You want me to put a what? Up your where?

Me: I'm sorry, what did you just say?

Him: Figging

Me: Figging?

Him (slowly now): Yes, figging.

Me: Not frigging?

Him: No, not frigging, figging.

Me: Not fingering?

Him (sighing): Not frigging, fingering fucking, or flying. I said figging. Obviously you've never heard of it.

Me: Is it obvious?

Him: Would you like to know what it is?

Me: I dunno, I'm afraid now.

Him: It's pain free.

Me: Oh good.

Him: For you.

Me: ...oh.

Him: It's where you take a hot pepper and put it in a guy's butt.

Me: Ow!

Him: Yeah.

Me: Ow!

Him: It's not so bad. It burns some, but it feels good.

Me: Ow!

Him: You mentioned that.

Me: Ok, I suppose I can do that. Just one thing though?

Him: Yeah?

Me: Why is it called figging?

Him: I don't know. Do you need to know that in order to do it?

Me: Well, quelling my curiosity *would* help me focus...

Him: I trust you'll manage.

Me: My curiosity is burning like a hot pepper up the ass.

Him: Are we going to do this or not?

Me: Sure.

Him: Why do I hear clicking in the background? You're typing aren't you? You're looking it up!

Me: Hmmm?

Him: Ok fine, what did you find out about figging?

Me: Well, wikipedia says it's " a sexual practice involving the insertion of a prepared "finger" of ginger root or even pepper into the anus. The burning sensation is said to induce intense pleasure. The technique is used by some practitioners of BDSM."

"The practice is sometimes said to have originated in a preparation technique for show horses, where an irritating "fig" would be inserted into their anus to induce them to hold their tail high. Others claim that Victorian corporal punishment methods sometimes involved figging to further humiliate and chastise the culprit, as well as preventing the clenching of the buttocks during caning, birching or flagellation."

Him: Those wacky Victorians. So, are we ready?

Me: But if they use ginger, or hot peppers, it doesn't explain why they called it "figging."

Him: I'm hanging up now.

Me: Wait! I'm sorry. I'll be good, I promise. I'll fig you silly and I'll even wear some hot victorian lingerie while I do it, how's that?

Him: Better.

Me: You don't mind if I call you Newton as I do it do you?

Him: Newton?.. (sigh) Ok, I get it, fig Newton. You know what? I've changed my mind.

Me: You want to use the ginger root?

Him: No, actually I think I'd get more satisfaction from doing it to you now. You could obviously use some discipline.

Me: Wait, I'm sorry. No more jokes, I promise.

Him: Too late. Now be still, this will only hurt alot.

Oh Say Can You See Fetish Friday

How can I still be surprised? What part of researching Plushies could have possibly left me with any shred of my soul unweathered? How can anything raise my eyebrows after I saw seven thousand dollar love dolls that were selling like hotcakes. (And how well do hotcakes sell by the way, can anyone tell me that? Anyone?)

But somehow, some way, surprised I am, to learn a new word, invisiphile. An Invisiphile is one who has a sexual attraction to men or women who are invisible.

Perhaps what surprised me most is not the respectable number of internet groups and websites devoted to Le Femmes Invisible but that they each have a photo gallery. Of invisible women.

Let me say that again. They have photos gallerys of invisible women.

To be fair, not all the girls are fully invisible. Some are just fading. Of the fading women, some are just sort of translucent all over and others start out solid at one end and fade to invisible at the other. All the sub-species, the transparents, translucents and the fade-outs have their own fans.

From the guys who were willing to write about their attraction, it seems the fantasy has something of a playful dominance element. Being invisible puts the woman in a powerful position for obvious reasons. At anytime during the day, the invisiphile can imagine himself to be unkowingly observed by his invisible lover. The invisiphile can have no secrets from the object of his affection. Conversely, if she has observed him to the point of knowing him better than he knows himself, it's reassuring the imagine she lusts for him anyway.

The invisiphiles seem to be a fun lot with a sense of humor about their admittedly unusual interests. I guess if you were going to fall for an imaginary girl you couldn't see, you'd have to have a sense of humor about it. Of course, it's better than falling for an imaginary girl you *can* see... that'd be just crazy.

Did I mentions they have photos of invisible women?

A Phone Sex Operator Walks Into A Bar

When I was twenty-two, I lived in South Florida.

It's a great place to be a young woman. While your body is still young and firm, you always get the perfect weather to show it off while pretending you're only wearing so little because it's so hot out. What's more, your youth and vitality are a sharp contrast to the retirees lounging in beach chairs near where you lie on a blanket in all your sun-sweet juiciness.

On one particularly blistering afternoon at the beach, I wrapped my sarong around my bikini clad hips (ok, it was a towel with Mickey Mouse on it, but sarong sounds sexier) and sauntered off to the nearby pier, where there were a few shops (I needed to buy a sarong) and a bar.

Being the parched girl I was on this hot day, I perched myself on a stool at the outside bar and ordered something virgin as I eyed a young man reading a comic book on the beach.

As is so often the case where women and booze are found under one roof.. er, umbrella, it wasn't long before I was approached by a stranger.

"My G-d, you're an Amazon."

I took a bracing breath and turned, ready to lash at the voice behind me with some comment about originality and calling a tall, large breasted woman "Amazon." As I say, I turned, and I was ready, but then, I didn't. It was one of those rare moments in my life when I was surprised into silence.

Standing next to me was, without a doubt, the largest man I'd ever seen in person. He was huge! I didn't even come up to his shoulders. My smart assed comment slipped from my mind like an extra large condom from Dubya's dick.

As my eyes continued up and up, trying to focus on his far away head, I considered forgiving him for the lame comment. The air must be thinner all the way up there, he couldn't possibly be getting enough oxygen to be at his wittiest.

"You're not exactly Lillipution yourself," I observed, my neck craned back for perhaps the first time since third grade. "How tall are you anyway?"

The stranger smiled. It was the same strained smile I recognized from all the times I'd been asked the same question. He answered with a well rehearsed tone, "I'm six eleven stadning up, nine inches lying down."

Moments later, I excused myself from his company. Despite what I do in private, my public persona has always been respectable and dignified. I didn't think being picked up in a bar was an acceptable practice to begin with, but especially not by someone who announces the size of his penis to strange women.

I did however go straight to my car and right the line down, so I could use it on the phones.

"How tall are ya baby?"

(pretend to listen to answer)

"Oooh, nice, and how tall are ya lying down?"

Fetish Friday: Brace Yourself

Maybe it's the image of fresh faced guilessness associated with the age at which most young women get braces, but dental appliances have garnered a following of their own.

Brace faces beware, the orthophiles are on the loose.

I assume the allure is similar to that of the lusty innocence of the school girl uniform. Braces and short skirts are the accessories of that time in life when youth blossoms into voluptuous beauty and eager curiosity about all things grown up.

I never really know what to say to the orthodontic fetishists. My own experiences have been limited to mild discomfort a few times when I had my wires tightened and one traumatic day when I first saw a childhood crush in braces and headgear. Before he explained what they were, I was sure he'd been in some horrible accident and the straps around his head were all that kept his head upright.

So the glamour and glitter of the mouth jewelry has eluded me. Fortunately for me, there are websites to refer to.

I read the news today. Oh boy!

In India, where pornography is illegal, men caught watching the illicit flicks are being sentenced to do sit ups and make a public pledge never to watch the smut again.

Want the details? Read it for yourself. I ain't yer nanny. (though I've played one on the phone)

Now, I'm just gonna throw this out there, but maybe something similar would work to control obesity in America. We have the fattest people and the largest porn industry, there's got to be the potential for a tie in. Besides guys jacking off to workout tapes I mean.

I'm seeing a new national health craze "Mastercize." Soon enough Richard Simmons will have BBWs Sweatin to the Pornos.

