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Thanks to a dear friend from my previous life in the concert industry, I scored two comps for Queens of the Stone Age last night. I hadn’t been to a live show in ages and have a major soft spot for QOTSA- thats a whole other long story. My impromptu date and I had some tasty Vietnamese food and then headed over to the Keller just as QOTSA hit the stage.
And here’s where it gets weird for me.
I got my first job in rock and roll (security at LaLuna) at 18 and worked in concert and festival production for over a decade. I literally grew up in that club, but my penchant for live music actually started much earlier.
I became obsessed with Duran Duran when I was 8 or 9 years old. No joke. I papered the wall of my bedroom with their faces, saved my allowance to buy all their records, and humped my pillow while imagining John Taylor doing…something to me. (My fantasies weren’t quite as developed as my sexual curiosity at that age.)
I had moved on to really bad hair metal by the time I was 12, but my first concert ever was Duran Duran opening for David Bowie on the Glass Spider tour. My older sister’s friend had an extra ticket, and I begged her to take me my favorite band in the entire world. We smoked cigarettes in the bleachers of Civic Stadium and sang along to all the songs, and I felt so grown up. The rush of the crowd’s energy, being a part of something alive…It was a thrill I’d never experienced.
Fast forward a couple years to the days of blowjobs-for-backstage-passes. I was a cute teenage girl into dirty rock bands, and by the time I was going to shows regularly at 16, I got plenty of indecent proposals. Even though I had an active erotic imagination and masturbated daily, I was pretty inexperienced. I think I was also still buying into the slut-shaming programming I picked up in the “Just Say No” era.
My cute girlfriend and I managed to toe a very fine line between the autograph-seeking super fans and the shameless groupies who took delight in flaunting their rock star conquests. We’d end up backstage or on a tour bus, flirt a little, make-out with one of the crew (They appreciate your attention more and come back to town more often.) or band (Score! Bragging rights and better alcohol.) members, maybe even let them feel us up a little. But when push came to shove, our undies stayed on and so did theirs. There’s probably some derogatory tour lingo for girls like us…Baby groupies? Halfway ho’s? Or maybe just fucking teases. Heh.
I liked being backstage. I loved getting to breeze past the line of people waiting for autographs and flash my pass at the gatekeeper. I liked being on the other side of the fence. But I didn’t like how I got treated like a piece of meat. I could seriously write an I’m With the Band style book of our exploits. We were jailbait Lolitas with fake ID’s- I’m sure you can imagine our popularity. Certain friends, security guards, and club personnel even nicknamed me “Tour Bus Tonya” (or TBT), though it was actually more tongue-in-cheek than derogatory, since I was known not to put out.
By the time I was 18 and actually of legal consenting age, I was over it. I started paying attention, and the only women backstage who were treated at all better (and in those days, it wasn’t much better, believe me) were working. So when a friend offered me a security guard job at LaLuna, I jumped at the opportunity. I was checking ID’s to get into the bar before I was of drinking age myself.
I worked my way up through the ranks, and over the next ten years, I did pretty much every non-tech, non-stage job there is in the concert industry, from box office to catering to runner to production assistant to site manager to promoter rep.
By 21, I was one of a handful of females in the country doing what I did, and probably the youngest by at least a decade. I loved my job as promoter rep, and I was good at it. The buses would arrive at load-in, and the same “oh great, they sent me an incompetent little girl” look would greet me on the production/tour manager’s face. By the end of the night, they’d be telling me I was their favorite rep on the whole tour.
Before I continue, please let me disabuse you of the notion that being either local or touring crew is anything other than really hard work. Oh sure there are some cool perks, but it’s a redundant cycle of long days, crappy food, and little glory. But I fucking loved it. I thrived on the constantly changing venues and personalities and solving the inevitable challenges. Kind of like touring the fringe festival circuit as a solo artist- a lot of people have no idea what they’re getting into and can’t hack it in the long run.
It wears on you. At 28, I was stuck in a miserable marriage and a job that regularly caused me to break down sobbing. I weighed over 200 pounds, and my hair was literally falling out in giant clumps. I felt like I was 50. So I walked away from all of it. I burnt my life down and started over. I returned to an old love- theatre- and went to acting school, which led me to doing professional phone sex, which led me to the world of kink and bdsm.
