I have one caller, Gary, who reads this blog. Has read this blog, at least. I don’t know how often he visits. I talk about him to my partner, to a couple of friends; to them he is my “extreme sub”. I believe him, that he does what he says he does. And if I believe him in that, then it’s a fact that no one else I know goes nearly as low. In the land of extreme submission, Gary is the most brazenly, flamboyantly humble of them all. To be specific, he’s a toilet slut, a sort of time-lag shit-pig who hates the act at the time but for days and weeks afterward wallows in his perversity.
Most of our calls, though, are normal. Like, we talk about stuff for 45 minutes or so and then I talk about force-feeding him my shit, and then we wrap it up and say good night until next time. In that prelude time, we talk about anything, and a couple of months ago I told him about my plans for the Phone Whore play and audio downloads. He said, show me the blog, maybe I have some ideas for marketing. I took a leap of faith and told him.
Since then he’s been away, to East Asia and Europe, on business. The fact that I even know why he hasn’t called, tells you a little something about our relationship. Last night, finally, he called. I was pleased to hear from him, and told him so. I asked him about the trip. I asked had he seen the blog yet. Yes, he said, It’s interesting. I’m a little hurt, though, that you haven’t mentioned me.
I told him that I felt protective of my connection with him, that it would feel strange to talk about in public. I told him that I wrote about him in Phone Whore, a whole paragraph. (Yes, I even asked him to donate to the play!) That seemed to settle it. But after we had our scene, and we said good night and hung up, I realized that it wasn’t settled. Not for me…
I know what you want to hear, Gary. Apparently the fierce possessiveness that you heard in my voice last night, the part that made you come, wasn’t enough to convince you. So I’ll tell you, right here, in public:
In my mind’s eye I can see you crumble and cry beneath wave after wave of filth. You are resplendent in your despair, and beautiful when you break. I wish I could be there when that dom couple down South degrades you so thoroughly. And I’m glad you keep choosing me to hear about it, and ask you pointed questions, and listen to your voice dropping low and trance-like, and make you relive that degradation all over again. I cherish that power. So much that I’m giving you this post as a thank-you gift.
So read it over again now, imagining it in my voice, and come all over that nice leather sofa of yours. Now lick it up. Do it.
You’re welcome. Call me again soon.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Definitions, Kink-tastic, The More You Know!
Today I write of another kink that I knew very little about before joining the lines. It’s these guys who fantasize about their wives or girlfriends getting boffed by other, better-hung fellows (or in the case of one of my regulars, a buffed-out dyke with a supersize strap-on).
I’m not going to deal with the 101 of cuckolding, because Dan Savage covers it nicely here and wikipedia goes into great detail also. For myself, after extensive reading of overwrought cuck fic and a couple of afternoons laughing at the bad acting at those interracial hot-wife sites (no links to that, that’s what google is for), this is where I’m at:
I’m just not much closer to emotionally comprehending the turn-on. Sure, I had my theories, but the chart is starting to sprawl as my cuck-callers keep adding phrases and scenes and images to the mess: imagining your conservative wife letting loose with some horse-dicked stranger, in a way that she doesn’t with you. Smelling that distinct lust-must smell in the conjugal bed. Her getting knocked up and not by you. Being the clean-up boy as your reward (oh, homosex overtones, I never get enough of you). Watching her exit the restaurant with her boyfriend on the eve of your anniversary dinner, leaving you with the tab, defizzed champagne, and a melting tiramisu. A call I took last week made me cry, when one cuckold fantasizer asked me, “what will it feel like when my wife falls in love?”
This stuff is CHARGED. Last night I took a call where the hardest spot of resistance for the caller was when I told him, the husband, that he needed to open the door for my lover and welcome him into the house. He resisted, he was shocked and appalled, but he didn’t hang up, which is why I spent some time needling him about it. “Don’t you love me? Don’t you want to see me happy?” I asked, throwing an extra pout into my voice. “I can’t do it,” he kept saying. “It’s so humiliating.”
We ended up arguing for nearly 10 minutes, because here we were, 60 minutes into the call, and we had already imagined him taking the guest bedroom, right next to the master bedroom and hearing me get my brains fucked out. So what was it about opening the door and offering a drink to my lover that was so much harder? “He’s been in our bed before, you know.” “I know. But I can’t just welcome him in like that.” In the end, we negotiated–a cream pie in exchange for opening the door and being respectful–but over my head the lightbulb didn’t just go on; there were 200 of them flashing all around. Jeezus christ, I thought, all that psychological symbolism is right on. It’s like a porno and horror film all mixed together.
Whatever you do, cuckold, (don’t) open that door. After that, it’s all over but dessert.