Phone Bonding, Not To Be Confused With Phone Bondage

Wooo Hooooo... My very best phone buddy is moving near me!

No, I'm not foolish enough to be meeting callers. I'm talking about a co-worker.

We've been friends for years but we've never met in person. Now, she's moving to the countryside just 90 minutes away from me.

We'll be like the Country Slut and the City Slut!

Fetish Friday, Oh You Doll, You.

Robots and dolls, mannequins and androids, however you like em, imitation humans are hot stuff for some people.

Going back to childhood, (since that is, after all, where our sexuality takes shape) I can easily remember times when faux humans have tripped my trigger. The Tin Man seemed to me the sweetest of Dorothy's travel mates. At age six I felt a special bond with Pinnochio after playing him in my dance recital. And the day I sat on the floor in the den watching a rerun of Star Trek where Spock's brain had been removed and his body was being walked about by remote control, I distinctly remember thinking "that could be handy." I was fascinated by the possibilities for a long time after.

As far as I remember though, I didn't consider doing anything more scandalous with Spock than having him clean my room and do my homework. Now admittedly, I was young, but as I grew older, my titillated interest in Spock may have evolved into a taste for tall, dark haired and emotionally reserved men but certainly not into a passion for robots.

It's clear from my research however, that many men and women saw their first robot on TV or mannequin in a mall and saw limitless possibilities for a luxuriously compliant lover. And many of them are willing to put their money where their fantasies are. If you've heard of The Real Doll you know people are willing to spend upward of seven thousand dollars on what is in effect, an anatomically correct mannequin.

It would seem Jude Law's character of the android Gigolo Joe was more than just idle speculation about what people would do if they were given such attractive appliances.

Further evidence of the mainstream attraction to mechanical men and women comes from Star Trek again, where the actor playing the android Data received by far the highest volume of lust filled fan mail of the relatively attractive Next Generation cast.

I'm going to stop now before I make any more science fiction references and make myself out to be even more of a geek.

But I leave you with one more thing to consider. You may be tempted to believe that a fetish for robots or mannequins is recent only to the past century or so, as they weren't exactly found in earlier periods. I hate to get all literary on your ass, but it seems this fetish goes back as far as ancient Greece, where we find the myth of Pygmalion, who fell passionately in love with a statue of his own creation.

Now look at that... What other Blog is gonna offer you sex dolls and Greek literature in the same entry? I may be a geek, but I'm a damned fun geek!

50 Things About Me No One Needs To Know

Like the man behind the curtain of the Great and Powerful Oz, I hide behind my voices and pick up lines. Because I like you, I'm going tell you a few things about me that are actually true. I wouldn't expect too much enlightenment though, I wouldn't want to tell any truths that would stick.


1. I'm tall.
   
2. Really tall.
   
3. I've only ever seen two or three women taller.
   
4. I'm adopted.
   
5. It was obvious, my parents were short.
   
6. I met my birth mother when I was 28.
   
7. I was shocked to learn that she's kind of short too.
   
8. I thought she had the wrong person until she told me my father
   was 6'7".
   
9. I was the youngest of six siblings.
   
10. Until I was 28, when I learned I had a younger blood brother.
    
11. Now I never know which part applies to me when I see articles about
    the affect of birth order on one's personality.
    
12. I'm clumsy and accident prone.
    
13. I've been injured in car, motorcycle, dirt bike, bicycle,
    skateboard, rollerblading, and horseback riding accidents.
14. Oh, and I fell of a pogo stick once
    
15. I once had amnesia and short term memory loss for two days
    following a fall from my horse.
    
16. It was great, everything I owned was new to me.
    
17. I was very excited to learn I had a horse.
    
18. Because of the short term memory loss, I was excited to learn I
    had a horse about every ten minutes.
    
19. Given my proclivity for accidents, my paralyzing fear of flying
    seems sensible.
    
20. I didn't lose my virginity until a few years after high school.
    
21. But I graduated pretty early.
    
22. I've had sex when I didn't feel like it, just to burn the
    calories.
    
23. I've had sex when I didn't feel like it, just to end a boring date sooner.
    
24. When I was fifteen, I secretly listened to Culture Club.
    
25. I think these lists are shallow exercises in narcissism.
    
26. I like to think I'm self-aware.
    
27. I'm aware of my latent narcissistic tendencies.
    
28. I have a daughter who's everything I wanted to be as a child.
    
29. I have a son who's everything I actually was.
    
30. Sometimes, I hate Karma.
    
31. Considering I was an orphan until I was five, I think Karma
    fucking owes me.
    
32. I have a small, strawberry birthmark on the inside of my right
    forearm.
    
33. I consider any other identifying marks to be strictly classified
    information.
    
34. I've been on television and in the news a number of times.
    
35. I will never admit to where, when, or why.
    
36. I've been known to say some stupid shit when a camera was pointed
    at me.
    
37. I've never done a tenth of the things I've talked about at work.
38. But I as I've talked about things that aren't physically possible, that's not saying much.
    
39. Until I was trying to conceive, I always practiced safe sex.
40. Which is best, because, by my own standards, I was a slut.
    
41. But I still slept with fewer men than my best friend.
42. But I think Madonna's probably slept with fewer men than my best friend.
    
43. I think that last one wasn't actually about me.
    
44. I don't care.
    
45. I'm getting desperate for things to say.
    
46. I'm this--> <--close to making things up.
47. In my spare time I'm a test pilot for NASA and the world's first
    hare-lipped supermodel.
    
48. I just thought of something else about me.
    
49. I often start things and don't finish them.
    
50. 
    
    

Wanna Lick?

I'm sucking a popsickle right now.

No story to go with it... I just thought I'd share.

Fetish Friday Featuring Fancy Footwork

I was twenty, waiting in line at a movie theater. A lovely tall man introduced himself to me as the boy I used to play with at our bus stop back in middle school. We chatted briefly as our respective friends waited awkwardly for us to enter the building before agreeing to exchange numbers.

I wrote on the back of a grocery receipt as he called out the digits and from the corner of my eye, I thought I saw him checking out the long, bare expanse of leg between my denim mini and my strappy sandals. As I tucked the number in my purse, his voice next to my ear gave me goosebumps. "You have the sexist feet."

I scanned his face for the teasing expression I remembered from grade school. Was he playing with me by saying my feet were my most attractive feature? Was this his retribution for the time in sixth grade(before his growth spurt)when I clipped his pen to the top of the stop sign and laughed as he jumped and jumped, trying to reach it?

No, the sincerity was plainly written in his dilated pupils and parted lips. He was turned on by a high arch and slender ankle. And he was not alone.

Foot fancy is arguably the most common attraction categorized as a fetish. Sensual foot massage and toe sucking (also known as shrimping for you literacy lovers) has become as accepted a part of sex play as digital penetration and oral stimulation. And rubbing feet, kissing feet, even humping feet seems to be a down right favorite pastime for many men and women.

I've heard sex researchers theorize that it all comes down to pheromones. The feet, like the underarms and crotch, produce pheromones in the sweat. Though the precise method is unproven, mainstream science is inclined to believe that pheremones are a chemical signal to our brains encouraging reproductive behavior.

And if you'd heard the calls I have, you'd believe it. The smell is always a huge factor for foot fetishists. Whether they like the feet bare or in shoes, clean or dirty, with siren red nail polish or plain, natural toes, they all want to sniff and kiss as they worship a gal's feet.

And if a guy gets off by giving me a pedicure... hey! I'll sit patiently while he talks about licking and kissing, rubbing lotion on my heels, filing, and polishing my nails.

Although I'm inclined to believe it would ruin the wet polish when he ejaculates on it.

Sometimes I don't know my own strength

Me: Hi, this is Tessa, who's this?

Him: Umm.. I'm Bob.

