| (no subject) |
[Sep. 6th, 2004|06:45 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  amused | ] |
| [ | music |
| | The Milkshake Song -- Kelis (heh, just kidding) | ] |
Sooooo . . .
About the phone sex.
Remember that? That thing I used to do lots and lots of until I got axed? Well, I redid my ad on keen.com, and I made a recorded message, and some guy listened to it. $2.67 in my pocket. He gave me a 5-star rating and commented "very nice voice." Damn straight it is! He also emailed me:
"I am a 53 year-old white male who has always thought teaching to be a sexy occupation. I would love to know when you are online so we can get to know each other. Lustfully Ed"
"Yes!" I exulted to Ty. "I knew that ad claiming to be a horny teacher would suck them right in!"
"Uh, yeah. 'Cause there's nothing sexier than teachers."
Heh. It got the job done, didn't it? Now I just need to figure out how I can artfully weave the proper use of commas into whatever filthy conversation Ed and I might have. Perhaps I can go the Victor Borge route.
"Yes comma Ed exclamation point fuck my tight comma wet pussy exclamation point give it to me hard comma daddy exclamation point exclamation point exclamation point"
Is there anything sexier than proper punctuation? I think we all know the answer to that question.
Anyway, if you want to see the new ad, you can click here:
Bom chicka bom bom! |
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| Just because you can, it doesn't mean you should. |
[May. 26th, 2004|09:48 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | amused | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Dashboard Prophets -- Ballad for Dead Friends | ] |
So, there are a couple little things I meant to tell you guys when I was still an official phone sex operator that I just never got around to reporting. Then I got fired, and I just didn't do it . . .
Procrastination, thy name is Megan.
So, this is one of those things that happened once upon a time - like, in early May - when I was a real, honest-to-goodness full-time phone sex operator.
We pick up partly through the call, as our caller du jour (de la minute?) is describing himself for our heroine . . .
Him: . . . I have hazel eyes and very long, very thick brown hair.
Me: <sensuously . . . of course!> Mmmmm . . . you sound sooooo sexy . . . I love long hair . . .
Him: And do you know what I like to with my long hair?
Me: <honestly expecting him to tell me that he likes to wear it in braids and dress up like a girl> Ooooh, tell me . . .
Him: I like to braid it . . .
Me: <to myself> Hee! I knew it. I'm so smart. <to him> Oh, yessssss . . .
Him: And I like to . . .
Me: Tell me . . .
Him: . . . slide it into your pussy.
Me: <Trying, and failing, to disguise my snort of laughter as a gasp of pleasure.> Oh <snort> God. Yes!
Him: You like that, baby?
Me: Uh, yes . . . I <snort> love it!
Him: <sounding smug, obviously pleased with his mad sex skillz> Tell me how that feels, baby.
Me: It <itches. chafes. scratches. irritates. > tickles.
Him: Tickles?
Me: In a good way!
Him: <CLICK> |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 5th, 2004|12:28 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  worried | ] |
So, I recently suffered a debilitating injury that has been having devastating effects on my phone sex.
I cut my thumb.
See, here's how phone sex works. I hold the phone in my left hand, and I use my right hand for a multitude of other tasks. Actually, it's kind of like a Swiss Army Knife -- each finger has its purpose. My middle finger is used for masturbating (and flipping people off, of course). The ring finger is for scratching (it just happens to have a particularly nice nail on it right now, ideal for scratching). The pinky finger is for scratching my ear specifically (Q-tips are only good immediately after a shower). The index finger is for nose picking (Oh, come on. You know you do it, too. Oh, yes you do. Oh, yes you do. Yes, you do! What? You don't? For real? . . . Yeah, me neither.). My thumb is for sucking.
When I get a call and a man says "Let me hear you suck my cock, baby," that's the cock -- my thumb. But now it's cut on the knuckle and sucking just the tip isn't just the same, plus it bugs me to smell the Band-Aid and the Neosporin right under my nose. It's just not working out, and, really, I don't have a finger I can substitute. I can't hold the phone in my right hand because I don't hear nearly as well through my right ear as I do my left, and sometimes these callers are really quiet.
My sister has suggested that I stock up on popsicles to use as cocks, but it just isn't the same. What if I numb my tongue? What to do with it when it's melting all over my bed? Lollipops also seemed like a good plan, but they can be audible if I click one against my teeth. It steals from the realism. What to do? I'm at a loss. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 4th, 2004|08:39 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | smug | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Gary Jules "Mad World" | ] |
I am just so very pleased with myself right now. I just had one of my infrequent "Asian" calls, wherein I have to assume my Japanese persona, Akiko. I almost never get these calls anymore, but one pops up every now and then. I described my Asian body to this guy, and then never really did another Asian thing until about ten minutes into the call when all of a sudden, whilst pounding my pussy, he shouts, "Say something in Japanese!"
Now, you'd think that in 3 and a half months of phone sex I would have bothered to look up some Japanese phrases, but I haven't. When I first started here they told me to just say that my parents are from Asia, but I was raised in the US, and that's why I have no accent. The men, they told me, are just interested in my tight little Asian body. As with other things, my bosses were very wrong, and just about every Asian call I've had has questioned my Asianness.
So anyway, this guy tells me to talk Japanese, and I've got nothing. However, thanks to our recently installed second phone line, I was online during the call, so I quietly typed "Japanese phrases" into a search engine, covering the sound of my typing, as well as stalling for time, with my moans and screams.
Thus, our conversation was able to go as follows:
Him:<fucking my pussy> Dammit, say something Japanese right now bitch!