One thing about training for phone sex work is that mostly, it doesn’t exist. They toss some supposed transcripts of calls at us, maybe a few lists of synonyms for “vagina” and “penis”, and throw us in. My current company let me listen to three or four phone calls before I started, and I could ask questions of the operator after. At the time I thought that was … insufficient, but after hanging out on a PSO forum and reading about the experiences of other PSOs, I realized my good fortune.
A couple of different schools of thought emerged in this thread about training. One was that just about anybody could learn to be a decent PSO, if they had proper training. The other camp basically believe in survival of the fittest; throw your candidates into the deep end of this really scary, dank pond, they say, and see who resurfaces.
It sounds harsh, but I’m starting to appreciate the sink-or-swim approach. I mean, look at the skill set needed for PSO work: outgoing, talkative, mentally flexible, sexually open, unflappable. It’s not even a skill set, is it? It’s a personality profile, emerging from life experience in a way that is difficult to trace and impossible to replicate. Like morel mushrooms or edible acorns, they show up where they show up. You can’t grow them, you just appreciate them when you find them.
So actually, I don’t know how to raise a PSO. (That’s just as well; I don’t think there’s a lot of call for that parenting manual.) But the folks who would try to train people for the lines, their “training packets” are not helpful, either…. “Be yourself.” “Follow their lead.” “Keep ‘em talking.” How? HOW?? If the rough-and-tumble, give-and-take of conversation with strangers doesn’t come naturally to you already, it sure as shit isn’t going to suddenly happen when you’re talking about shoving a dirty dildo into someone’s mouth.
The truth is, every decent-to-good PSO needs those traits, but we all get there in different ways. Me? I got my go-get-‘em chops and assertive voice from being raised in a big family, doing activism, living through a sequence of unlikely personal choices that blew the doors off my sexuality. Someone else might come to it after a lonely childhood, two marriages, and four years of telesales. There’s no pattern to it, no sequence of learnings that can be recorded and slipped into a training module.
So we stumble into the deep end, all of us newbies, and some of us, somehow, get our heads above water and breathe. It’s a messy way to recruit, but it might be the only way.
I’m not ever going to go into details of a virtual blow job on this blog. It’s been done elsewhere, and if you really want it from me, I’ve got a workshop about phone sex coming up at the Boston-area Good Vibrations in November. (Edit: also, describing a blow job while I’m supposedly doing it gives me a little brain cramp every time. My mouth is supposed to be full, you dumb fuck! I can’t tell you how much I want it! Just listen to me slurp! I’m not a fan, for reasons of logic.)
Here I’d rather spend time on stuff that gets less play in the perversity petting zoo, stuff that maybe sends even me for a loop. This week in The More You Know!, Cameryn gets her first two tickling calls!
Right. I can sense your furrowed brow right through the screen: How the fuck do you indulge a tickling fetish over the phone? The answer, it turns out, is easy: lots of laughing.
Last week’s call at least touched on territory that was familiar to me. The caller wanted to be humiliated, and tickling was part of that process. He retold at length the “pre-teen as unwilling male stripper at a party full of MILFs” subplot from American Pie 3 (which I may have to see now, oh god), and then told me to step into those MILF high heels and tell me what I’d do to him as poor little Scooter. Goochie goochie goo! Oooh, look how red his face is getting! I was tickling him and embarrassing him and laughing at him for an hour and 20 minutes, people.
This week’s tickle call was flipped: I was supposed to be the tickl-ee (?!). The caller told me that I was a scientist who had developed a new sex machine that ran on laughter, and he was my assistant. I asked him to strap me into the machine and tickle me, and not to let me out until the experiment was completed. “In the name of science,” I intoned. He riposted with “I’m going to start licking your armpits.”
Now, in real life, I am ticklish. In the right mood, I will start snickering and twitching away from an evil grin and some wiggling fingers two feet away. But that wasn’t this. Truth is, I’ve been bottling up my laughter for months about some of the ridiculous scenarios on the lines, and this lucky tickling bastard got all of it.
HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE OW OW STOP HEE HEE HEE.
I needed that.
Just got word over the weekend that the Phone Whore 2010 tour received its first grant, a $500 seed grant from the New England Leather Alliance. Holy spit-shined boots, Batman, we’re getting legit!
This also means that Phone Whore (“a one-act play with frequent interruptions”) only has $3350 to go to cover entry fees for six Fringe Festivals in the Canadian Fringe Circuit lottery, and believe me, people, I will be pimping for dollars on a regular basis. My new web site, going up sometime this week, is going to have a special fund-raising page on it, and the facebook campaign starts right after I publish this entry. I’m even hosting a two-hour online radio event in September, with some friends and fans running a PBS-style phone bank in the next room.