Me: Hi Bob, how are ya doing tonight?

Him: Uh.. good I guess.

Me: Just good? We'll have to work on that. Where are you calling from?

Him: Georgia

Me: Georgia? I love Georgia! I was eating a Georgia peach last night.

Him: Oh yeah?

Me: Yeah, her name was Maggie. She was sweet and juicy.

Him: oh, mmm, ooh, oooooh, oooooooooooh...

{{{click}}}

And Now We Dance

I remember once upon a time being a bit amazed by Madonna's Sex book. Back when it came out, the idea of being out of the closet with your kink was outrageous to me.

My how times change.

Nowadays, I've spoken to plenty of submissives and Doms and I've befriended a few Mistresses. You might find this shocking, but I know for a presonal fact that most of them look nothing like the people in this video.

Music Video Codes By VideoCodeZone

A Sniffly, Snuffly, Sneezy Fetish Friday

"Oh dear Operator," I hear you whisper, and I'm touched by the concern in your voice. "You're not sick, are you?"

Save your chicken soup for another day darlings, I'm not sick. Though as much cannot always be said for my callers. Now gather round lovies, and you shall have a story.

Once upon a Fetish Friday, there was a man who called a phone sex line. With charm and skill, The Operator was able to draw from the man, his most secret and treasured sexual fantasy.

"Operator15," said the man, his tone heavy with anticipation "could you, if you can't I understand, but I'd really love if you could manage, possibly, to sneeze for me? I have a sneezing fetish."

Despite her usually implacable demeanor there was a noticeable moment's delay in The Operator's response.

"I'm sorry, did you say sneezing?"

"It's OK if you can't, I know it's weird."

"No! No, no, no, no no dear," The Operator protested a bit too emphatically. "No, I was just thinking it's fortunate you called now, because I've been feeling a bit, um, sneezy today." The Operator grimaced.

"You don't think it's weird?"

"Not at all, as a matter of fact I have one coming on now.. ah.. ahh.. ACHOO!"

There was an awkward silence as both The Operator and the caller realized how bad the faux sneeze sounded.

The Operator was in trouble and she knew it.

Franticly, her eyes scanned the desk before her. There, silently mocking her, were all her Foley props. There were two glasses of water, for keeping her throat moist, and also to simulate a golden showers for those callers who enjoyed them. There was a bottle of lotion to help her simulate sloppy wet sex sounds with her hands and standing next to it, The Operator's electric toothbrush patiently waited to mimic a vibrator.

There was absolutely nothing that could tickle her healthy nostrils to a sneeze. To her dismay, the tops of her door and window frame had been recently dusted and even the hundreds of books lining her office wall, usually a haven for dust bunnies, had just been given "the proper cleaning." 'Damn my mother and her visits' she bitched to herself.

The Operator realize she needed to buy herself some time. Thinking quickly, she asked the question calculated to bring the longest response.

"So tell me, how did you first learn that sneezing turns you on."

Like a man recounting his first time with a woman, he began the story of his sexual sneezing history. As he talked, The Operator did something she'd never done before, she put the phone down as quietly as she could on the padding of her office chair, and quickly slipped out of the room.

The race was on. She only had to make it through the dining room and across the kitchen to get to the pepper mill. She was there within seconds but as she turned back, the bizarre thought occurred to that her that her mother's New York City apartment could probably fit in the space between herself and her office chair. She wondered if she'd taken too long already. With all the speed she could muster (without crashing into things) The Operator dashed back to her office, grabbing a linen napkin from the dining table along the way. As she grabbed the phone, The Operator heard the man still speaking.

Unfortunately, for her, he was asking "are you still there?"

"I'm right here baby."

"You were so quiet, I thought you'd put down the phone or something."

'Oh shit' thought The Operator, 'I need to get him off this topic.'

"Oh, baby, I was just listening to you" she lied, "and touching myself."

There was a gratifying hiss from the other end of the line and The Operator knew she was home free.

"I was just thinking of how my whole torso sort of twitches when I sneeze" she told him as she ground some pepper into the palm of her hand and sniffed it.

"I thought it might feel kind of good to sneeze while I was... while I.... ppffftCHSSSSH!"

The caller moaned loudly in response to an unmistakably genuine sneeze.

The caller spent the next few minutes in orgasmic delight as The Operator repeatedly sniffed, snuffled, snorted, sneezed, and blew her nose into the linen napkin. When at last it was over, he murmured sleepy sweet nothings to his new playmate, promising to call again often.

From the day forward, the little pepper mill proudly took his place between the lotion and the toothbrush, where he lived happily ever after.

To Everything There Is A Twisted Season

Beleive it or not, I've not always been the aural sex expert you see before you today.

I used to have a *real* job. {{{gasp..shudder..swoon}}}

I've been a cocktail waitress, a voice actress (commercials and radio), an office manager , and a corporate trainer specializing in customer service call centers. Throughout much of my twenties, I did two or more of these jobs at any given time.

Normally, the only thime I miss being in a traditional job, is the rare occasion I see my grandmother and feel compelled to lie about my job or risk giving her a stroke.

Fortunately for me, there are plenty of people around who remind me of what I'm not missing. They are fabulously funny people talking about their conventional jobs and I highly recommend checking out their Blogs.

Waiter: has brilliantly witty stories which can be appreciated by anyone whether they've worked in the service industry or not.

Madman: works with a truly disgusting girl whose saga has become an addiction for many.

PeanutButterFilthy: has all the pretty girls flirting with him because he has a funny Blog, and I suspect, because they don't realize it's actually Sid Vicious in his icon and not him. But we won't tell. I'm sure he's every bit the hottie Sid was twenty odd years ago.

Anonymous Me: lives in the ninth circle of hell where takes consumer complaints for a government agency. Poor bastard: funny Blog.

I hope you visit them and enjoy.

Remember When TV Was Where You Went To Escape Reality For Few Hours A Week?

The Learning Channel aired a show called 101 Things Removed From The Human Body. Some jokes just don't need a punch line do they?

Oh, but how could I resist...

I hear VH1 is doing a similar show called Top 100 Wildest Celebrity Insertions.. I don't want to spoil it for you, but I think number one is a gerbil.

Just another Manic Mon.. er, Fetish Friday

Ok, here we go...

Plushies.

Not to be confused with Furries. Plushies, or Plushophiles, are people who love and lust after stuffed animals.

Sigh..

I'm trying to be open minded here people.

Look, it's not you, it's me. I just have a headache today. After all, it's no weirder than having a thing for Tony the Tiger is it? And I made it through the Friday about Furries ok, didn't I?

Did you know there's stuffed animal porn on the internet? There are pictures out there of spunk covered Teddy bears posted

Maybe I could see it, you're sleeping with the Teddy bear anyway, you're in bed, it's in bed... I've had a couple opf sleep-overs that when that way. But some days buddy... it's really hard not to laugh *at* you instead of with you.

Other People's Secrets

Once upon a time, oral sex was kinky. Well, in the past few hundred years anyway.

But since it's always been around, there was always someone on the block who knew about it. So our grandfathers and great-grandfathers heard about this lovely little notion of oral exploration and many undoubtedly thought it sounded like a wonderful idea. The problem was, it's just not polite to ask a nice girl to do anything so ... unsanitary.

Of course, in present days, few men have trouble indicating a desire for a little mouth action, and most women are willing to do it (although, despite what she may say, surveys show only about 30% of women actually enjoy doing it, sorry fellas).

Well, aside from a little disillusionment, that all worked out fine didn't it? But now we've evolved and we have a new secret that no one knows that everyone wants, The Rusty Trombone.

What? You've never heard of The Rusty Trombone? Well, it starts with a bit of fellatio, and while the gal or guy is down there, they slide a wet finger into their partners rectum. The pressure against the prostate provides a more intense orgasm.