Me:<stalling, stalling>Oh, God, yes! Fuck me harder!
Him: You want this cock, bitch? Let me hear you talk in Japanese!
Me: Konna koto o shite itadaku to moshiwake nakute! ("This is very kind of you. I'm honored.")
Him: Oh, yeah. You love this cock, don't you?
Me: Goteinei na okokorozashi o itadakimashite, arigato gozaimasu. ("I'm afraid I hardly deserve such kindness.")
Him: Take it bitch! Take every fucking inch of it!
Me: Itsumo okokoro ni kakete itadaite, arigato gozaimasu. ("You're always so very thoughtful. I do appreciate it.")
Him: Oh, God, I'm almost there . . . get ready for it . . . I'm gonna fill your pussy . . . EEEUUUUHHHH!
Me: Yokoso oide kudasaimashita. ("How good of you to come!")
<CLICK>
(My source for the Japanese, and, therefore, the people responsible for any inaccuracies: Japanese) |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 2nd, 2004|04:44 pm] |
The gullibility of people never fails to amaze me. This last customer wanted me to finger myself to orgasm for him. I get started, and immediately he says, "Louder." So I go a little louder. "Louder!" I crank it up. "Louder! Louder! Louder! LOUDER! LOUDER!" So here I am in my bedroom, screaming into my phone, muffling myself with a pillow so that the neighbors won't call the cops on me, and my voice peaked out, and I had to fake an orgasm to give my voice a break. So, he starts the process all over again. Four orgasms in 5 minutes, and he thinks that they're all real? Particularly with the lack of stimulation? What's more, his shouting at me was in fact a great big huge turn-off. Imagine yourself trying to cum with someone shouting in your ear "Louder! LOUDER!" the whole time. If that's his normal style, no wonder he has to call me to get off. Sheesh. |
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| A classical approach to phone sex |
[Apr. 29th, 2004|10:33 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  determined | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Diamond Rio "Beautiful Mess" | ] |
Now, then. If I'm to save my job, it's obvious I must approach it in some new fashion, to become more alluring and seductive for the clients. I think I've found some good advice in the classics. Perhaps I should do as Ovid suggests:
"Indeed, some mispronounce words with deliberate affectation,
Bring them lispingly off the tongue:
Charm lurks in such errors of consciously faulty diction -
What grace of speech they had they soon unlearn."
Step 1: Lisp.
"Have a smattering of the poets -- Callimachus, Coan Philetas, wine-flown Anacreon: don't forget
Sappho (what, I ask you, could be more wanton?),
Or Menander's sugar-daddies, always gulled
By some tricksy slave. Be able to quote Propertius, Tibullus, or Gallus, in sentimental mood;
Learn passages from epic . . ."
Step 2: Quote dead poets.
"And if nature's denied you the gift of achieving a climax,
Moan as though you were coming, put on an act!
(The girl who can't feel down there is really unlucky,
Missing out on what both sexes should enjoy.)
Only take care that you make your performace convincing,
Thrash about in a frenzy, roll your eyes,
Let your cries and gasping breath suggest what pleasure
You're getting (that part has it's own private signs)."
Step 3: Fake it well.
It seems simple enough, doesn't it? If this fails, I shall turn to Catullus.
(Ovid quoted from the Penguin translation of The Erotic Poems) |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 23rd, 2004|08:29 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | hopeful | ] |
A call I had the other day:
"Hi, this is Jessica."
"Well, hello there, Jessica. Are you going to get me off today? I am so damned horny."
"Of course I am. What got you so horny?"
"My wife and mother-in-law went off to work early today, and I didn't get any pussy this morning."
"Oh, poor baby! That sucks that your wife had to go in early."
"Yeah, and I didn't get either pussy."
"Uh . . .'either' pussy?"
"Yup, not hers and not her mother's."
"Do you often get her mother's?"
"Everyday."
"And your wife . . ."
"I get her everyday, too. Sometimes with her mother."
"Wow. You sure get a lot of pussy, don't you?"
"Yep, all three of 'em."
"Three?"
"My wife, my mother-in-law, and my mother."
"Oh. Her, too?"
"Oh, yeah. My wife and I go over there, and I fuck my mother while my dad fucks my wife."
"Boy, you're a busy family. Just out of curiosity, where do you all live?"
Please, don't say it. Say anywhere, anywhere at all except --
"Arkansas."
Naturally. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 22nd, 2004|10:17 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  thoughtful | ] |
Yesterday was something of a red letter day for me. For the first time in three months of phone sexing, I got a request for the missionary position! No one ever asks for that. In my experience, the most requested position is doggy style, with me riding his cock coming in second. There's also a healthy demand for me on my back with my legs on his shoulders. I think that today I'm going to make up a chart to fill in as I go along to keep track of the key demographics: what are the favorite positions, penis length (it'll be interesting to see how that compares to the national average of 5.1 inches), what percentage of men want me to fuck them . . .
Expect a figure-full entry tomorrow. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 21st, 2004|04:41 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  devious | ] |
I have to say, I really don't have the strongest work ethic when it comes to job I don't like. Take today, for instance. I got the Passive Aggressive Lesbian again. God, she bugs me! And she started her whole famous-people role-playing-thing. I just don't get that. Why do you want to be someone else during sex? "Okay, you be Ralph, our postman, and I'll be Faye, the cashier." See? This makes no sense.