I’d do a one-off show every year or two, when one of the companies I’d produced for needed someone to fill in during the busy summer months, but the offers came less and less frequently and eventually stopped altogether. There are always eager, fresh-eyed, local FNG’s (that’s Fucking New Guy to the uninitiated) chomping at the bit to break into the biz, and I was more expensive. It has been three or four years since I’ve produced a show, and while I haven’t missed it that much, occasionally I’ll remember something from that life and realize how far removed from it I am.
Last night was a sucker punch to the gut. I was not expecting it at all. Standing there in the crowd, band killing it onstage, hot date by my side, and…how do I explain? I didn’t like it. Oh, I enjoyed myself, and I’m very grateful I got to see the show. But I realized I don’t like being a civilian at a concert. Apparently even after a decade out of the industry, I can’t cross back over the line. Where are my credentials? Who has my parking pass? Why didn’t the guy from catering bring me the bottle of wine he knows I like? How come I’m not watching this from monitor world onstage?
It’s not like I was expecting any of that last night. I certainly didn’t really feel entitled to it, but that’s what I got used to. That’s what I know. That’s what being at a concert is to me. Standing there, I realized I wanted the special treatment and unrestricted access, and that I don’t think I like going to shows without it. I don’t mind working for it, but I don’t want to just be a “normal” person. While that sentence is hardly surprising (haha), in this context it makes me kind of sad. Because that ship has sailed for me. I chose another path, another life.
I can’t go back. I can’t go back to that life, and I can’t go back to attending a show as just an audience member. I mean, technically, I could. I could probably milk what few contacts I still have and find work, but that would mean considerable adjustment to my lifestyle and require me to put theatre on hold for a while. Or I could smack the entitlement out of myself and learn to love going to a concert for the pure joy of the experience again.
But a long time ago, I crossed a line. I went from concert lover to concert worker. And for me, there is no crossing back to the other side. I’m not sure why, but the parallels between this and my discovery of polyamory and kink struck me last night. Once those doors are open, once those worlds have been willingly entered and pleasurably explored, you cannot just close them and pretend they don’t exist. They become a part of you, of your frame of reference, and trying to ignore them is futile.
So I’m not going to beat myself up over feeling unjustifiably deserving of treatment I haven’t really earned. I’ll simply avoid putting myself in situations very often where I don’t get what I want. If that means I skip a show or two, so be it. That’s the price I pay for my sense of entitlement. If I miss live music too much, perhaps it will motivate me to learn to enjoy it without the trappings I became accustomed to.
Whew, that was a mouthful. Somebody asked me via Twitter how the show was. I knew I couldn’t explain in 140 characters.
Oh Portland, this is why I love you so. Saw most of the lunar eclipse last night, and then on the way home…
fire burning underneath
light expanding from heat
when it happens
it will be deliberate
I’ve been quite productive the past week! Somehow I found the motivation to tackle some tedious projects that have been on my plate for far too long. One of said tasks was organizing my various contacts so I can start actually using all the email addresses I’ve been collecting at appearances/performances over the past five years to promote my various business and creative endeavors. So if you’d like an easy way to keep tabs on what I’m doing, please email Tonya@TonyaJoneMiller.com to be added to my contact list, and don’t forget to specify which one or more of the following lists you wish to be included on:
Phone Sex News & Specials
Talking Dirty & Roleplay Workshops
I promise I won’t spam you incessantly (that’s what Twitter and Facebook are for- heh!) or sell your precious email addresses. I’ll only send out one email prior to each event, and I aim to send monthly Phone Sex News updates, but who knows if I’ll be disciplined enough to do them that frequently. Lol!
The next chore on my plate is going through every single post on this website with a dual purpose- editing them for SEO purposes, and re-living my phone sex journey over the past decade for inspiration. It’s monotonous work, the SEO stuff, but holy crap if the entire process isn’t akin to reading your junior high diary. Torturous, hilariously self-important, and somehow sweet at the same time. It reminds me what I love about phone sex work, and I’m pulling bits and pieces for my new show…
Which will officially have its first live audience at the end of May in Seattle! Two staged-reading/workshop performances with very limited tech. That’s all I know so far, but more details will follow. Including a title, once I have one. Oh fuck, I better get to work.