In the meantime, if you feel the urge to donate now, email me and I’ll get the Paypal invoice sent out to you toot sweet. (All the shiny Paypal buttons are still at the factory, sorry.) And here’s the wonderful new fine print for my fiscal sponsor. Thank you, NELA and ISWFACE!
The Phone Whore 2010 tour, produced by Little Black Book Productions and co-presented by NELA, is a fiscally sponsored project of ISWFACE, a 501(c)(3) non-profit, tax-exempt organization. Contributions in support of Litttle Black Book Productions’ work are greatly appreciated and may be made to ISWFACE, earmarked for “ISWFACE artist approved project named LBB Productions”. All contributions are fully deductible to the extent allowed by law.
“But Cameryn, why don’t you just sell those audio stories you keep going on about, and fund the project that way? This makes you sound like a charity.”
First of all, Phone Whore—the play—is a charity. That is, it’s a fiscally sponsored project of a 501(c)(3) organization. One of the perks of operating as a non-profit is getting to be even more shameless about asking for money.
Secondly, I will be moving to camerynmoore.com shortly (still putting paint on the window trim, kinda thing), and there I will have an actual for-profit storefront for my audio raunch. Sex does sell, obviously, and it’s going to be paying my rent, people.
But art (even with sex in it) needs extra support. The Phone Whore 2010 tour is a separate endeavor, and it’s art, and it needs your help to launch. And that’s what this donation drive is about.
I’m a relative n00b in the sex work world. I mean, yes, obviously, I feel comfortable doing the work, and I’ve found some good community support in online PSO forums, but I’m still learning about the sex workers movement and my role in it.
Going through this process is… odd. In other communities I’m occasionally seen as, if not a leader, at least someone who’s in a visible/influential/pioneering position. With sex work, no one is expecting me to have an opinion and/or ideas for action about this work and issues affecting it. I’m kinda relieved.
Relieved, and a little restless. That’s who I am. I’m sitting here thinking, huh, what should I do next? How else can I better get to know the other artists in my community? What should I know about other genres of sex work? How, on my limited income, can I support organizations that are making important programming and activism occur?
Call me a type-A personality; that’s A for activist. (Also artist. And articulate. And anally fixated. But that’s a different blog, sorry ;-) Anyway, as soon as “sex worker” became a part of my identity–that is, about four weeks after I got my first caller off–I went there: “what should I do now?”
I don’t have an answer to that question immediately. It’s gotta simmer for a little while yet. In the meantime, I’m working on my play, Phone Whore (more on that next week), which will certainly constitute visibility work in the world of theater. And I’m trying to broaden my blog reading outside my usual size-acceptance fields. Found Audacia Ray’s blog recently, with this post that spoke strongly to my activist self.
Audacia’s definitely getting on my forthcoming blog roll, along with other sex worker sites that, in my opinion, further the cause and/or give good read. Got suggestions for other sites to check out in the areas of sex work and sex education? Give them a shout-out here!
Filed under: Naughty Song Rewrites | Tags: Celebrate Perversity!, Wacky Wednesday
In my non-sex-work performing life, I have frequently appropriated and rewritten Broadway show tunes and other well-known lyrics for satirical purposes. It’s an odd way to relax, but I’m good at it and, well, there you go. So after a recent call–a particularly rapid and exhausting review of Physically Impossible Sex Acts, Parts 2, 5, and 7 (in 15 minutes)–I was not surprised to have the following emerge:
(sung to the tune of Big Rock Candy Mountains, which you can hear versions of all over, in O Brother, Where Art Thou, and also in kids’ radio programming sometimes)
Big Cock Candy Mountains
In the Big Cock Candy Mountains there’s a land that’s fair and bright
Where the girls all shave their bushes and you eat out every night
Where the glory holes are open and the sun shines every day
On the birds and the bees and the testicle trees
Where the urine streams, where the dildo reams
In the Big Cock Candy Mountains
In the Big Cock Candy Mountains all the cocks are hard all day
And the dogs are always willing and the boys all like to play
And every drawer is brimming with piles of lingerie.
Oh, I’m bound to come, gonna get me some
where the beds will shake and vibrators hum
In the Big Cock Candy Mountains
In the Big Cock Candy Mountains you never change the sheets
And the little streams of pussy juice leave white spots on the seats.
The choirboys go commando and the priests don’t seem to mind.
There’s a lake of poo and other goo
If you step in that, I’ll lick your shoe
In the Big Cock Candy Mountains
In the Big Cock Candy Mountains the floors are always clean
So if that horny mood should hit, you can drop and start your scene
The men are long and tall here, ev’ry girl a sex machine
I’m a-gonna to stay where you fuck all day
Where the cream and honey just flow that way
In the Big Cock Candy Mountains
(tip of the battered hat to Harry McClintock)