A giant step backwards for women everywhere!

Just taking a minor break as I was sick for a few week with the damn flu the immigrants have been bringing in!

I’m updating to wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving.  I hope it was worth the lives of the innocent Native Americans who were slaughtered for it!

Kisses,

Bea

My computer has been broken for the past week on top of my Internet being out due to a snow storm, so I’m sorry about the lack of updates.

I found this pretty awesome page detailing some anecdotes from a few phone whores.

A look at what phone sex operators look like as well as their desires, fears, motivations and most memorable calls from Philip Toledano Phone Sex project whose new book will be published in July 2008 by Twin Palms. The book interviews nearly 30 phone sex operators so that we can hear their stories during their work in the phone sex industry.

Check out 12 more pics of phone sex operators and their stories after the jump.

My first night, there was a gentleman who called himself Bob.

He explained that he had no one he felt comfortable telling his desires to, and
I felt a strange intimacy between us.

I think it’s easier to release repressed desires to a non-judgmental, fictional person, because there are no consequences in the outside world.

When I first started I was nervous.

But after a while, I guess you could say the kinkier the talk, the more I was like, wow!

Let’s just say I have found myself and my sexuality through this.

I got into phone sex because I thought:

‘Why not get paid for talking dirty, instead of doing it for free?’

It brings up my self-esteem up so much, knowing guys are looking at my pics and wanting to talk to me.

Wanting me to take them to a whole other place, fulfilling their fantasies. Painting that picture in their mind for them.

I got into working as a PSO about five years ago.

Before I did this I was working part-time in a doctor’s office and was
very unhappy with my work, and my home life. I was in an abusive
relationship and had no way in the foreseeable future of getting out.

Then a regular customer of mine sent me a very nice tip, and along with my income tax refund, I was able to relocate and terminate that abusive relationship.

If I didn’t work this job…I could have been killed by that man.

I struggle and I don’t make a huge income here.

But I survive, and I help my children when they need it.

I feel I’m doing a huge service, because any man can call and act out just about
any fantasy with me, and not have to worry about repercussions. I think being able to do this is good for them, as well as me.

I’m 60 years old, I have a BA in cultural anthropology from Columbia University, and I’ve been married for 25 years.

I make twice the money I made in the corporate world.

I work from home; the money transfers into my bank account daily.

I’m Scheherazade: If I don’t tell stories that fascinate the pasha, he will kill me in the morning.

I never thought I would work in the phone sex industry.

All those years doing customer service, my customers would comment on my sexy voice.

I thought I was being professional, not sexy.

This work is customer service too.

But your customers leave with more than a smile.

I was young when I started in the phone sex world. I had no choice.

My grandmother had gotten sick and I needed to be able to help her, and still work and make good money.

I was reading the paper looking for a night job, and I saw a job as a train conductor. I thought to myself, ‘rats!’ Then I saw an ad saying ‘Make good money as a phone sex operator,’ and well, I’m scared of rats, so ding!

As a virgin, it was hard for me to talk about sex to horny men.

I had to read books and watch porno films with my friends—they’d point at something on the screen and say ‘Use that in your phone calls!’

To the caller, when I first answer, I am the inanimate Barbie.

I breathe life into the fantasy, I carve the doll out of flesh.

I do not view myself as this doll, as the commodity.

I am the manufacturer who creates her from the blueprint that the caller provides me.

When the caller comes, it is positive feedback.

Like an architect patting his contractor on the back.

One of my most memorable calls was also one of the grossest.

It was a fetish call. A scat fetish.

I started out by telling him I was a vegan.

I cracked him up. He was laughing so hard, he had to hang up because he couldn’t get back into our fantasy.

The people who touched my heart were the ones who stood out.

There was Jonny in Boston. He and his wife were trying to get pregnant.

He was calling from a fertility clinic because the magazines he was given weren’t working for him.

He ended up calling regularly even after his daughter was born.

Definitely the most amusing part about the job was when my partner would be in the room with me, usually reading while I worked.

She’d only hear my half of the conversation, so she’d either think it was absolutely hysterical or, sometimes, kind of sexy.

I’d usually try to avoid eye contact with her during a call, because I’d see her stifling a smirk and I’d start laughing uncontrollably.

Sometimes I could work that into the call; other times I really couldn’t.

Just last night I received possibly the most disturbing phone sex call I’d had in a long time.

A caller shot himself with me on the phone.

Things like this always scare me.

My current track record stands at one confession of incestuous sexual abuse, and two other suicides.

For the longest time I thought children were the worst things on this planet.  I thought that children were the scourge of the earth, only existing to irritate the souls out of people who mattered, cared about things, and genuinely want to do good deeds.  People like Superman.  This was until I met an 18 year old on Election Day.

Today I performed my civic duty and voted.  Who I voted for is completely irrelevant.  There are thousands of blogs that talk about politics, why Republicans are Nazis, or why Democrats are evil twisted communistic demons, but what these blogs don’t teach you is voting etiquette, and I can’t believe it’s going to take a phone whoring sex toy saleswoman to teach you this…but here it goes:

Keep the shit to yourselves on Election Day.  I’ll repeat this.

KEEP THE SHIT TO YOURSELVES ON ELECTION DAY!

Who you vote for is your personal private business, not the strangers around you.  You had months and months to decide on a candidate, and Election Day, at the voting booth, is not a proper time to preach your political drivel.  Shut your fucking trap, you obnoxious bitch.