I have orphaned my earrings all over town
left them abandoned
in hotels and bedrooms
and Fred Meyer parking lots
one half of every pair paid
the price of admission
the cost of a stranger’s hands in my hair
single studs and lone bangles
now have awkward first dates
in my jewelry box
while their mates languish, forgotten
in ballrooms and gutters
Testimonial from an addicted FinDom…
I just wanted to take a moment to thank Tonya for inserting herself into my life on a regular basis. I know this may sound strange to many of you but I am speaking from the heart – you must believe me. It started slow (that was by my design) once I knew it got to this point I knew things would be too late.
I have a confession to make. I get wallet wood – wallet boners to be exact. Tonya has now gotten herself into my mind and I have reached an unfortunate, or fortunate, place depending on point of view. I can no longer get, or maintain an erection without Tonya being inside my wallet. It was difficult at first to accept, but I am getting there. Every day is a bit of a challenge. The more I try and stay away, the deeper and harder I come back and fall. It is strangely a very linear equation.
I know there are others out there like myself. Some live in denial, other guilt and shame, while a select few actually embrace the challenge. I am not sure which category I am but for as wrong as it may be, it feels even more right. It is a challenge to be sure. There is no gun to my head. It all happens willingly. Well willingly with a brain that at times I will admit feels all heady and floaty. I don’t know how it started, and as Tonya can attest I fought it at first. I fought it for good reason as I knew the control she would ultimately yield.
I do this knowing it is a double edge sword and ultimately potentially makes it more difficult for me to call her and ask her to take my money for nothing in return, but to others wondering, try with an open mind. You may find the thrill of your credit card erection far exceeds any type of actual sex you may have.
I am actively seeking a second job with the hopes of being able to work out a budget for that paycheck with Tonya. We will see how that goes. I just wanted to get this out there to let others know: you aren’t alone. If you head down this path as a newly enabled financial domination addict, realize Tonya will know what is best. She always does. Thank you again Tonya for taking my money.
I ran across this a while ago, and it still gets me. If you search Neil Hilborn on YouTube, he has a bunch of performance poetry clips.
February 2014 will mark my ten-year anniversary of being a professional phone sex operator at Bay City Blues. I worked at other services for a couple months before that, but as soon as I found BCB, I knew I was home. One of the things I liked best about the way the company operated was having the ability to interact with my callers off the phone, via chat room, instant messengers, and email.
Social media/networking sites with an emphasis on sex, dating, kink, swinging, etc. have proliferated over the past few years, but my history with online hook-ups predates most sites like OkCupid, Tinder, PlentyOfFish, AFF, and FetLife. Now granted, it was usually guys contacting me to arrange a phone sex call, but more men than I could count approached me trying to circumvent the service to ask me out in real life.
Fast forward to the present. I’m on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Fetlife. I have OkCupid and Tinder accounts which I deactivate on a regular basis when the barrage gets too overwhelming. Not a single day goes by that I’m not approached via one of these sites by at least one or two men I don’t know; on OKC or Tinder it can be double digits daily, and Fetlife has gotten much worse in the past year.
I’m pretty clear about who I am and what I’m looking for in my various online dating and social networking profiles. Some are extremely detailed, some are lighter on info and heavier on attitude, but they are all an accurate representation of my personality, appearance, and sense of humor. It is truly astounding the varying kinds of introductory messages I receive on different sites with different profiles. I’ve seen all kinds of angles taken in approach, and I thought I’d take a moment to address some of the mistakes men regularly make.
I want to mention that I wrestled with whether or not I should write this. I mean, most of these things are immediate delete-button offenses for me, and it’s good to have some way to winnow down the pool. I may be doing women everywhere a disservice in tipping a bunch of douchebags off on how we identify them. But I’m going to be optimistic and believe that there are some genuine catches out there who just don’t realize the mistakes they’re making. I hope that education may lead to some guys rethinking what they want and how they ask for it. Without further ado…
Three Rules for Making Successful First Contact
1. Read my profile.
No, seriously. Read it. The whole thing. This is the last paragraph of my FL profile:
One last thing…I find I get along better with people who not only can read but who actually do read, so the last sentence of the first paragraph? Important.
