectural moldings around the archways downstairs and a cozy wrap-around porch for warm weather neighboring.

The upstairs was clearly an afterthought: attic space enclosed when someone made a bit of cash, all the walls tilt inward along the roof slope, and possibly done before building codes were quite as rigorous as they hopefully would be today.

None of this concerns you, except the part where I hung up rope lights in the new Fuckatorium for diffused lighting, set up my desk, set up the couch, and then saw... wait... why doesn't the rope light line up parallel at the top of the screen? And why is one end of the couch further away than the other end from the rope light?

This investigation led me to discover out that the floor is subtly crooked enough that the picture doesn't line up square unless I prop up one side of my desk. Oh, hi, door wedges, I'm so glad now that I unpacked you already, and that you no longer have to live in the junk drawer.

The Fuckatorium 3.0 is not quite ready for a prime time video just yet. But the picture above was indeed taken tonight in the new space. It is 9 feet wide at the floor, 18 inches wide at the ceiling, 22 feet long, and painted a deep, sexy, brick red. We call it "The Red Room". It is a crazy, insane, bizarre space. Perfect for me, don't you think?

I just showed my husband the tilt in the floor. He helped me figure out the most level place for the couch. Then he said, "Great. I have a wife with rare neurological vertigo, and I picked out a crooked house for her to live in..." and then looked a little sad. So I recited the poem "There Was A Crooked Man" while getting the dogs to dance along to the rhythm of the words. Now it will be stuck in our minds forever when we think of this place, I'm sure.

I have noticed that sometimes I have to figure out if I'm dizzy or if the floor is just funny right in that spot. It's oddly comforting when it's the floor. My brain might eventually just go "awwww fuck it" and stop trying to balance me altogether..

Most importantly, the rope lights + the red walls make me feel all cozy and dreamy and sultry in here. The decorating concept this time around is "bare minimum" - I won't do anything in The Red Room except be Galiana. My non-lingerie clothes, my guest bed, my jewelry, etc is all elsewhere this time around. The Red Room is just for video and pictures and phone calls.

I look forward to you dropping by!

How'd It Go?

Last Wednesday I had my Social Security disability hearing for my vertigo, covering the period from March 2009, when I got sick, to July 2010, when I started working as a phone sex operator. Beforehand, my lawyer prepped me what to expect, and we went over the evidence to ensure my she had the important findings at the top of her notes.

We discussed whether to tell the judge I do the generic "phone consulting" or to tell him I'm a phone sex operator. The reality is, I chose this profession not only because I'm a giant slut who loves playing with callers' sexual energy, but also because I can set my own hours, I can rest when I need to, and I can't sustain any visual effort longer than about an hour. That leaves... ummm, well, phone sex! My lawyer advised me to play it by ear, but if it came to a choice of "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth" then of course, I had to tell the judge.

Five minutes into the hearing, I was saying, "I'm a phone sex operator, Your Honor." He snortled, blinked, and asked, "Excuse me?" I repeated myself, "I do phone sex, Your Honor." I could feel myself blushing, and panicking slightly about whether or not it was the right choice. He raised his eyebrows at my lawyer as if to say "Nice curveball, counselor", but declined to comment.

I answered questions: Could I work from home as a PSO? Yep. Why could I be a PSO in July 2010? A combination of physical therapy and medicines improved my condition enough. Why couldn't I be a PSO between March 2009 and July 2010? The vertigo precluded concentrating long enough to sustain intense dialogue. How much do I make as a PSO? I've averaged only a few hundred dollars per month more than if I were still disabled and collecting Social Security disability benefits (my monthly average has been decreased by all the time I've taken off for my moves, but also, my monthly benefit amount was substantial because I made a lot / paid a lot into Social Security before I got sick - I think I maxed out my SS contributions for the last 8 years of my IT career).

