Cameryn Moore, PHONE WHORE


The More You Know!: Cuckolds and Cream Pie
August 31, 2009, 5:37 pm
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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:

WTF.

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.



Nature or Nurture? or, how to raise a phone whore
August 26, 2009, 8:42 pm
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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.



The More You Know!: Tickling
August 20, 2009, 3:38 pm
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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.”

BWAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-NO-NO-NO-NO-PLEASE-NO-HEE-HEE-HEE-OH-GOD!

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.

Whew.

I needed that.



I’m laughing with you, not at you
August 5, 2009, 4:59 pm
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I’ve got the ongoing and slowly growing list of pet peeves. But I also want to hit the flip side, with …

Things I didn’t think I’d like about doing phone sex

  • post-coital laughing. On the good calls, after I hear them finish and they’re winding down, I always feel like laughing. It’s something like joy that I can’t hold in. I make some crack about doing a Jackson Pollock number on the wall (if they’re that educated), or about both of us having to sleep in the wet spot. But that’s just a cover for the fact that I want to giggle at how much fun it’s possible to have doing this.

The corollary is…

  • making callers laugh. When I started, I was warned that I shouldn’t crack jokes. Unless it’s a Tiny Penis/Humiliation call, in which case the more and nastier jokes I make the better. But by nature I am a jokester, a performer: I crave response. So I poke and tease and make smart-ass remarks. Making them laugh out loud is almost as good as hearing them shout themselves hoarse when they come.
  • not having to dress up to go to work. To any phone-sex johns who may have stumbled across this blog, please accept my apologies for bursting your bubble, but seriously, pajama city.


I know you’re there, I can hear you breathing
July 23, 2009, 7:50 am
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There is a lot more silence in my work than I would have thought, had I been thinking at all about phone sex before I started doing it. And there are enough different kinds of silence that I would be fully justified in developing separate words for each…

  • That silence between calls when I don’t have any of my other work to do, so I’m waiting for the ring and it’s not there. It’s echoingly empty, slightly resentful, a vacuum that goes on for-fucking-EVER.
  • The silence you get on the street at 2:30 in the morning, when that other silence gets too much and I need to relieve the pressure on my ears. Outside, the silence is calm and dark and velvety, and I relax into it.
  • The slightly staticky silence after the dispatcher calls me and I’m waiting for the caller’s phone to ring. That’s a busy silence, where I’m taking the two sentences the dispatcher gave me about what the guy likes and brewing up ways to get there. (Because no matter how many times I take a fart call, I just CAN’T figure out how to be smooth about it.)

Anyway, the silence that I’ve been thinking about most these days is more transient than these, harder to pin down because it blows by in my calls and I don’t even realize it’s there until afterwards, when I replay the conversations in my head and occasionally wonder, “How did I know to go there when the guy hardly talked at all?” It’s those sporadic silences, blinking open and closed like eddies in a rushing river of narrative, that I am learning to love.

There is where I catch my breath, and rather than immediately plunging back into the story, I sit still, even for a fraction of a second, and wait. And listen. I am silent, and the caller thinks he is being silent, too. But I can hear the creak of a chair, the slight whispering squelch of a well-lotioned hand, an involuntary intake of breath. Sometimes I even imagine that I can hear his brain humming along at high speed, like the subliminal whirr of a roomful of very expensive computers.

The quiet is not just for me. It is the space I make for my caller to sigh, or moan, or say yes, or add three more teenage girls into the scene, each with slightly different nipple sizes. Lacking visual cues, I need verbal ones, and there must be space for the caller to give them. I used to talk over my callers a lot, when I first started. I’m slowly learning to find the natural rhythm of the action, and when each phrase within our call comes to its natural conclusion, I pause. I wait. I am silent.

And then, because I only have 15 minutes, or 10, or 7, I take a deep breath and dive back in.

(I just realized that silent and listen are anagrams. That is exactly perfect.)



Unexpected Peeves
July 13, 2009, 6:51 pm
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I will deal with unexpected pervs in a later post, probably many later posts. This particular topic deserves the creation of a special tag, like, “I’m wearing my cranky pants. What are you wearing?” Without further ado, I present the beginnings of my list…

Things I Didn’t Think Would Irritate Me About Doing Phone Sex

(a list in progress)

  • Having to pretend to give a blow-job in the middle of washing dishes. Sucking two fingers is the best sound effect for that, and I never have time to rinse my hands thoroughly before picking up the phone.
  • Cold toast, cold dinner… whatever food I may be heating up, there is a chance that I will be interrupted within the first two bites to get a call. Thank god for 30-minute call blocks, but sometimes I want to eat my pork chop while it’s still warm.
  • My ass falling asleep. Yeah, baby, in our shared world, I may be sprawled in my velvet easy chair or swinging from a fucking chandelier, but in my embodied world, I am sitting at my desk in a freecycled chair, which means it’s lopsided, slightly too low, and inadequately cushioned.