Anyway, she started pulling her passive agressive act, so I just decided to "disconnect" her. Of course, I can't hang up on her because that would log me out of the system, so I just cut myself off in the middle of a sentence. Just got quiet. She said, "Hello? Hello?" then hung up. Ah. Peace.
But then, 2 calls later, I got her back. "Did we get disconnected or something?" she asks.
"Uh, yeah, that must be it."
"Well, you were just telling me that you love Jessica Simpon . . ." What? I told her no such thing! As many lies as I tell as a phone sex operator, I do have to draw a line, and THAT is where that line is. You can tie me up and make me brush out my ass with my toothbrush, but you can't make me like Jessica Simpson. Yeesh. " . . . and were you going to be the policewoman?"
The policewoman? Jessica Simpson? We hadn't talked about any of that stuff when I spoke to her. I almost fell over laughing at that point -- someone else must have "disconnected" her after me! See? I'm not the only one who hates her. Anyway, after dancing the dance of the passive-aggressive with her, I pulled my silent act again.
Then got her a third time right away. I knew, I just KNEW it would be her, so I answered the phone in the deepest, ugliest voice possible: "Hi, this is Rachel." "Hi, this is Jaime. And this is?" Lower still: "Rachel." "Uh. Okay." <CLICK> |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 20th, 2004|08:37 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  bitchy | ] |
Today was just a day of minor irritants. First, there was the guy who called up with music blaring in the background. I support loud music as much as the next person, but I certainly don't expect to be able to hear jack shit (jackshit? one word or two?) on the phone if I've elected to crank it up. Imagine my disgust, listening to this twerp tell me that I'M too quiet. He can't hear me, and it's all MY fault. Little pustule. I was shouting as loudly as I could, but you know what? Trying to sound sexy while shouting does not work at the beginning of your sexual encounter. At the end, sure: "GOD, BABY, FUCK ME WITH THAT MAMMOTH COCK!" See? That works. But at the beginning? "DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT I LOOK lIKE? IS THAT COCK HARD FOR ME YET? DO YOU WANT ME TO SUCK ON YOUR COCK?" No. Just no.
Then, there was this ass in Florida who got all huffy with me because after exactly two minutes of talking with him, he wanted to get together, then got pissed when I told him I couldn't afford to fly out there. "But there are bargain fairs --" Whatever! I've known you TWO MINUTES. Anyone with an ounce of courtesy would have at least waited until after I'd sucked his cock before officially propositioning me. This, my friends, is hubris. Biggie sized hubris. Anyway, he was so pissed with me for refusing his generous invitation to fly cross-country at my expense to service him, he hung up.
Then, to end a sucky day right, my supervisors forgot to call and give me my last break until 8:12, exactly 18 minutes before my shift ends. "You know," the sup says to me. "If it gets too busy and we don't have a chance to get you between calls, then you need to logoff and call us to tell us you're taking break." Well, thanks for the info, but no, I did not know. Frankly, if you people had the common sense of a housefly, you would just give me a set break schedule instead of telling me to wait on the phone until one of you tells me that it's okay to take a break. If I really don't have to wait, if I can just take my break when I choose, then you should have told me that three months ago. Plus, do not give me that "too busy" line. It was dead enough for me to finish reading "'Surely You're Joking. Mr. Feynman!'" between calls, so there was plenty of time to tell me to go on break. As far as I can determine, the supervisors' entire job consists of telling me to take breaks. It's not like any of us are actually there to bother them. They don't answer questions. They handle breaks, they log us in at the start of shift, they log us out at the end. That's it. And then, at 8:12, to have him tell me to take a 10 MINUTE break instead of the my normal 15 because of their incompetence? That pisses me off. I then had to come back eight minutes before the nd of my shift instead of three, and naturally, I got a call in that time. Stupid, stupid, stupid. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 19th, 2004|10:55 am] |
I am a bad person. I can hedge that as much as I want, but I can't escape it. I am a bad person. No, not because I do phone sex. I do something that's way, way worse than that.
I fall asleep while I'm doing phone sex.
I am ashamed of it, but I just can't help myself. I'll be on the phone with some boring, boring, BORING guy, usually one who refuses to enunciate, and I'm snuggled up in my bed, I have a zillion pillows, the light's off, and . . . I start drifting away. He's talking, I can hear him talking, but my brain is off somewhere else.
There are so many levels of sleep, aren't there? I don't go off into full-on R.E.M. sleep, but I definitely can't be called awake. You know that point when you're falling asleep when your eyes are closed, your breathing is slow, and your brain is still thinking? One moment you're thinking about what happened today, then the tendril of thought gently drifts off into imaginary stuff. That's where I go. If he stops talking, I can wake up enough to supply a few moans, and then he'll go on again, but I'm definitely not paying attention. It just feels mean -- he's paying a fortune to talk to me, and I drop off. Interestingly, I've never had one of those callers just hang up on me -- they always cum.
Working from home isn't all good, I guess. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 16th, 2004|01:27 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  sleepy | ] |
So, I've been getting more and more calls lately from men begging me to mock their small penes and, frankly, I don't have the vocabulary to keep up with the demand -- especially when I get the same guy twice in one day, since he just looooved how I ridiculed his dick.
Ty and I have been sitting over here, trying to think up more mean things to say about little penes. Please, if you can add to the list, it would be greatly appreciated. Thus far, we've got:
Tiny dick
Minuscule
Stub
Babycock
Teeny Weenie
Pencil Dick
Centimeter Peter
Along the same lines, I'm also running out of names for really big cocks. I've extended the animal metaphor as far as it'll stretch, and God knows men love hearing me beg for their "horse cocks." But there are only so many animals I can use. For some reason, they start hanging up when I moan about their blue whale cocks. I thought it would be the ultimate compliment, but what do I know.