Why can't I do my old job, be an IT Manager? I thought about opening a wall of SQL text, reviewing discombobulated spreadsheets with inconsistent data to import into a central database, reading hundreds of emails a day, running a project team meeting starting with "guys, we have a problem, and I have no clue how to solve it"... and I started to cry. Crying made me panic about seeming disingenuous or manipulative, and made me embarrassed to be crying, which, of course, only made it harder not to cry. Great.

There were more questions. The judge had clearly read my medical evidence, and knew what he wanted to uncover during testimony. I didn't interrupt him, I tried to stay on target, summarize without missing critical subtle details, and not let it distract me that I was starting to spin, stutter, feel foggy, drop words. The timing was horrifying, yet poetically impeccable: I was having a concentration-triggered vertigo crash in the middle of my disability hearing. Things were getting blurry, but I had to hang on enough to answer questions.

The judge thanked me for my creativity and willingness to work, which I thought was odd until I considered it later: I'm sure he sees a lot of people who are just trying to scam the system or get out of working to be lazy. But there I was saying, no, I really genuinely couldn't work for 16 months. But then I could work, so I did. I work, making less than a third of what I used to make. I work, making only 10% more than I would make if I were not working and on disability. But I can work, so I do.

Then he said "I'm granting disability for the closed period of March 2009 to July 2010. Counselor, are you all right with that?" My lawyer looked surprised, stammered, and said, "Yes, Your Honor". And then she was gathering her things and the judge was saying "This concludes the hearing" and I had the feeling I should leave the room, but there were things we had reviewed before the hearing that had not been stated, and my attorney hadn't given me the chance to tell the narrative I had been practicing... and what the fuck was going on?

Thankfully, something in my rational mind overruled my panic and said "follow your lawyer" so I packed up, stood up, turned around, stumbled into the wall, and drunkenly made it into the attorney consultation room. "What happened? Why didn't we... my narrative..."

She said calmly, decisively, and slowly, "You won. He said yes. He granted your disability. You're done."

"What? When? You said that wouldn't happen..." Then she laughed as my brain caught up, and trying to look professional instead of delightedly happy as she explained that the phrase "I'm granting disability" means he affirmed my total disability in the months I couldn't work, and granted me benefits.

My legs gave out; I had to sit. For two and a half years, I faced repeated denials of benefits because neurological vertigo is wickedly hard to prove. A part of me didn't believe the day would ever come when anybody would give me any disability benefits whatsoever.

Over the past few days, I keep having a feeling of dissociation from the reality of what has happened, followed by huge rushes of emotion: relief, gratitude, anger, joy, frustration, peace, and giddy giddy giggling.

The money will be exactly enough to: repay my mom and sister the money they've loaned us, pay off the last of my student loans from my MBA classes (I didn't finish my MBA because I got a management job without one), pay for the last step of the dental work I've been putting off for months, and then pay for about 10 celebratory dinners at in the $50-and-under range. Perfect.

So, how'd it go Wednesday? It went perfectly. I'm barely starting to come out of my shock at how perfectly it went.

I deeply appreciate each and every note of support I got. Thank you. Thank you more than you know.

So. Now I need to figure out how to get this damn blog back on track. Phone sex, Galiana. That's what people are here to read about, phone sex. Try to write about phone sex next, would you?

You know I don't make promises, but I'll try.

On The Road Again

Tomorrow, I'm traveling back to Austin to have a disability hearing. Although the timing was unfortunate, I'm very glad it's been scheduled and that I get time to explain my weird, complicated case.

I spent the first six months of my vertigo visiting 17 doctors and a physical therapist, looking for diagnosis and a cure.

In months 6-15, I tried a series of medicines, to varying degrees of less-than-total-success, but I also extended the lessons I learned in physical therapy to try to develop coping patterns of activity / rest.

In month 15, I felt good enough about the balance of occasional medicines and my physical therapy gains to attempt to make a living at phone sex. I was not at all sure I could do it. Some days were better than others. I'm still so grateful I was able to make it work.