And you thougth you hadn't heard of it.

As you can imagine, most men who've heard of this move have been interested in trying it out. How do I know most men want it? Heh.. silly skeptic. Of the calls I get, and those to the thousands of operators I've monitored, easily 90% end up with the gentleman caller either literally, or in fantasy, having his bottom played with. That's no coincidence. Though I will admit, guys who call phone sex lines may not be a representative sample of the population at large. But I'll tell ya, they aren't far from it.

OK, if we accept as fact that it's normal for guys to desire a little anal, along with their oral pleasure, why is it most guys aren't actually getting it? Simple, as with our grandfathers, it's just not polite to ask a girl to do anything so ... unsanitary.

Let me help you out a little here guy. Once we've taken your penis in our mouths, once you've asked us to ingest your bodily discharges, once we've had our noses a scant two inches from the spot, slipping a digit up your bum is really small potatoes. And while we're at it, anything that helps you finish before my jaw aches is a blessing. Capiche?

What did I say?

Me: So baby, tell me, what's your hottest fantasy? What really trips your trigger?

Him: I dunno, anything.

Me: Anything? Really?

Him: yeah, sure.

Me: I know a twelve inch strap-on that says you're lying.

**click**

Oh how perfect!

I won't do this often, but I had to share,

If I were a crayon I'd be:

What Rejected Crayon Are You?

A Fetish Friday ago, in galaxy far far away....

Words can be such wonderfully morphemic things. They grow and evolve over the years until their spelling, their pronunciation, sometimes even their meanings adapt to their environment.

"Furry" is one of those words that has morphed in recent years. No longer simply an adjective describing the tactile surface of a creature or material, Furry is now a noun in the fetish world.

Furries are people who are attracted to and like to imagine themselves as animals who exhibit human features and traits. This can mean anything from cartoon animals with the ability to speak and walk upright to the mascot at your favorite ball game or even the half-man half-beast creatures from Greek mythology. All are prime targets of Furry fascination.

To show what a truly diverse group I'm talking about here, a Furry need not actually be furry. Some fly, some swim, some hop, some are furry, some are not. Some Furries have fins, feathers or scales. Mermaids for example, or Hawk men, or the dolphin from Seaquest DSV.

Furries tend to be big fans of science fiction and fantasy shows and books. Like others in such fandoms, the most diehard fans sometimes get together for conventions where they mingle and on occasion, dress as their favorite furry creature.

I've not spoken with many Furries and I'm not entirely sure what attracts them to the fetish. Perhaps it's the way the fantasy creatures often blend only the best of human intelligence and animal power. Perhaps its the mingling of the wild and the civilized. Or maybe it just began with a crush on Peter Criss that got out of hand. I dunno.

I do know I once thought the dancer who played Mungojerrie in Cats must be really cute under all that make-up... but I don't think that quite qualifies me as a Furry.

One question does pop into mind though. If your thinking about a man who's half horse, does that make it half-beastiality?

Hypocrisies In The Mirror May Be Closer Than They Appear

Surprising as it may seem to the uninitiated, the world of phone sex operators tend to be divided into two distinct categories. The "Do"s and the "Do-not"s.

Now the "Do"s do just about anything. Or rather, they talk about just about everything. While the "Do-not"s, do not. Which is not to say that the "Do-not"s do not do anything, it is only to say that the "Do-not"s do not do everything. I mean, they do not *talk* about everything. But they do about some things. Talk, I mean.

While most “Do”s and “Do not”s live side by side in harmony, there can be some contention between some of them based simply on their different tolerance levels.

Th “Do-not"s don't feel comfortable talking about certain taboo subjects, such as pedophilia, beastiality, incest, or rape. The "Do"s don't mind so much. The "Do"s usually have the attitude that if the "Do Not"s don't want to talk about everything, they, the "Do"s will, and they'll make good money doing it while the “Do not”s are normally happy to let the “Do”s take the calls they don’t want to think about much less hear.

The "Do"s rationalize correctly that fantasy is a healthy thing, and that most people fantasize about things they would never actually do, or even want to do in real life. For instance, some of the most common fantasies are of homosexual encounters. The majority of people have thought about it at one time or another. Does this make the majority of people homosexual? Of course not.

So it is, that a man who has a fantasy of taking a woman by force is no more inclined to act out the fantasy than the woman who masturbates while imagining herself being dragged into a dark alley.

One fallacious rationalization some "Do"s come up with is the theory that "if the callers are talking about it, they're not doing it. After all, they gave their names and credit card numbers when they called so they wouldn't confess to any crimes if they were real."

This is a nice theory, and for the most part, it's true. But, it's not to say that *no* men ever call phone sex lines to fantasize before commiting a crimes. As far as I know, the link between phone sex and sex crimes has never been studied, but it stands to reason if people can be so bold as to post pictures of their victims online, or try to pick up preteens in chat rooms, then talking about it on the phone might just be small potatoes for these guys.

For the most part though, the "Do"s are reasonable people who are able to accept the incredibly unlikely chance that they might, one day, talk to a truly sick individual who commits atrocities. They realize they are far more likely to be stuck by a car and continue to work, just as they continue to cross the street every day.

While most "Do"s and "Do Not"s get along, realizing that there's no shame in having different tolerance levels, some very vocal "Do not"s and very defensive "Do"s can get into some truly ugly shit flinging.

The crusading "Do not"s can become accusatory about what they perceive as "sick" callers and the operators who talk to them, thus condoning their perverted fantasies. Certain "Do"s get defensive and call them naive or over sensitive and tell them they're in the wrong business.

Since defending children, animals, and innocent victims is such passionate work, sometimes the "Do not"s can get carried away, accusing the "Do"s of contributing to the victimization of children and being no better than child molesters themselves.

This is where it's no longer just a matter of personal tolerance and becomes an example of extreme intolerance.

While I myself don't feel comfortable listening to fantasies of abuse, I also feel uncomfortable seeing people who should be sticking together turning on each other with a sense of moral superiority that is, quite frankly, utterly undeserved.

Whether they realize it or not, there are very few of us who have the fortune to live in a prosperous country who haven’t unwittingly been a party to child victimization by buying products made, mined, or harvested by children who were abused physically, emotionally, and sexually.

If they’ve worn clothes, owned jewelry, talked on a cell phone, bought an oriental rug, eaten produced harvested by migrant workers, or purchased just about anything from a discount department store with a sticker on it that said "Made in (insert your favorite impoverished country with a corrupt government)", they are living in a glass house.

I realize some of you reading this little blog of mine may actually be one of the “Do not”s I’m referring to. This is not intended as a slam. It is an appeal to those of you who seem sensitive to a cause.

If you really want to help abate the victimization of children, you need not worry so much about the fantasies other people talk about and focus on what you yourself do to make actual child abuse profitable.

Information is a wonderful thing, please familiarize yourself with how you can help by boycotting products made with child labor. http://www.stopchildlabor.org/

****steps down from soapbox and folds up to put away until next time***

Fetish Concerto in Fri. No. VI

For today, I thought I'd play with what at first I saw as a variation on a freaky f***ing theme.

Todays fetish takes us into the realm of uncontrolled growth, a type of size morphing.

Unlike macrophilia, another size morphing fantasy, where the man has an attraction to giants or giantesses and often fantasizes himself shrinking to become the play thing of his fantasy lover, with growth fantasies, the caller fantasizes about enhanced virility and control through the growth of his penis.

A trait typical of all size morphing fantasies a detail that is perhaps signifigant, that the men almost always seem to put themselves in the roll of the person changing. They place themselves in the role of changling as opposed to having their lust interests change in shape or size.

There may be multiple reasons for this. For one thing, size is perceived in relative terms. Whetever attracts a caller to giantesses may conceivably be enhanced whent his surroundings, as well as his lady, are all larger than normal. As he puts his lover in the role of demi-goddess, he is also literally lessening himself as opposed to turning the lover into an abnormal creature.