Anyway, suggestions in either category are welcome. Thank you. |
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| Forget mad cow disease and vegan morals; this is the best argument for soy milk you will ever hear. |
[Apr. 15th, 2004|10:25 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  distressed | ] |
You know, just when I think I've become thoroughly jaded, just when I'm prepared to tell you that I've heard everything, just when I know that nothing kinkier could come up, some freakshow in Wisconsin comes along and raises the bar.
Before you read any further -- if you enjoy drinking milk and wish to continue drinking it, don't read this. Seriously. Ignorance is bliss and all that stuff. Do yourself a favor and just walk away now.
No -- don't go on! You don't want to read this!
Seriously -- you are so going to regret this.
You think I'm joking, but no milk? That means no ice cream! You can never eat ice cream again if you read this! Have you even bothered to take that into consideration? No.
Fine. On your head be it.
Masochist.
The Man From Wisconsin
or
A Tale of Two Teats
Me: Hi, this is Jessica.
Him: <Man speaking in Southern accent (what? I know I said "Man From Wisconsin." It's not my fault that he has a Southern accent)> Hello, there. Where are you at?
Me: I'm in Arizona. Where are you?
Him: I'm from the Dairy State. <Remember that. That's going to be important.>
Me: <Brain pummelling audible in Maine. Stupid state nicknames! Um . . . dairy, dairy . . . Vermont? What? Ben and Jerry live there, and they have dairy! No, wait, brain remembering something . . . something about stupid hats . . .> Oh, Wisconsin. What a lovely place to live.
Him: Yep.
Me: <Cue the sultry, sexy, come-fuck-me voice> So, is your cock all hard for me yet?
Him: Yep.
Me: Mmmmm. And if I was there with you right now, would you want me to suck on it, or do you have something else in mind?
Him: Well, I guess if you were here right now, you wouldn't wanna suck it; you'd just wanna watch it.
Me: <Thinking to myself, "Great. Another 'Watch me jerk off, baby. Doesn’t it turn you on?' Duh! Not over the phone it doesn’t, brainiac."> Oh? What are you doing to yourself that you want me to watch?
Him: Well . . .
Me: Come on, tell me. Don't be shy.
Him: Well, you see, Wisconsin is the Dairy State . . .
Me: Yeah . . .
Him: And so I work part-time on a dairy farm.
Me: <"Please, God, don't let this man be fucking a cow. Or a goat. Or any barnyard animal. Sincerely, Megan"> Okay . . .
Him: Have you ever seen a cow get milked before?
Me: Well, um, on TV. Does that count?
Him: Have you seen those machines they use?
Me: No, but I've read about them. <My source for all cow milking information is Nora Roberts' "The Fall of Shane Mackade," a bodice-ripper which happens to contain several cow milking scenes. I know, I know -- I have phone sex for 8 hours, then I go read trashy novels. For the plots, I swear! I skip the boring, euphemism-laden sex scenes.>
Him: Well, right now, I've got my dick hooked up to teat cup and I'm lettin' the machine milk my cock.
Oh. My. God.
Me: Euhhhh . . .
Him: Yep, it hurts like hell for the first couple minutes, then it starts feelin' REAL good.
Me: And -- it's milking you? Like a cow?
Him: Yep. See it milks me, then that goes through this tube here.
Me: <Oh, God. Is he in a milking parlor right now? Where is this cum going? He milks it, it goes through the machine, WHERE DOES IT END UP?> Yes? through the tube? Then where?
Him: Lord, it feels inCREDible. Like someone’s pulling beads right up through the center of my dick
Me: Yes, I'm sure it does. You were saying it milks your cum, then sends it where?
Him: You know, I've been doing this for seven years now . . .
Me: <And your dick hasn't fallen off yet?> Oh, my goodness. Seven years?
Him: Yep, and – oh! Oooooooh! Uhhhhhhhh!Oh, it’s suckin’ that cum right out of me.
Me: Yes? Sucking it to where?
Him: Arrhhhhhh! Euuuuhhhhh! Oooooah!
Me: My, that does sound like fun. And, where is that cum headed again?
Him: Oh, it goes into this 4 quart milk can here.
Me: And is that an empty milk can?
Him: Oooh, it’s still going! Hasn’t quite milked me dry yet!
Me: So, how exactly did you get started on this?
Him: Well, ‘bout seven years ago, my girlfriend was out milkin’ the cows one night, and I went out there to keep her company. And she was hookin’ ‘em up to the machine, and I said, "I wonder what that feels like," and she said, "Well, let’s find out," and we pulled my dick out and she hooked it up, and lord did it hurt! So I said to her, "Take this damn thing off; it hurts!" And she said, "No, you wanted to know what it felt like, now you’re gonna find out." So she left it on and after a couple of minutes it stopped hurting and felt so good.
Me: Wow.
Him: Yep, and of course, the more I got milked, the more I produced, so now I have to get milked every 2 ½ to 3 hours. After I cum 4 times, I have ‘bout a pint in the milk can.
Me: Oh, my God!
Him: Yep. I’ve got two cups hooked up, one on my dick, one on my bag.
Me: <This scary man really thinks he’s a cow.> Your bag? You mean, your balls?
Him: Yep, back then I had a little bump on my bag that would occasionally secrete just a tiny bit of liquid if I squeezed it. Now, I’ve been milking it so long, it’s like a nipple.