The hearing will ONLY cover the time period before I started working (months 0-15). I genuinely believe that I could not have worked any sooner - it took that long for the right medicines and therapies to do their thing. Plus, Just Say No to attempting to defraud the government.

So the hearing will be hard: I'll have to remember in vivid detail a difficult period of my life.

And it will be wonderful: I'll get to remember in vivid detail how much more I can do now, and celebrate being the kind of person who chooses to do everything I can do. I choose to work, even at 1/3 of my former salary most months, because I can, and I love that about myself.

And I am traveling on my own, something I feared I could never do again. I'm not gonna lie, it's gonna suuuuuuuck to be on a plane again. But it sucks less than never traveling again. By a lot.

In the meantime, we're happily unpacking our new home to make one room functional at a time. The bedroom works REALLY well!! Yay me!

The Fuckatorium 3.0 will be spectacular, but has not yet been properly equipped or decorated. I can't wait to show it to you! I'm going for a very sparse look, with only necessities. The idea is to keep as little as possible in the room so it's video-ready at the drop of a hat if I get the urge. Less clutter = more videos (I hope). It's a unique room, with deeply sloped walls that obviously used to be part of an attic, 9 feet wide by 22 feet long with deep red walls - it's striking!

So I'll be offline and unavailable for calls Tue, Wed, Thu, but available by appointment only Friday afternoon. I'll probably be offline Saturday, and back on Sunday. Then next week, well, next week is when the real fun starts again: establishing my new pattern. I am so incredibly looking forward to next week!

I'm Stuffed

Paddle In Hand

Summary (extra-short): My stuff has arrived in my home, so I'm all stuffed up.

Summary (medium-short): After 10 days of hearing nothing from our movers, we got a call Saturday saying they would hold our stuff hostage unless we paid them $800 more than the estimate. Sunday, after they arrived at 6:30 pm, we refused to pay it, called cops, had a 3-hour stand-off in our front yard, took video, measured the truck, I cried, and they eventually agreed to the $1600 originally estimated plus the $200 tip I had always intended to give them. Monday, they arrived at 11:30, took our money, then informed us they were in too big of a hurry to reassemble our furniture or put any furniture or boxes where we specified ("for $1800 you get your stuff dumped"), we took more video, I cried more, but we have our stuff.

A few details: My husband and I figured out a pretty clever Good Cop (him) / Hysterical Cop (me) routine where we blamed my medicines and the general condition of Being Female for my over-excitability. We used my Hysterical Condition to manage to get everything we need on video to sue them for serious breach of contract, as well as fraudulent charges (they charged us for over 500 cubic feet they admitted we did not have).

Justice will happen through the courts, and through our very eager army of non-smut friends who are, at this moment, filling review boards with factual, non-slanderous reviews of their company.

But I haven't spent that much energy faking a one-down position to anyone in a long time. It was the right thing to do to get through the day, to have our stuff safely returned to us (nothing was intentionally damaged, and the dryer not working is probably electrical).

But here's the deal: If your fetish is humiliating women, calling women stupid, or in any way whatsoever suggesting that the woman you're talking with is anything other than an amazingly capable, whip-cracking, intelligent, funny, productive, bad-ass-motherfucker? Do. Not. Fucking. Call. Me.

Also, I'm not at all your girl if you need me to beg you, cajole you, nag you, manipulate you, or coerce you. I'm all out of Bad Cop juice at the moment. Well, or else I'm allllll filled up with it, but it's not the kind you'll like.

Seduce you? Bring it. Kick you in the nuts while humiliating you? I'm totally your girl. Edge you until you're begging and writhing and leaking a steady stream of pre-cum all over your own hand (or whatever I'm letting you stroke with)? Aww fuck yeah.

My bold diva self should start being available on phone sex again tomorrow night. Or maybe tonight. Or who knows? Whenever the hell I want, dammit! /grin

My nice, normal, sweet, accommodating self should return in a few days. Maybe...