In the case of the man who wants his penis to grow to an unnatural size, again, perspective is everything, and a large penis against a normal size body could seem even bigger. In addition, he may want the focus to remain on the size of his penis, by shrunkinig his partner, the focus would be transferred to her small size. Shrinking his partner may also bring unwanted images of pedophilia. This man doesn't want to dominate children with his virility, he wants to be larger than life, able to leap tall blondes with a single jerk.

As an operator, the problems with this type of fantasy can be the narrow focus od it all. With a macrophilac, there us usually a whole set up and scenario leading up to his capture and torment. There is a story arc with a beginning, a middle, and an end.

With the morphing penises, it's usually just "oh, my gosh, it's getting bigger." What is normally just the beginning of the fantasy, an engorged and growing penis, is now turned into the goal and the journey all rolled into one.

In their own way, these calls become even more ridiculous than the giantess calls. You start off with a penis getting bigger, then it gets bigger, and finally, it gets bigger. If the guy as been drinking and is having a bit of trouble acheiving his *ahem* goal, the penis has to get bigger still. It's not unheard of for these calls to continue until the caller has a schlong as long as his leg and the woman is being stretched to bursting. Here I can't help but point out the contrast from the macrophilacs, in that the violent end comes not to himself but to the woman. Where the macrophiliac seems to desire become a part of all things feminine, the man with the morphing penis wants to become little more than the essence of masculine virility.

On a personal note, all I can say is, thank goodness most companie have time limits on calls so that he caller is eventually cut off, otherwise, there could be no end to the fantasy for a man who has a buzz on.

Think of it, first, he just has to walk with a limp until the schmeckle hits the floor, then he has to wear platform shoes. If it keeps groing, he has to dress it up in order to go out. He has to buy two seats at the movie theater. Left unchecked, he'll have to move in a loft apartment just to let it have room to dangle.

Was That An Orgasm Or Do You Just Have A Weak Heart

I was seventeen, fresh out of school and still relatively innocent. He was a British photographer, too old to date jailbait, but too reckless to care. It was late and we were on the phone together, watching TV.

Star 80 was airing. If you're unfamiliar, it's about a Playboy centerfold who was killed by her estranged husband. As the film told her life story, we watched her as a young woman, about my age. Her future husband was taking the pictures which would start her career as a nude model. It was a titillating scene as the actress smiled, blushes, and began to strip.

My boyfriend and I lay in our respective beds, watching with nearly silent phones pressed to our ears. The parallel between the film couple and ourselves seemed evident, and I couldn't help but imagine myself being seduced into baring my young body for his camera. No doubt, he was thinking the same.

His voice was soft and husky when he spoke. "Are you randy?"

I blinked. "Um... no, I'm Dani." We'd been dating for three weeks! How could he not know my name?

"No, no, no. I know your name. I mean... Well, are you.. excited?"

"Excited?" I repeated dumbly.

"The movie," he explained, clearly reconsidering the likelihood of my seduction, "is the movie making you feel sexy."

There was the faint sound of a penny dropping.

"Ooooooh, I get it. You want to know if I'm horny!"

"Horny? What an awful word for it! Horny. What kind of word is that to describe it?"

"Don't ask me, I didn't make it up. But at least you can see where it might have come from. Who was Randy and why the hell did he get a state of being named after him?"

"Oh, never mind."

We fell back into silence as the movie continued. Sometime before the distinctly un-sexy murder/suicide ending, things turned steamy again. And again, my boyfriend tried to initiate a pointed conversation.

"So, what do you think of the movie so far?"

"Well, it's not exactly Casablanca, but it's ok,"

"Perhaps not, but Casablanca didn't have sex scenes."

"No, a great kiss though."

"So do you like them?"

"Who?"

"The sex scenes."
"Oh."

"Aren't they getting to you at all?"

As dense as I'd been to this point, I understood by his tone that there were distinctly right and wrong answers to this question. I answered weakly, but correctly.

"I suppose."

"What are you going to do about it?"

TA-DAH!!! Danielle, welcome to your first phone sex call!

The next twenty minutes were spent with me talking as little as possible, not knowing what to say. I listened, not quite believing my dignified, mature boyfriend was actually doing all the things he described in such explicit detail. But as his breath became harder and his creaky bedsprings became audible, I began to believe. I listened in a fascinated state of arousal and discomfort.

Suddenly, and seemingly without warning, there was a loud, sharp gasp. Then a snort and grunt followed by a sort of squeak and another snort. At last, there was complete and frightening stillness.

I waited a few seconds, desperate to hear breathing.

Nothing.

'Oh my G-d,' I thought, 'he's had a heart attack!' My mind raced with panic. 'I have to call the police! I have to call an ambulance! Oh shit, I DON'T KNOW HIS ADDRESS!'

I quickly formulated a plan. I would have to put the phone down without hanging it up and race to the nearest pay phone. If I called the police, they could trace the call to his address.

My eyes widened as I pictured the police breaking down his door hours later only to find him in his bedroom, dead and already stiffening, one hand on the phone, the other on his penis.

I held the phone tight to my ear, gaping in horror. My mother was gonna know what I'd been talking about!

I looked at the phone’s cradle, weighing my options. If I hung up, there was always the possibility his roommate would get home in time to revive him.

'Oh, G-d' I thought, 'I'm going to Hell.' I'm Jewish, we don't even believe in Hell, but I was willing to bet I was on my way anyway.

Finally, after seemingly endless seconds wavering between humiliation and damnation, my redemption came in the form of a weak and happy voice floating up from the receiver.

"Dan? Did you cum?”

T.G.I. Fetish Friday

Panties, knickers, drawers, undies, smalls, dainties, panties, PANTIES, PANTIES!!!

You might be surprised to hear (or, you might be if you weren't so worldly and experienced, you dashing young sophisticate you) that some of the most common calls I get are from men who have pilfered their girlfriend's underpants and are ready to play.

Some men and women just love em. Mostly men. They love to see them, they love to feel them, they love to smell them and on occasion, the love to wear them. From Butch-boys to Nancy-men, the panties hold special fascination.

I used to know some guys in Special Forces who would cut out the crotch of their girlfriends' or wives' panties and tuck them into the hem of their caps for use on those long lonely nights out in the field. Every time they came home and left again, they'd take with them a freshly soiled panty crotch in their hats.

I've quizzed countless men on what attracts them to ladies' delicates. After all, women don't exactly hold men's dirty underpants in the same regard do they? I could be wrong, I do tend to talk more often with men so my survey is no doubt as skewed as Kinsey's original data. (Have I mentioned, I think Kinsey was an ass?) But I do believe the idea of inhaling a little "Eau de Tighty-whitey" is more likely to evoke a gag than a flush of lust from a woman.

Most of the time, the response to my questioning is little more than incoherent moaning. But on occasion, I've been enlightened. One of the more eloquent answers went something along the lines of "I love women. I worship them. I want to envelope myself in all things feminine." Bravo, Mr. Pany-Man! Bravo!

I found a fascinating Blog by a guy who is less inclined to wear women's underwear himself, but is obsessed with them on their owners. His "Panty Story"seems at times to be just that, a story. But whether the story is a fantasy, a true recollection, or a little of both, it certainly lends some insight into what goes through the mind of a man who wants nothing more than to see a girl flash her briefs.

It all comes back to those childhood impressions. How boring. Every Friday it boils down to the same old thing, childhood imprinting. I wish, just for a change, some guy would go through life without a single kink and then WHAM! Suddenly he's a freak for golden showers. Now I bet THAT would be an interesting story. Of course, by now, I wouldn't believe any man who told me he only *just* started thinking of latex in an erotic way. Oh well.