Me: You have a nipple on your balls?
Him: Yep. Well, I don’t think the machine really finished milking me; I’m gonna go again.
Me: Okay. So you’re out in the barn now . . .
Him: What? No! I’m in my kitchen.
Me: The kitchen?
Him: Yep, sitting on a stool behind the counter.
Me: With your machine?
Him: Oh, yep.
Me: Oh, well, good.
Him: Yep, my girlfriend’s out of town right now. She’s a veterinary conference.
Me: I guess this won’t be one of the techniques she discusses at the conference.
Him: Well, I don’t know. She took a video.
Me: A video.
Him: Of me getting milked.
Me: Oh.
Him: Have you ever been milked?
Me: Me? Oh, no. I’m in the city, see, and I don’t think we have those machines around here.
Him: You could use a breast pump. Have you?
Me: Uh, no.
Him: Well, why not?
Me: Well, it just never occurred to me.
Him: My girlfriend likes to hook her tits up to the machine. She gets plenty out of – <CLICK>
And that was the end. We’d hit our half hour. Thank God.
Have you guys thought that this guy can just never have company over? They’ll all want to know why he has a cow milking machine in his kitchen. Also, I did a little research on these machines. His dick isn’t just getting squeezed and pulled; a vacuum is being formed, and cum is being sucked out of him.
A couple of you to whom I’ve already told this story think that the man was making it up. I’m just not sure. I could hear the machine going in the background the entire time. Still, I am incredibly gullible; after all, I did fall for Maggie Smith’s (acquaintance in college; not Hollywood star) "I have four kidneys" routine. I’d be interested in your opinions – was he telling the truth, or was this just another episode of "Fool the Dumb Phone Sex Operator"? |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 12th, 2004|02:00 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  curious | ] |
So, a man with a panty fetish is hardly an unusual part of my day. Sometimes they like to wear them, sometimes they like to look at girls wearing them, sometimes they want to smell them. I keep a clean pair of panties by my side when I'm working so that when they ask me to describe mine, I can just look right at them and not pause to try to remember what I'm wearing or something.
I had this guy the other day with a panty fetish who really enjoys smelling them. And he's telling me about the pairs he has, and he asks me to smell mine. So I pick up that clean pair I keep handy and inhale really loudly so he can hear me.
"What do they smell like, baby?" he whispers.
"Play-doh . . ." I say.
"What?"
"Um, they smell like sex and cum."
"Oh, yeah, baby . . . "
And as he continued moaning, I just sat there, trying to figure out why my brand-new, freshly washed panties smell like Play-Doh. Because they really, really do. |
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| And Now Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Perversions |
[Apr. 7th, 2004|12:05 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | amused | ] |
"Hi, this is Jessica."
"Hi there, Jess. Are you gonna be my calendar girl today?"
"Of course I am. Do you want to know what I look like?"
"You're wearing a white leather skirt, aren't you? And a white leather jacket?"
"Uh . . . yes. That's exactly what I'm wearing."
"You want me to fuck you don't you, Jess?"
"God, I just can't wait to get that cock inside me."
"You like being my calendar girl, dontcha, Jess?"
"Mmmm . . . I love it."
"I already have one, you know."
"A calendar girl?"
"Yeah . . . she's laying on my bed right now."
"Oh?"
"Yeah . . . she's on my bed, waiting for me. She's kinda twirling her hair with one hand, and she's smiling at me."
"Oh . . . uh, if you have her already, what do you need me for?"
"You're my calendar girl, aren't ya, Jess?"
"Um, of course I am."
"You're wearing that white leather?"
"Mmhmmmm."
"Oh, Jess, I'm gonna fuck my calendar girl."
"Please, fuck me, give it to me hard!"
"I'm on the bed, I'm on top of her. Don't you think that's kind of kinky, what I'm doing?"
"Do you actually have someone else there?"
"Just my calendar girl."
"Ooookay. What am I wearing under the white leather?"
"I can't tell, it doesn't show."
"Doesn't show . . . in the picture? It's a picture of your calendar girl?"
"Oh, baby, yes . . ."
"It's a calendar?"
"Oh, yeah, come on baby . . ."
"And you're . . ."
"I'm on top of her, fucking my calendar girl!"
"You're fucking your --"
"Calendar girl!"
"Your calendar."
"AHHHHHHyessssss! Oh, God, baby, you're incredible."
"Um, yeah. You, too."
Next time: A cornucopia of perversion.
Hint: The return of Teddy Bear! (see February 18 entry for previous Teddy Bear reference) |
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| Intermezzo -- Items of a Non-Phone Sex Nature |
[Apr. 5th, 2004|03:48 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | scared | ] |
It's 3:40 am. We just finished watching The Mothman Prophecies. Before that, we watched Signs. I don't watch a lot of scary movies because I have a very, very, very low tolerance for scary movies. I watched Flatliners on video years ago, and my then-boyfriend had to keep pausing to give me a chance to recover. I saw Conspiracy Theory in the theatre, and I actually started crying from fear. I was 20 at the time. I still have recurring nightmares about Jurassic Park.
This all dates back to my childhood (picture me comfortably stretched out on a couch, discussing this with my imaginary shrink) when our mother liked to use the TV as our babysitter. I was 4 or 5 years old the summer Channel 5 was showing a horror movie every morning at 10 am, right after Phil Donahue. Somehow, I couldn't tear myself away from them, no matter how scared I got. I saw The Son of Blob (which left me terrified of this Peanut Butter and Jelly boardgame I had just gotten for my birthday), The Giant Spider Invasion, Them!, Frogs (which left me scared of our backyard), and Killer Bees (which led me to check under my covers every night in case the killer bees had taken up residence in the foot of my bed. Better safe than sorry. Ironically, back when I was so scared of them, they hadn't yet made it to Arizona. Now they are here, and it's not that big a deal. Just run and hope that they run out of breath before you do.)