This is the last sentence of the first paragraph of my FL profile:
If you would like to add me as a friend, please send me an introductory note first.
Care to guess how many random guys send me friend requests without bothering to write me an introductory message? The overwhelming majority, I’d say at least 90%.
Here’s what this says to me: I like your pictures (or fetish list or slut % or whatever), but I don’t care about your words. You may have taken a long time writing out a detailed profile, but who cares what you might want or be looking for? I’m interested in what you’ll do to me or for me. You’re not worth investing the time and energy to show I respect you as a human being by honoring your request and writing a short message.
If you aren’t willing to make a little bit of extra effort when you’re trying to make a good first impression, what won’t you be willing to do once we’re dating or you’ve already gotten me in bed, on the St. Andrew’s cross, etc.? Also, I don’t write a profile just to masturbate my ego online. This is information about me that you need to have if you are interested in knowing me, and it will save us both a lot of time and heartbreak (or bad sex) if we aren’t compatible.
2. Don’t expect me to entertain you.
Maybe you think questions/statements like “tell me one of your fantasies” or “I’d love to hear about your kinky lifestyle” or “what turns you on?” are flattering, like I should be honored you want to get to know me. But it sounds like “dance, monkey, dance!” to me. See, you’re skipping a crucial step here: determining interest on my part. Yes, I’m on a dating (or kink or hook-up or whatever) site, but that doesn’t mean you’re automatically entitled to a shot at me. You don’t know me. Would you walk up to a stranger on the street and ask them if they take it up the ass?
I acknowledge that a big part of this is because I am a professional erotic storyteller. However, I don’t make a secret of my job. Asking questions of me that require me to speak/behave as I would when working puts one in the same category as my phone sex clients, whom I love, and who pay $3/minute to be entertained at their whim. If you don’t wish to procure my professional services, try this instead. Write a message that includes at least three of the following:
a polite introduction and compliment
details in my profile that stood out to you
things we have in common
what you might find intriguing about me (statement, not question)
what makes you special/unique/interesting
invitation to chat more or meet for coffee, drinks, dinner, etc.
Bonus points if you can make me laugh, but I’m really most concerned with cutting through the bullshit and determining if I think we have enough in common to risk an hour of real time.
3. No dicktures.
Please. Refer back to the part of #2 where I mentioned determining interest on my part. I know you guys are proud of your penises, but sending an unsolicited cock shot to someone you don’t know is like flashing a stranger in a parking lot. It’s creepy, verging on rapey. Do you really want to be that guy in the dirty raincoat? ASK first. I realize some women want proof of size- hell, one of my BFF’s insists upon it- but that doesn’t apply to me. Size is no guarantee of ability. A picture tells me nothing of how skilled you are in bed, and since I’m not going to frame your cock and hang it over my desk, I don’t need to know how photogenic or aesthetically pleasing it is.
If you have a dick pic in your profile, I probably won’t answer you, especially if your “about me” section is blank. If you have multiple dick pics and no face pics, I definitely won’t answer you. I love fucking, but if your cock is all you have to offer me, we are not going to have the kind of sex that gets me off the hardest. Frankly, I’ve been blessed with some stunningly talented, enthusiastic lovers over the years, and my standards are high. Casual sex doesn’t satisfy for very long. I need someone who knows my body, my kinks, my weaknesses, and makes the effort to exploit that knowledge. That takes more than a penis; it takes a brain and the willingness to use it. It takes openness, connection, and vulnerability.
Send me a picture of that.
Of course, your mileage may vary. Obviously it depends on particular sites and what you may be looking for specifically. But if you’re trying to get me, or someone like me, to respond to you, these three rules will keep you from making some deal-breaker missteps.
