Cameryn Moore, PHONE WHORE


The More You Know!: Cuckolds and Cream Pie
August 31, 2009, 5:37 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , ,

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.

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Doin’ It for Daddy
August 10, 2009, 4:35 pm
Filed under: Cameryn 101 | Tags: , ,

Confession: I’m not a top, I’m a switch. Those who know me may be a little surprised, because I come off pretty assertive. But them’s the facts, ma’am. I switch when I meet someone who can top me hard, and who doesn’t flinch about my predilection for being a little girl in the sheets. A stone daddy, if you will.

Well, most of my callers aren’t tops. Most probably don’t even know what that means. Most are sissy-girls and mommyfuckers, or guys who want me to be vicious and yank their pink satin thongs into a wedgie. The ones who call and want to get rough and/or nasty are staying in their own head, and throwing shit at me to get their rocks off. Whether that shit sticks to me or not is really irrelevant. In line with the 7-minute sub, I guess these guys would be the 10-minute tops.

Well, last week I got a caller who actually did a fucking intake interview: what I liked, what I thought I was good at, what I looked like when I was 12, what I fantasized about with my real-life partners, and what I’ve actually done and enjoyed in real life. Something about the way he did it, I let my guard down. And then he turned it around on me, and I was … floored.

He had paid attention, picking up all my details and weaving them into something else that I could tell was his turn-on, but with enough of my own real-life bits to make it very, very sticky. Not like syrup is sticky, or velcro, but like a cape made of barbed hooks is sticky: once it’s on you, it’s in you, and if someone pulls at it, you go wherever they take you.

It was unnerving to be on the other end of that treatment. He figured out some of what made me tick, made up the rest with a pretty good guess, and I was putty. He was good. He was merciless. He was a foul-mouthed bastard. He was … actually, he was to me as I am to the vast majority of my callers

It was an open-ended call, so the profit motive was strong to keep him going, at least in the beginning. But by the end of the call, I was sweating and panting and torn between wanting the story to keep going and needing it to stop because I was afraid I might faint. Afterwards, while I was trembling and rehydrating, it hit me that I had never felt more deserving of the phrase “sex worker”.

He called me the next night, too, and when the dispatcher gave me the call, she said, huh, that’s weird, he normally only calls the really young girls. And I laughed and said something blasé about my roleplaying skills. I didn’t say anything about the excited little girl jumping up and down inside me. She’s not a marketable skill. She’s just me, and doesn’t come out for anyone but a real daddy.



The 7-Minute Sub (no, it’s not a sandwich)
August 3, 2009, 8:16 pm
Filed under: The Power of Words | Tags: , ,

When I get a call, the dispatcher gives me a quick-hit low-down on what the caller likes, according to their records: likes big tits, doesn’t talk much, likes strap-on. These few words, called “whispers”, are priceless. We need them to get started, because getting from zero to “likes to be pissed on”, for example, in under 10 minutes is tough. Twenty questions would not be enough, is what I’m saying.

But some whispers are, how shall I say… useless. Not because of the dispatcher, but because of the caller, and because of the inadequacy of words, and the inherent self-centeredness of everyone’s sexual world. One whisper I particularly dislike is “wants to be dominated”.

Because on a seven-minute call, unless it’s part of an ongoing, regular phone relationship, you aren’t experiencing domination. You’re experiencing someone being loud and stern at you while you get to do exactly and only what you want to do.

The seven-minute sub, if it was a sandwich, would be your delicious choice of any imaginable ingredient in the world, on two slices of grocery-store sourdough, with maybe some mayo. I would be wearing a hairnet and high-heeled boots, and I would hand your sub to you on a plate and yell, “EAT IT!” at random intervals. But you don’t mind the noise because it’s exactly the sandwich you want. At least the filling is, and that’s what people order sandwiches for anyway, isn’t it?

The seven-minute sub wants the domme call because he wants to lick my ass or worship my boots and he can’t imagine any other way that he would do that without a strong woman being involved.

The seven-minute sub is the ultimate bratty bottom. He doesn’t need a safe word, because he can pull out of his bottomness at any time and say, “Actually, I’m not into that…” Or just say “NO!” and hang up, like one person did on me last week.

The seven-minute sub is playing at it. Some might say that all phone-sex subs are playing at it, that there’s no way to truly dominate someone over the phone. My experience? Not true. I have several regulars who take everything I dish out and are clearly relishing the feeling of being dominated. I have a particular favorite whom I have told to lick his come off of his leather sofa at the end of the call, and he does it, no question, even though he’s already come.

Point is, you can get there in 90 minutes, or even 10. But seven minutes of phone-sex domination is just a scold and a wank. I’ll do it for the money, but believe me, the longer you give me to make you a sub, the tastier it’s going to be.



The “real” question
July 10, 2009, 3:23 pm
Filed under: The Power of Words | Tags: ,

Call endings vary, just like the callers. If they’ve been raised properly, they thank me, even if it was a 5-minute blow-job, and wish me a good night. Sometimes they just hang up, as abruptly as dropping a vibrator on the floor after you’re done with it. (I don’t take it personally, any more than the vibrator does.) But occasionally, one of my callers asks the question:

What do you do in real life?

By that he means, “What do you do when you’re not bringing men to orgasm on the phone?”

Now, I don’t have a problem with the question. It helps keep me grounded in the totality of who I am. So I tell him: I’m a writer. I’m a choreographer. I’m a performer. But I don’t know why he wants to know. Is it just one more detail to add to the fantasy? Is it something like the “hooker with a heart of gold” stereotype? Does it make it better or worse for the caller if I’m a grad student, a dancer, a desperate housewife, a sorority sister getting her kicks, a out-call prostitute resting her cooch, an environmental activist, an underpaid junior-high teacher, a feminist playwright? I’m not sure.

There’s also an issue with definitions: what is “real”? Is the life I lead on the phones, are the encounters with Jason T. and Frank N. and Teddy F. entirely unreal, transient, without metaphysical or emotional value? Because here’s the thing: I have had sessions where the caller cried for a couple of minutes afterward, the cathartic impact was that real. And I have had extremely satisfying sex with my partners that is essentially the same as phone sex, that is, mutual masturbation with dirty-fucking-pig talk.

And this is one of my premises, in all the work I do: Talk, of the dirty-pig variety or otherwise, is real. Talk makes us human, and helps us to interact with others. “It’s just words.” Well, yes. And no. It’s words, but not just. Whether you’re using words to flirt, fuck, or foment social revolution, you’re creating a space in two or more people’s heads where change or challenge or awesome dirty-pig sex–or all of the above!–can take place.

So I will never meet any of my callers, and our talk may end in nothing more than a damp paper towel, but those 10 minutes, exchanging words, are just as real as the rest of our lives.