Right, right -- the point. The point is, my fear of scary movies dates back quite a ways. One of the worst nights in my life was during my freshman year in high school on a school trip to Disneyland. We were spread out over several buses, and the teachers in our bus had rented some movies for us to watch. Since that was during the period when our parents weren't letting us watch movies, I was awfully excited. Dirty Dancing certainly caught my attention, but then they showed Child's Play. That doll! With that knife! Killing everyone in sight! And me, trapped on a bus, unable to escape the terrifying movie. It was horrible.
So, here I went and voluntarily watched 2 scary movies today, and there is no way I'm going to be sleeping anytime soon, if at all. I am stupid. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 3rd, 2004|01:30 am] |
The half-hour limit that this company I work for imposes on calls just pisses the fuck out of me. No, not because it virtually guarantees that I will NEVER make bonuses (okay, that part pisses me off, too). See, the thing is, it cuts me off in the middle of very important calls. Remember the time I was trying to assure that guy that even though his penis is 3 inches long, women will still want him? And that I wanted him, too? And then in the middle of me cumming for him they disconnect us? I still worry that maybe that poor guy just went off and shot himself -- "Not even the phone sex operator wants me -- and I pay her to!" Bang.
This one wasn't quite as a bad, but it still doesn't leave me with warm fuzzy feelings. See, this guy -- henceforth to be known as "Mr. Pantyhose" -- called me up to tell me that he was preparing to come out to his fiance about his pantyhose fetish. His plan was to greet her at the front door wearing nothing but them. Actually, that's what he was wearing as he spoke to me, and his fiance was due home "any minute now!" Mr. Pantyhose was so, so nervous.
Apparently he's tried to tell her about his particular fetish several times, but could never quite go through with it. He's even waited at home for her like he is this time, wearing nothing but nylons, but he's always chickened out at the last minute. So the poor guy wants me to walk him through this. He begs me to stay on the phone with him until she comes home, and I agree to, and we spend the time discussing his fetish and whether or not she'll accept it. Now, just between you and me, I think that the best way to come out about something like this is to tell someone first, without demonstrating it. My roommate Ty and I had a little conversation about that:
Me: So, when you were coming out to your parents about being gay, did you just tell them, or did you let them come home one day and find you with a cock up your ass?
Ty: Yeah, I thought about that, but then I decided to go with just telling them.
You see? Telling them first is usually the best choice. But Mr. Pantyhose has his heart set on doing it this way. Okay, fine, it's his party, not mine. So, he's peering out the window.
Mr. P.: Oh my God! That's her car! She just pulled into the driveway!
Me: Okay, just stay calm; it's going to be okay. She's going to love you in those.
Mr. P.: Because I look sexy. I do look sexy, don't I?
Me: A chimpanzee could look sexy in L'eggs Jet Black Silken Mist pantyhose. You look fabulous.
Mr. P.: Will she like me?
Me: She'll love you. Now just take a deep breathe.
<sound of hyperventilating on the line>
Mr. P.: Oh, God, her car door is opening! Thank God you're here! She's slamming it closed! She's walking up the sidewalk! She's putting her key in the door! She's turning the -- <click>
Seriously! Right there, right that moment, my buttcheese bosses ended the call. I'll never know what happened! Did he go through with it? Or when the call dropped did he go haring off to the bathroom to whip on some clothes? Poor, poor Mr. Pantyhose.
So you understand why I really hate the call limit thing. Although there was a funnier kind of incident involving it the other day. This guy called up to be dominated, begging me to time him up in these leather straps he had. So, we do some intricate trussing (See, Boy Scouts? That knot-tying badge will come in handy someday!), get his balls tied up, then that strap tied to his cock; it was all very complicated, and I'm not explaining it well. Suffice it to say, he was well restrained, and he vowed not to remove his bindings until ordered to do so by his Mistress. And then the call got disconnected. So this poor guy is wandering around with his nibblets still all cinched up. If any of you run into him, please tell him I said it's okay to take them off now. Thanks.
More grousing on the retarded bonus system. See, I have to have an average call time of nine minutes to get a bonus, and since my average call time has almost never been over 7.5 minutes, there's no way I'm ever going to see that cash. Now, instead of this antiquated time-based system of bonuses, I suggest instead a merit based system of points. See, once you get a certain number of points, you start getting bonuses. It could go like this.
Getting a guy off -- 1 point
Getting a girl off -- 2 points
Getting a guy off and having him thank me for it -- 2 points
Getting a girl off and having her thank me for it -- 3 points
Convincing a man that a woman will love him in spite of his 3 inch cock -- 20 points
Indulging a fantasy I find personally repugnant (yeah, scat, I'm talkin' to you)-- 30 points
Convincing someone that I am really African-American, Asian, a lesbian, or a she-male -- 100 points
Convincing someone that I am a lesbian midget left-handed albino -- 10 million points.
Any other suggestions, people?
Next time: When even the Grandmistress of Kink (that's me) thinks you're too kinky.
Hint: You're the one fucking your calendar. Really. No, really. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 31st, 2004|10:35 am] |
The eternal question: how can I get my rocks off without pissing off God?