As for the panty-men, I just can't I stop thinking of Buck Henry on those original SNL sketches where he played the old perv who would get young girls in short dresses to "play horsey" and then sneak behind them to take pictures of their panties. Oh the life lessons that were to be learned from the Not Ready For Prime-Time Players, if only I'd known to pay attention at the time. My hat, and panties, off you you ladies and gentlemen.

It's a Small, Smutty World

I love the internet. How else could a virtual hermit in Oregon not only work from home, but meet and network with a self-described smut-aholic, a Canadian porn director, and a chubbychaser from the midwest.

I've been to the midwest, that's a good place to find 'em.

I love my job!

If You're Gonna Be Original, You Can Count On Being Copied

Those there are some wise words from the label of my Mike's Hard Lemonade bottle.

I like Mike's Hard Lemonade. It's not quite a Shandy but it can be bought by the six pack in American grocery stores. Can't say that about shandy. I suppose I could mix my own beer and lemonade, but that's a little too close to cooking for my tastes.

Anyway, let's see, where was I? Oh yeah, being copied.

I've recently become aware, that among the many men and women who are out there trolling away online, through websites and chat rooms, there are a few unsavory and unscrupulous operators who will steal website content from other operators. Sometimes, they steal not only the content, but bandwidth as well by simply hyperlinking to another operator's pictures instead of actually hosting the images on their own site. Sometimes they copy the entire site, in an attempt to impersonate a successful operator and steal their regular callers.

It's a hard job those women do, going out and promoting themselves, flirting endlessly with guys who only tell them "how about you call me directly?" They put money and time into buying pictures and thinking up content for their sites. And they work hard to build a client base. It's pretty ugly for other operators, who know the deal, to hone in on someone else's action.

I drunkenly blow a razzberry at all who stoop to such pilfering. Pfffffft :p

Sorry about the spit.

Bicent... Bicent...um, I Suppose The Word I'm Looking For Would Be Bicent-hitial.

I'm celebrating the 200th hit to my blog. Woo hoo! (It takes so little to make me happy.)

I'm especially excited, cause 200 page views can't all be from me.

Return of Fetish Friday

Sssssssmokin!

That's right. Smoking is this Friday's Fetish of the Week. Cigarette smoking, cigar smoking, pipe smoking, even bong smoking. If you smoke it, they will come.

After years of being told about cancer and bad breath, smokers are finding their place in the hazy sun. Sites like Kandy's Smoking Fetish are popping up all over the place to celebrate sexy smokers.

What would cause a person to take pleasure from the sight of someone inhaling carcinogens like a cowardly suicide? Probably the same things that lure people into smoking to begin with. The impression that smokers are cool and popular. The youthful idea that people seem more mature with a cigarette dangling from the fingertips or lips. A notion that a cigar adds an element of masculinity or a that pipe lends sophistication to it's smoker.

True, the reality would be laughable in it's irony if the consequences weren't so serious. There's nothing mature about trading your health for an image, there's nothing masculine about a man with a constant wheeze, and there's no sophistication in nicotine stained hair and teeth.

Please don't misunderstand. I don't mean to bash smokers. I still consider myself to be one, though I haven't lit up in seven years. Even now I am known to occasionally stand downwind of another smoker, breathing deeply the tainted air as if to enjoy the nicotine without the cancer. So no, I'm not implying smokers are inherently foolish. But let's face it. It wasn't the smartest thing we did when we took that first drag.

In our defense, and by way of further explanation, we did have some powerful early images directing our perceptions. Our first heroes and heroines of cool have often been associated with cigarettes, from Humphrey Boggart to James Dean and from Bette Davis to Madonna, the cigarette has been an important prop to convey a worldly persona. In Grease, sweet, virginal Sandy's transformation into the hot little vixen who "would" is made complete with the flick of a cigarette. How better could I emphasize the correlation between sex and cigarettes.

It can hardly be surprising to find some men and women might have been hardwired to associate smoke and sex appeal. And let's not forget, we have a very phallic symbol being brought to the lips in mock fellatio. It wouldn't take Freud to figure this one out.

So to those of you who still light up after dinner (at home), or skip the coffee for a smoke break (outside the building), enjoy it while you can and take pictures while you're still young and beautiful enough to sell them. There's a market out there for you baby!

I don't normally have an addictive personality but...

Well, OK, maybe I do a little bit.

I can drink coffee until the cows come home and bedtime becomes a nonproductive, eight hour, twitch-fest. I can knit all day to finish a three scarf ruana that should have taken another week to do, knitting and purling until my wrist aches and still continuing after that. I can shop until my savings are a distant memory and my house is full of crap I don't need and will never use.

I know, I know, this isn't necessarily addiction, it's just stupidly overdoing things. I'd agree with you (um.. me actually, since really, I'm the one who posed the argument. Does that make me schizophrenic as well as addictive?) but I do these things regularly. I don't learn from my mistakes and I'm not deterred by the caffeine headaches, aching wrists, and days of eating naught but pasta as I stare at my vast collection of shiny crap like a jealous magpie. Isn't that slightly addictive?

Hmmm, I'm going to have to rethink the title of this post.

Anyway, I've now found a new obsession. It could seem I can sit in front of a computer for the whole of my day off, eating in front of the monitor, knitting in front of the monitor, drinking coffee in front of the monitor. "Porn?" you ask. (well, I think you ask). No, that would be too easy. It's Blogs I've discovered, Darling. Blogs!

Ironic as it is to post in a Blog, I only recently began reading them. I had no clue how to find the ones I'd be interested in and no patience to sift through all the discarded, forgotten, and plain old boring Blogs out there in the hopes of finding a gem.

Well, as I imagine *you* already know, there are search engines just for Blogs. I've been cruising Blogarama, Popdex, Bloggernity and Blog Search Engine and finding all sorts of relevant posts. So, my ass was stuck in an office chair for my entire day off. I excused it by telling myself it was raining and I couldn't go out anyway. But I'm having trouble justifying the laundry which first began to grow musty in the washing machine, and then, got wrinkled while waiting for me in the dryer.

I hear you asking, "what the hell does this have to do with phone sex, fool? You promised the real world of phone sex." (That was you asking wasn't it? I'd be worried if it was those voices again.)

Well, here's what it has to do with phone sex. You see, I've been reading Blogs and chatting with other Phone Sex Operators. It's a pleasant and unusual circumstance for people who work from home as I do, to be able to network and share the challenges and rewards of their job. Your beloved Operator15 has been making friends in the industry, Dear. Aren't you glad?

I've been introduced to the virtual water cooler and I'm loving it.

So, I'm talking to a guy with three testicles:

And I'm all like "dude, you got an extra ball."

And he's all like "yeah, I know."

And I'm like "seriously?"

And he's all "do people often lie to you about the number of testicles they have?"

And so I'm like "well, I'm pretty sure a lot of them add inches to the the length."

And he's like "I think that's a little different."

And he was right. It is.

Michael Jackson is found Not Guilty?

And I thought I was clever for smiling my way out of a few tickets.

I am SUCH an amateur!

Fetish Friday III: Son of Fetish

Psychology Today writes " Psychoanalysts theorize that an individual with a paraphilia is repeating or reverting to a sexual habit that arose early in life. " Perhaps that explains this Friday's fetish.

Virophilia: A sexual attraction to Super-heroes.

OK, so, to the best of my knowledge, it wasn't really a word before now. I just made it up. But it should have been a word. It's a good word. It has flair.

Super-hero attraction is an actual fetish though, and it falls under the psychological heading of Paraphilias Not Otherwise Specified.

There are a LOT of unspecified paraphilias. In fact, most of them are unspecified. For the most part, the only *specified* paraphilias are the ones that are either criminal or harmful to oneself. Oh, and transvestitism.