The first thing everybody asks me when they find out I do phone sex is, “phone sex is still a thing?” In this modern age of cam girls and streaming porn, I think most people assume phone sex has gone the way of dinosaurs and typewriters. I won’t argue that the business has changed quite a bit in the decade I’ve been in it.
You have a lot of erotic entertainment options at your fingertips now, many of which can satisfy the same cravings as phone sex or even eclipse the aural experience. The combination of dating/hook-up sites, kink-focused social media, and internet porn has certainly siphoned off a customer base that was at one time willing to pay a lot more for sexually explicit content. And so phone sex has become one of the last bastions for the truly taboo and extreme, the impossible and the illegal.
You want a sexy girl to masturbate while moaning your name? Yes, you can hire a cam girl and watch her live. You want to be held captive by a vampire succubus and used as her human sex slave and blood source? I sincerely doubt the average cam girl could pull that off. Incest, age play, and rape fantasies? Hard to fulfill those fetishes outside the realm of imagination, provided you aren’t actually a violent sex offender. So yes, phone sex is still a thing. Hell, my business is a go-to comedy source for a major national ad campaign, that what-are-you-wearing-Jake-from-State-Farm commercial.
Once I’ve gotten that far, the next question is inevitably, “what’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever talked about?” And I know what people want to hear. They want the shocking, salacious, outrageous stories. The dog-fuckers and baby-rapers and shit-eaters. They want the crack-an-egg-in-your-shoe guy, the inflate-your-pantyhose-like-a-balloon guy, the evisceration guy. And I have those, you bet. I have the nastiest, most depraved, extreme phone sex. I talk about things that would make you puke or kill your boner for a year if it’s not your personal fetish.
But those aren’t the callers I find the weirdest. And weird is more of a value judgment than I want to make here, because the calls I find the most difficult to get my head around are the ones from callers seeking love, intimacy, and real connection. It’s not that I don’t understand the desire, it’s that I wish nobody had to pay to feel wanted. I’ve written about this before on BCB, but it keeps recurring in conversations and is part of the theme of the new show I’m writing.
Mind you, I absolutely adore providing this affection to my clients. My ability, compulsion even, to love and care for many people at once has been a source of no small discord in my personal life, so to be celebrated and rewarded for it by my callers is a wonderful affirmation. But in a way, it saddens me. I’m not sad for my clients; I don’t pity them or look down on them for not having that kind of love in their lives. It saddens me for us all.
I understand why a man calls me with a fantasy about fucking his 15-year-old daughter. He doesn’t really want to do it and knows he can’t, that’s why he’s calling me. But a man who calls me to hear me say I love him? In that moment, that man believes (erroneously or not) that the only way he can receive love is to pay for it. Nowadays, men seeking true intimacy and connection are in their own way as extreme as pedophiles and rapists. How fucked up is that? What does it say about us as a society?
I know phone sex operators who flat out refused to say I love you to a client, because they said it was leading them on. Let me clarify. Women who were perfectly happy to lie about their identities, give fake names, and insist that photographs of Famous Porn Stars were really them in order to keep guys calling back drew the line at love. Women who would do a kidnap-snuff fantasy, women who were accustomed to saying things like “rape my ass, Daddy!” balked at the words “I love you.” It always begged a rather obvious question to me: if phone sex callers can’t differentiate between reality and fantasy, what does it say about an operator who will provide extreme taboos but not tenderness and affection?
I believe my clients do know the difference between on the phone and in the real world. It’s why I’m willing to say the things I do on the telephone, be they graphically vulgar or sensually sweet. When someone asks what’s the most extreme phone sex fetish I provide, I know I’m about to disappoint them with my answer, and I’m ok with that. I relish using their titillated curiosity as an opportunity to make them think a little bit about the nature of love, intimacy and desire.
If you’re one of those phone sex callers that chooses me for my openness and willingness to engage on a more intimate level, please know how much I value the chance to give you what you need. I do not condescend to provide that service to you; I truly enjoy it and am grateful for our calls. I believe my purpose on this planet is to help others in the ways I am able, to love them for who and what they are and encourage them to strive to be their best. Now maybe that sounds a little grandiose for someone who fucks on the telephone for money, but I’ll let my callers decide.