It's a valid question. After all, Biblical evidence shows us that masturbating offends the Almighty so much, that he'll kill you for doing it (Genesis 38:9-10). Of course, that raises the interesting point: if I, the phone sex operator, help you to cum, and God kills you for it, could I be tried as an accessory to murder? Just wondering.
So it's understandable if some of my clients are peering over their shoulders while talking to me, watching out for Jehovah sneaking up on them. And you can see why some of them want to get the jump on him by covering their asses before coveting mine. Which explains Tim.
Tim called me a couple of days ago, and our conversation began routinely enough -- what do you look like, how big are your tits, is your cock hard for me, blah, blah, blah. But then Tim felt God's glare burning a hole in the back of his head, and here went our conversation:
Me: Oh, Tim, I just want to suck your cock so --
Tim: Jessica?
Me: Yes?
Tim: Jessica?
Me: Yes?
Tim: Jessica?
Me: YES?
Tim: Jessica, are you religious?
Me: Nope.
Tim: Are you sure?
Me: Yes.
Tim: Not at all?
Me: Not a bit.
Back to screwing around. Then --
Tim: Jessica?
Me: Yes?
Tim: Jessica?
Me: Yes?
Tim: Jessica, do you want to know the Lord and accept him into your life?
Me: Um . . . okay.
A quickie prayer session followed. Enough, apparently, to assuage Tim's guilt and get up back to the fucking. All throughout the rest of the call, though, Tim kept stopping me periodically so that we could just talk about the Lord and how Jesus loves us, and how Tim loves me, and how he wants to be one with me, and how he wants to marry me, and how wonderful it will be for me to finally have a man in my life willing to overlook my sinful past and give me a place to live and clean and make babies and submit to his glorious dominance.
Okay, he didn't really say that last part, but you know he was thinking it.
Look, my job is to get these guys off. If they want to talk about my feet, we talk about my feet. If they want to talk about Satan, we talk about Satan. And if Tim wants to talk about his 1950's fundamentalist utopia, then we talk about it. In a normal call, the guy wants to hear me cum, so I fake an orgasm. Tim wanted to hear me come to Jesus, so I faked a conversion. It's all the same to me.
Poor Tim never did get to cum during our conversation, though. He stopped so many times along the way for God, he hit the half hour cut off mark and got disconnected by my bosses. Darn.
Next time: How to come out to your fiance about your pantyhose fetish.
Hint: Not by greeting her at the door wearing nothing but them. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 29th, 2004|11:09 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | bitchy | ] |
You know, being a phone sex operator gives me many, many opportunities throughout my day to be offended. I get called a bitch, slut, whore, cocksucker, and I take it cum grano saltis*. (Actually, it's kind of funny to hear some guy spend seven minutes calling you all that, cum, then politely thank you and wish you a pleasant evening.) I listen to people with their stereotypes and prejudices, and by and large I can make it through. People are stupid, and I can deal with that.
But.
I hate, hate, HATE people who will not enunciate! HATE THEM! Personally! In the sense that I long to drive by their houses and egg their cars! And key them! (What? I have issues. It's not like I actually have a car to drive to their houses in, so just leave me and my sociopathic inclinations alone, okay? [Do you pronounce "sociopathic" soSHEopathic or soSEEopathic? Don't you think the latter sounds a little bit more Sideshow Bob insaneish?])
Now, it seems like I've always had a little trouble hearing. (I blame that on my addiction to post-shower Q-Tipping. Fuck! Why would somebody spend a fortune on phone sex when they can have incredible, intense eargasms for the cost of a box of Q-Tips? And I do mean Q-Tips; the Johnson & Johnson knock-offs are too bendy to do the trick.) If we're having a phone conversation, you'll probably hear me repeat back a question to you to make sure I heard it correctly. So that's not helping, though I do make allowances for it.
But.
That doesn't explain or excuse those people who seem to be adamantly opposed to actually pronouncing words. I'm not referring to people who speak English as a second language, or to those guys who are talking really quietly so that their wives won't hear them. I mean those slacker ASSHATS who mutter to you. I had this guy today who put me in such a foul, horrid, STINKY mood with his inability to speak, I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle him. (Interesting sidenote: when I used to work at AOL in customer service, there was not a one of us who didn't dream of having a button on our phones that would send an electric shock through the line to the fucktard on the other end. "What? You say you cancelled your service and want your money back? And that the 23,492 minutes of usage in the last month couldn't have been you? And that wasn't AOL I just heard saying "Good-bye" in the background? Oh, yeah? Well -- BZZZZZZ!")
I don't really know why it bugs me quite so much. You'll notice that caps and italics aren't my normal writing style, and yet here they are in full force. And did you see all those exclamation points a couple of paragraphs up? I normally hate the exclamation point; it reminds me of cheerleaders and pep ralleys and fake smiles and squealing. (By the way, some guy today kept telling me to squeal, and I just couldn't manage it. I was trying, really I was, but I can't pull off a squeal to save my life.) I particularly loathe it when I see it used as "!!!!!!" No, you don't need a row of exclamation points. I got your point after the first one. It just reminds me too much of high school year books, "Luv-u-lots!!!! KIT!!!! Stay sweet!!!" Bite me.