Some people have debated whether generally harmless fetishes deserve to be considered paraphilias. The argument is that people with innocuous fetishes, such as an attraction to foreigners (xenophilia), shouldn't be lumped into the same category as rapists (biastophilia).

The problem is, it's impossible to altogether avoid being categorized in a way which associates you with someone or something you don't like. For instance, I don't wish to be categorized with my ex-husband. So instead of calling him human, shall I re-categorize him as homo-assholian? I'd like to, but then we'd both still be primates anyway. Words by themselves are neutral things. It's only how you use them that make them good or bad. Kind of like The Force. Though admittedly, some words are mighty difficult to use in a pleasant context. The word ex-husband, for instance.

So, breaking the word down to it's purest form: para, meaning "other" and philia meaning "love," paraphilia refers simply to the love of something other. Other than what? Well, the inference is, other than the norm. And when it all comes down to it, a fetish for a man in a cape may be harmless and even understandable when we're talking Christopher Reeve, but it's not exactly the norm. And in a society that prides itself on it's sense of freedom and individuality, that is a blessed, blessed thing.

So here's to all you lovers of capes, spandex, enormous breasts, and the American Way. I hope you have a really lovely Saturday morning stroke-fest tomorrow.

Me: Him:

Me: Hi, this is Suzie. What's you're name?

Him: Just suck it

Me: ...

Him: Did you hear me? I said "just suck it."

Me: Your mother named you Justsuckit?

click

You think my job is hot? You should try being a milkman.

Salary.com has released the results of a poll they did to determine the sexiest job. Firefighter won with 16% of the 5,000 votes, followed by Flight Attendant with 13%.

The results for the top ten sexiest jobs were as follows:
1. Firefighter
2. Flight attendant
3. CEO
4. Reporter
5. Interior designer
6. Event planner
7. Nurse
8. Teacher
9. Doctor
10. Lawyer

Write in votes included "parcel deliverers, CPAs, electrical line workers, radiological technologists...and of course, the proverbial 'milkman.'"

OK, that's it, next time a guy asks me what I do for a day job, I'm telling him I'm a milkman.

Fetish Friday: Parte Deux

Macrophilia: sexual attraction to giants or giantesses.

Many men with macrophiliac tendencies develop surprisingly similar fantasies to explain how they come to be in the presence of a giantess. Despite what you might think, I've yet to come across a Jack and the Beanstalk type scenario.

Almost without fail, men will set out the fantasy to play as such:

They are on a date. The woman brings them back to her home for a nightcap. As they chat and flirt, she speaks seductively, with a knowing gleam in her eye. At this point, she either slips a potion or drug in his drink, or she speaks soothingly to him, hypnotizing him. He begins to notice he's shrinking.

As he shrinks, his voice gets smaller and higher. The woman laughs and begins to play with him like a cat with a mouse. She lets him run for a bit, only to catch him easily in her giant, manicured hands. She may put him in a cage, or she may just pick him up, letting him dangle helplessly from her fingertips. He is powerless to fight her.

Sometimes, but by no means always, he is used as a sex toy. Forced to burrow into her womanly cavern like a hamster through a well known actor's rectum.

As unorthodox as this all is, the disturbing part of these scenarios is the often violent end. Whether the man is lost forever, suffocating as a human benwa ball, or swallowed, or whether he is stomped beneath a story tall stiletto heel, it's disturbing to know someone might envision their own death as part of a sexual fantasy.

Once again, I find myself wondering what circumstances led to this type of fantasy. Did The Attack Of The Fifty Foot Woman really spark their starters? Was their first crush very tall? Did they want to be Stuaat Little when they were kids?

The prevailing aspects of the fantasies are the man's diminutive size and relative helplessness. Could this be somehow reminiscent of childhood? If so, you might expect to find an element of nurturing and protection coming from the character of the giantess. While the protection can certainly be illustrated by his utter dependence on her for his very life, the murderous end would seem to cancel that theory out.

With the fantasies of being swallowed, or otherwise being taken internally, there could be a desire to of become a literal part of the woman.

He's clearly turning his entire body into a Phallus, maybe he's just been equated to one so many times he's taken it to heart? Or maybe he's just trying to imagine his whole body feeling as good as his penis does during orgasm.

I have to admit, I'm completely stumped on this one. Any armchair therapists want to try explaining this one? I'd love to read your comments.

So There I Was, Knitting A Three Scarf Ruana In A Lovely Shade Of Winter Wheat

The phone rings.

Before I'm connected to the caller, a recording tells me he called for a transsexual. He wants a walk on the wild side, the best of both words, a he-she, a chick with a di... uh, ahem . Well, you know what I'm talking about right? That special body part only guys have? It tends to stick out on men, where women are smooth? That's right, an Adam's apple.

Anyway, I raise my voice a bit to say "Hello." You might think I'd lower it to sound masculine, but no. If I did that, I'd just end up sounding like a woman with a faux-masculine voice. Conversely though, most men who try to sound like women don't usually pull it off completely either. They often sound a bit too high pitched or too feminine. Even transsexuals, who generally take hormones to feminize their features, including their voices, may speak with an idealized version of a female voice. So, to portray a transvestite or a transsexual, I become more feminine. I raise my voice and soften it. I sound just slightly unreal, just enough to make the caller think, 'she sounds too good to be true. She *must* be a man.'

Back to our story.

I'm connected to the pleasant voice of a man in mid to late twenties. The personality behind the voice however, seems to have never left it's teens.

"Hi, my name's Chrissy. Who’s this?"

"Uh, (giggle) Hi Chrissy, my name's Mike. Wow, are you really a dude?"

"Hi there Mike. To answer your question, I'm a lady, Mike. I'm just a lady with a little more to offer then your average gal. About six and a half inches more."

The giggling continues.

"I take it you've never spoken to a girl like me before. Is that right Mike? Am I your first, darling?"

"Yeah, so far as I know. Man, you sound great. Really? You're a dude?"

"Mike, if you keep asking me that, I'm afraid we're going to miss out on some much more interesting conversation. Why don't you tell me what you're up to today."

"Well, I'm just hanging out here at my friend's shop. You sound pretty hot for a dude. I'm already sportin wood."

"I'm flattered, Mike. But you didn't call me from your friend's phone without his permission did you? That wouldn’t be very nice."

"No, nothing like that, I'm on my cell. But listen, I want you to say 'hi' to him ok? Only don't tell him you're a dude. Ok?"

"I assure you Mike, I never tell anyone I'm a dude."

Mike hesitates and seems unsure of my promise. He guesses I'm teasing him about his repeated use of the word dude, and he's right. He also wonders if I'm going to spell out his little prank to his friend. Here he's wrong. I'm being paid to play a part. I knew my mission and I accepted it. I am now honor bound to lie.

Mike, like the dear friend that he is, passes the phone over to Ike, saying there's someone on the line he'd like him to meet. Within moments, I'm on the phone with Ike, making small talk and getting to know him.

"No, I haven't known Mike long," I tell him truthfully. " He seemed eager for us to meet though," I continue, inwardly applauding myself for finding a way to be candid while simultaneously perpetuating a bald faced lie. Somewhere in the background, I hear Mike tell Ike that I am, in fact, a phone sex operator. He neglects to mention that he called for an transsexual operator. I pretend not to hear his 'wink, wink, nudge, nudge' comments in the background

"So, Mike says he's at your store. What do you sell?"

"I own a comic shop."

Alone in my office, I smile, knowing I've just found the path to Ike’s heart. With five little words, I win him over.

"What titles do you read?"

The next half hour is spent discussing the merits of Marvel vs DC, the politics of comic distribution, and reliving the details of a lovely afternoon I once spent with Stan Lee, the creator of Spider-man. We talk about my ex, who managed a comic shop and his ex, who hated comics.

The call automatically disconnects in mid-conversation. Ike calls back from his own phone.

