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.
Ok so I made my super simple Dutch baby pancake recipe this morning, and as you do sometimes these days, I posted this picture via various social media…
I was subsequently informed that technically this is a German pancake, but all I know is Mom always called it a Dutch baby, so that’s what I call it. I was also astounded at the number of my interweb and real-life friends asking for my address to come get some. (Pancake, that is. Heh.) So I thought I’d share my recipe.
A lot of people have these few simple ingredients on hand at all times, so it’s one of my go-to, guaranteed-to-impress standbys. One pancake is hearty enough for two people to share, especially if you have fruit, bacon/sausage, etc. to go with it. I can never finish one all by myself. Important Note: you must have a cast iron skillet to make this recipe properly. Use a 7-8″ sized one to get the results in the photo, a 9″ one for slightly lower, larger diameter.
3/4 c. milk
3/4 c. flour (better on the scant side than too much)
1/8 t. vanilla
generous pinch of salt
2 T. butter, melted
fresh lemon or lime juice
Mix all ingredients except the butter until mostly smooth, set aside. You want this mixture at room temperature when you put it in the oven, so if your eggs and milk are very cold, or you keep your flour in the freezer, allow for extra time. Put cast iron skillet in the oven and pre-heat oven to 475 degrees.
When the oven is to temperature, take the skillet out of the oven (DON’T FORGET TO USE AN OVEN MITT. I have burned myself more than once just being a space cadet.) and add the melted butter, tilting skillet to evenly coat sides and bottom of pan. Slowly add the pancake batter and return skillet to oven. It usually takes 20-25 minutes to cook, depending on your browning/crispy preference.
Drizzle with ample melted butter and lemon juice, and dust with powdered sugar. I usually serve with jam or preserves of some sort too.
Once you’ve made this Dutch baby pancake recipe, you will not believe how delicious and EASY it is. And a god damn sexy morning after breakfast. Just saying…
this is how I memorize
the sculpture of your body
fingers mapping skin
this is how I take you in
with lips against your collarbone
kisses up your spine
teeth sunken into flesh
this is how I cross the line
in little leaps and bounds
over walls and under nets
this is how I’ll measure you
in pleasure and regret
this is how I disappear
into little white lies and words unspoken
in bits and pieces
and promises broken
this is how I go
in the blue hours of the early morning
and without warning
DISCLAIMER: I began thinking about and writing this months ago but haven’t been able to bring myself to finish it until recently. It isn’t inspired by any one particular person, but by a combination of relationships. I’m going to be posting a number of pieces over the next few months that are works-in-progress intended for performance eventually. I am using a healthy amount of creative license here, so nothing should be taken personally or as my version of gospel truth.
Usually, you don’t know it’s the last time when it’s the last time. I read something along those lines in a book somewhere, maybe Written on the Body? Things fall apart and there’s just a hole, and then you realize, “oh, that last time we did X, that was the last time we’re going to do that.”
The last time we giggled over an inside joke. The last time we kissed. The last time we fucked. The last time you made me breakfast. The last time I looked at you without anger, expectations, or resentment in my eyes. The last time we were nice to each other. The last time it was good.
Other memories begin to fade, but the last times linger, bittersweet. The last time you brushed my hair. The last time I gave you a massage. The last time you held my face in your hands. The last time we watched cartoons on a lazy Sunday morning. All these last times pile up on my chest, slowly collapsing me, forcing the air from my lungs.
When it hits, the realization of what “last time” truly means, I don’t push the weight of it off me. I want to be crushed, decimated by the loss of you. It needs to feel real. Otherwise, how will I get my brain around it? I keep forgetting. I catch myself making plans for us in my head. I tell myself it’s the last time, every time. And I hope eventually I’m right.
Slowly, it becomes a different kind of last time. The last time I’ll have to lower the chair at my computer desk. The last time I’ll clean beard trimmings from the bathroom sink. The last time a thought of you sends shards through my heart. These last times are good things. Little victories leading up to the big one. The last time I think of you and still want you. The last, last time. Because that one leads to the firsts.
The first time I make exactly what I want for dinner. The first time I flirt with a cute stranger. The first time I sing karaoke without you. The first time someone else tells me I’m beautiful. The first time I kiss another man. The first time I feel a new lover’s hands on me. The first time I come without you in my head.
The first time I realize I’m me again.
The first time I think of you, and smile.
The first time I click on this link and it doesn’t make me cry.
Just in case you’ve ever wondered what I look like with bedhead and no make-up…
I just fell into a hole of songs I loved when I was a teenager/in my early twenties. Here’s a couple…
Sigh. I was a cynical young romantic, wasn’t I?