Okay, right, back to the point. I guess I just feel like if you can't be bothered to talk, you shouldn't be calling for phone sex. If it's just too much effort for you to open your mouth, then don't waste my time. The only exceptions I'll make are if you've had your jaw wired shut or if you're trying to master the Russian accent. The best way to master Russian is to speak with your mouth as closed as possible. No, it's true. I had a Russian roommate in college and I picked that up from her. I also picked up the sum total of my conversational Russian, "Hi. How are you? Go fuck your mother. Farewell." (For those of you wondering, that would be said like, "Previet. Coke dila? Yob dvoyu mat. Dasvedanya." That's just how to pronounce it, not spell. Yeah, yeah, I misspelled the Russian, but I'm too lazy to look it up. But at least I made the effort to pronounce it properly!)
Next time: How to reconcile your religion with your need to jack-off with a stranger.
Hint: Ask her to marry you first.
*Okay, the most gratuitous use of Latin I've ever seen in my life was that phrase in a scholarly article; who the fuck needs to put "with a grain of salt" into Latin? They weren't quoting anybody; they were just tossing it in to look smart. I should probably pepper these journal updates with more gratuitous Latin, don't you think? For those of you curious, the runner-up in The Gratuitous Latin contest was Susanna Elm's Virgins of God (Oxford University Press: Oxford, 1994) wherein the author used de facto approximately several million times, including twice on one page (page 17). She was also responsible for the egregious "In other words, according to Mabillon, the history of Latin monasticism (and, indeed, non minima, that of the Latin Church) was identical to that of the order of Benedict." That, from page four of the same book, also earned her third place in the contest. Unless you're the pope, don't you ever, ever let me catch you using Latin outside of a quotation in the course of a serious paper. Pompous idiots. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 26th, 2004|10:18 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | contemplative | ] |
| [ | music |
| | "Not an Addict" K's Choice | ] |
Within maybe the first 30 seconds of a call, I can actually tell how it's going to go. It's really fascinating, these different kinds of men I have. There are two basic categories -- loud and quiet. The loud ones are easy. They're outgoing, they know what they want, and they want you to help them get it. They understand that they're buying a fantasy, and they participate fully. You have no idea how important participation is. The loud ones I can easily keep on for 6 minutes at the absolute minimum. Usually they'll go for over 10.
The quiet ones, though, can be separated into a dozen different categories. Let me give you one.
The Skeptics
These are the ones who've heard of phone sex, but have never tried it before. They don't understand that they're just buying a fantasy. They want to REALLY know what you look like, how old you REALLY are, what you REALLY like to do. They assume that whatever you've told them upfront is a lie. For instance, when I'm describing what I look like, I always say, "I'm 18 years old. I'm 5'3", I've got long brown hair, green eyes, nice firm C-cup breasts and a nice round ass." Pretty much perfect, right? These men are always suspicious because I'm just too perfect. What would they prefer I say? "I'm 5'10", balding, terrible acne, and a hairy back"? (Not really, folks.) They're buying the perfect woman, I'm giving it to them, and they're not happy. So when they call me on it, I always sheepishly admit some minor flaw, "Well, I actually do wear glasses." or "To be honest with you, I'm really 23." If I told them the truth -- I'm 26 and already graying -- they would freak and hang up immediately. They don't want the truth, much as they think they do. Okay, there's one guy out there who would probably get off on the reality, but the rest would hang up.
Now, the skeptics can be divided into two subcategories: those who accept what you've just told them, and those who won't. The ones who accept it are proud of themselves for outing the phone sex operator. They feel like the two of you have a real connection because they were special enough for you to confide in them. These types of guys, I would guess, aren't really happy with one-night stands in real life; they feel a need to date some before having sex. After I give them some "real" details, they usually will stay on the phone for at least 15 minutes. I'll get them off in the first few minutes, but then they want to talk about their lives -- where they live, what they do for a living, why they're calling me. They almost always tell me that they are just too busy to date in real life, so they call for phone sex.
The non-accepting skeptics, though -- those really boil my butt. I just can't stand them! Everything I do, every step of the process is questioned or met with disbelieving silence. Remember that guy I mentioned a few weeks ago, the one who told me to keep my day job? He was one of these. You never get ANY feedback from them during the process, no moans, no grunts, no nothin'. They'll actually stay on for a good long while, too -- at least 5 or 6 minutes. They usually just hang up on you, no good-byes, no thank you. I always picture them as Simon Cowell, sitting back with his arms crossed with that bored, disgusted look on his face (no, I do NOT watch American Idol; I've seen him on commercials, okay?). When the day comes that one of them finally says to me in a British acccent, "That was ghastly. I can honestly say that that was the worst phone sex I have ever heard. You should never be allowed to orgasm again.", I will not be surprised.
These types suck all my energy out, not giving any back. Imagine yourself playing basketball. Five people on your team, right? You dribble down the court, pass the ball to a teammate, she catches it. She throws it someone else. They catch it. They pass it to someone else. She catches it, she shoots, she scores.
Here's how that game would be played with one of these men. I have the ball, I pass it to him. He looks at it coming his way but doesn't reach for it. It bounces off him or flies right past him. So I run to pick it up and dribble some more. I pass it again, he looks at me like, why are you throwing that ball over here? I run to retrieve the pass, I dribble, I shoot, I make a basket. He, though, watching me the entire time, is asking if I really LIKE to dribble, telling me it doesn't sound like I enjoy dribbling, and I'm not really dribbling right anyway, and my basket wasn't really a basket, it didn't go in all the way, and I probably shouldn't consider a career in basketball. And he never for a second stops to think that it might have been a better game if he had caught a single pass, if he had done a little dribbling, if he had taken a shot. They think that they're sitting in the bleachers, I think they should be out there on the floor. Playing a whole basketball game all by yourself is exhausting. |
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