During the conversation I learn that Mike has slipped out of Ike's office to allow us some privacy, no doubt assuming the conversation will be getting steamy but Ike remains a perfect gentleman. He will not be pressured into objectifying a woman he's taken an interest in. Pretty impressive for a guy who surrounds himself with images of unnaturally proportioned super-women in skin tight spandex.

Ike digs me. Ike digs me a lot.

Contrary to the stereotype of a comics reading geek, Ike seems pretty down to earth. He is charming and intelligent. In spite of my truly moderate interest in comics, I find him witty and observant enough to be interesting. Every once in a while, I flirt more pointedly, offering an opportunity to take advantage of the mature possibilities for the call, but I get the distinct impression that Ike prefers simply talking to a woman about all things comic related. He says as much more than once.


"I can't believe there's actually a woman out there who's into comics like this. Of course you'd have to be halfway across the country. How can I tempt you to visit me?"

"I'm enjoying your company as well, Ike. But I'm sure you know I can't agree to meet you. There must be *some* women in your area who like comics. Don't they come into your shop?"

"Yeah, but they all come in with their husbands or boyfriends. I know we can't meet, but I thought I'd at least try. It figures I'd meet a hot girl who likes comics and there's no way I can meet you."

"Now Ike, for all you know, I could be a hideous specimen. I could be acne scarred, morbidly obese, smelly and with one very buck tooth. I could be a man for all you know."

"If you were a man or had one tooth, I don't believe you'd sound as hot as you do. Beyond that, I can handle anything but smelly. Are you smelly?"

"Um, no."

"Ok then, we're good to go."

By now, another half hour had past and we're about to be disconnected again. There's no mistaking the sound of Mike re-entering the room.

"Dude! You've been talking to a dude!" He sounds enormously pleased with his deception. "You're getting into a man, Ike!"

Mike doesn't seem to believe him. "You're so full of it. Now go away, I’m trying to talk to Chrissy."

I can almost hear the penny drop as Ike realizes the unisex nature of the name I've given myself. I can hear him thinking about the part of the conversation where I pointed out I could be a man. At the same time, Mike is trying to convince him of my true identity. He explains that he'd called a number to speak to a transsexual and makes disparaging comments about Ike's virility. He seems to think it’s all good natured fun, but I'm sure the last thing I hear him say before being cut off are the words 'closet case'.

I feel rather sorry when the dial tone sounds in my ear.

The phone rings again and it isn't Ike. Same thing with the next call. I resign myself to talking with men who aren't as charming as Ike, nor seemingly, as intelligent. Not that I normally see men at their best when I take these calls.

Two hours later, I'm about to quit working for the night when the phone rings one last time. Following the formula of only the best Harlequin Romances, it had to be Ike.

"Mike's gone. I had to call back. I could be naive, but I don't believe you're a transsexual."

"I won't try to convince you. I will say this though. Whatever my gender, it wouldn't affect my tastes or my sensibilities. And I genuinely like you. I'm glad you called back. Though I'm sorry you took such a ribbing from Mike."

"Yeah, well, thanks. I'm sorry too. You didn't need to hear that. Sometimes that's just the way he is, but he doesn't mean to be so...."

"Homophobic?"

"Well, yeah. I suppose. I'm sorry if he offended you."

"He truly didn't. But I'll tell you one thing. Next time he calls you a closet case, remind him how he told me he was sportin wood, even though he believes I'm a man."

"He said that?"

"Verbatim. And I'll tell you something else. I don't know where he got the number from, but I *do* know where we advertise. Ask him if he's ever heard of a magazine call Hot Tranny."

I spoke to Ike for the duration of one more call and when our time was up, we said goodbye properly. I never heard from him again.

That was years ago. He’s not the only guy who just wanted to talk or the only one who was ever charming and intelligent. He’s not even the only one I liked or who stood apart from the others in my mind. He’s just one of my favorites.

The moral to this story is simple. You can never judge a book by it's cover. What at first may seem a humorous and titillating anecdote, may turn out to be, nothing more than a rambling and boring blogger’s reminiscence.

In The Interest of Science

Based on a scientific survey of 25 callers tonight, I have determined that approximately 88.47% of American men have penises larger than eight inches, 7.69% have penises larger than ten inches, and 3.84% have wee little winkies and want me to laugh at them.

Phone Sex Operator Gets Settlement For Masturbation Related Injuries.

A Florida phone sex operator has won a workers' compensation settlement claiming she was injured after regularly masturbating at work, her lawyer said.

The lawyer told Reuters he was not sure whether the Fort Lauderdale woman's claim was the first of its kind, but it certainly was out of the ordinary.

He said his client agreed to a "minimal settlement" earlier this month. He declined to disclose the amount.

During the course of her claim for workers' compensation benefits, the now 40-year-old employee of Fort Lauderdale's CFP Enterprises, Inc. said she developed carpal tunnel syndrome -- also known as repetitive motion injury -- in both hands from masturbating as many as seven times a day while speaking with callers, said the attorney, who spoke about the case this week on the condition that his client's name not be revealed.

"She was told to do whatever it takes to keep the person on the phone as long as possible," he said.

The woman used one hand to answer the telephone and the other to note customer's names and fetishes and to give herself an orgasm during the verbal exchanges. The calls usually lasted about 15 minutes, although callers who asked for the woman by name were given 30 minutes of talk time, Slootsky said. In her petition for workers' compensation benefits, filed with Florida's Department of Labor and Employment Security in April, the woman claimed she received her injury from "repetitive use of the phone." She claimed weekly benefits of $267 a week -- based on an annual weekly wage of $400 -- and also asked to be reimbursed for $30,000 in medical bills after a neurosurgeon operated on her hands to relieve her pain. Slootsky said his client was too embarrassed to tell her doctor the real cause of her injury and the lack of disclosure led a mediator to advise her that she would have difficult case to prove at trial.
*****


OK, so this isn't exactly news. The earliest version of this story I can find seems to come from back in November of 1999. But I didn't have a Blog back then did I now? And besides, I think this bears repeating. The woman won a settlement over masturbating for crying out loud! And here I've been faking it all along, like a sucker.

Fetish Friday

Sotophilia: sexual arousal by the sight of certain foods. As in, "he asked me to describe the sight of him putting his penis in the potato salad. "

Potato salad! How did it come to be potato salad? What sort of deranged picnics has he been to?

I mean, without personally finding a practice appealing, I can understand how some fetishes form. As unsanitary as it seems to me, a paraphilia for golden showers is wholly understandable. Those original sexual images from childhood can leave us with a powerful imprint. When a child first begins to notice the differences between genders, they are likely be titillated without quite being sure why. If they haven't yet been taught the basic principles of intercourse, the only use they know of for genitalia is urination. Given this, it's not surprising that the fondest wish of many little boys is simply to see a little girl pee. When a desire is set so firmly in childhood, it can easily last through to maturity. What's more, warm liquid sluicing down the body feels damned good. Put it all together, and a fetish is born.

Keeping this in mind though, and putting all judgments aside in the name of scientific query.. what twisted series of events had to come together, what freakish planets had to align, what perverted karma had to accumulate, for me to find myself discussing the merits of German versus Classic potato salad for lubrication, texture and plain old fashioned sex appeal?

It's been twenty minutes,

It's been twenty minutes, where are all my responses?

Man, the guys never take this long on the phone.

Truism of the day

A man with his hand on his penis does NOT bring up subjects that turn him off. If he asks a yes or no question, he probably wants to hear a yes.

"Do you have big breasts?"

"Yeah, they're a nice full 36 DD"

"Do you shave?"

"Oh yes, nice and neat baby"

"Do you ever get kinky?"

"Yeah baby, I love it wild"

"Have you ever watched your father in the shower?"

"NO NO NO!!! In the name of all things decent NO!!!"