Take the annoying creature I met today, Suzy Whorebuttcz, for example.  Suzy just turned 18 and is obviously excited to vote.  She is young, not terribly bright, frumpy with emo glasses.  Her face is flat yet oblong, kind of resembling a taco.  She is telling everyone to vote for Obama.  She’s yelling out of her car window, “Obama!”  “Obama, vote for Obama,” to people walking into the building to vote.

Don’t be like Suzy Whorebuttcz.  She is a stupid cunt with absolutely no voting etiquette.

It’s people like her who trivialize the importance of elections.  18 year olds have such a limited grasp on politics and for the most part, should not be taken seriously.  They have experienced such a small percentage of what life has to offer that their reality is skewed and focused like a pig who can only look up at a 45 degree angle.  It’s not that I agree or disagree with her political affiliations as much as it’s how I don’t believe she has any fucking idea about what she’s talking about.  Sure, Suzy, you may be going to college.  Just like that “college” may have the word “community” in front of it, and your “major” may rhyme with “hiberal farts,” but your fancy shmancy attempts at an associates degree doesn’t negate the fact that you’re 18 and don’t know a god damn thing.  One day, Suzy, I hope you realize this if you haven’t killed yourself from listening to too much Fallout Boy.

Don’t be like Suzy Whorebuttcz.

And do not be like this person from IamRob’s (I’m sorry, Rob!) Freak Safari Forum.

“As we were handing in our ballots to have them signed by a witness, an older black man approached me and asked if he’d filled his out right. I go over it with him, and explain the difference between voting straight Democrat/Republican or going through each position and selecting the individual. He asked me if I’d voted before, and I told him I have been since I turned 18. He seemed surprised and I told him I felt obligated given that people of his generation fought and died so that I could vote. He told me he felt sheepish being 63 and voting for the first time, but he’d never had anyone to vote for before. Like a lot of people, he said he never thought he’d see the day. Then we both got teary eyed and handed in our ballots.”

This person in the story hasn’t voted his entire life because he never had anyone to vote for?  Give me a break.  The only reason why that guy voted for Obama was because he’s black, and it was blatantly obvious.  That person never educated himself, and the result is he chose not to vote.  Don’t be like that man.  Don’t be retarded.

Have voting etiquette.  Vote for people because you educate yourselves on what their policies are, not because of them being black.  Vote because you honestly care about the issues and want these people to represent you…not because they’re Irish, German, Italian, Black, White, Christian, Jewish.  It makes you sound like an uneducated asshole, and you shouldn’t be voting in the first place.  It’s the mentality like that girl and the old man she was talking to why we have electors instead of using the popular vote.  If the people honestly had that mentality through and through, we don’t deserve to have a say because that mentality makes us look like morons.

Have voting etiquette!

I was linked from a blog that specializes in documenting sites that talk about ball crushing for some strange reason.

…you guys want to see a video from their site? It’s NSFW
Continue reading →

I get a call from a man who calls himself “Metal.”  I won’t lie, he sounds hot.  A nice deep voice.  He sounds like Gregory Peck mixed with a little John Wayne and testosterone.  It was nice to say the least.  He only had one minor flaw…

The first thing he does is tell me to shut up, and I can do that.

He tells me to obey every word he says or I will suffer the consequences.  I am too intrigued by his voice to really roll my eyes.  After all, a lot of guys who do the “listen to what I say or else…” routine secretly are power bottoms and crave black cock.  Metal sounds different though.  He sounds quite serious.  His voice resonates with a certain charisma.  In fact, with total honesty, I want to do what he says.

He says he wants to tie me up.  I make sounds as if I were struggling, to which he retorts, “Shut the fuck up, you dirty cocksucker.”  I find this oddly titillating.

He then forces me down on him and makes me blow him.  He tells me to gag on it and go down until he can scratch my face with his pubes.  I make the obligatory “Mmmmm…” noises.

“What the fuck did I just say?  Didn’t I tell you to shut…the fuck…up?”

“Yes Metal.”

“Did you just talk to me again?”

…in a moment of confusion…

“Ummmm.”

I can hear the anger in his voice crescendo.  It seems quite genuine.  All of this seems quite genuine.  He takes a breath and I close my eyes because I know what’s coming.

“Did you just speak again?  Did you?  I told you not to speak you pig.  I explicitly told you to shut up.  You’re forcing me to do this, you know…”

I feel relieved.  I was expecting much worse.  Metal begins to scare me.  To articulate the reality of his anger would be like putting the atmosphere of a World War I trench war into text.  It can’t be done, it has to be experienced.  Metal is an experience.

“I am going to untie you.  And I want you to slap yourself,” Metal demands.

I slap my leg.

“That is not your face.  Do it again and harder.”

I slap my boob because it resembles the shape of my face more than a leg.  Maybe he won’t notice the difference.

“Now say thank you, pig.”

“Thank you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Thank you?”

“You disgraceful whore.  You disgusting piece of trash.  You address me by ’sir’ at all times.  I give you permission to speak, and this is how you show your gratitude?  You disrespectful, ridiculous bitch.”

“Thank you sir.  Metal.”

Metal’s voice deepens, he takes a breath, and I close my eyes because I know what’s coming.

“Bend over and let me see that boy cunt.”

…well maybe not.  This guy thinks I’m a dude?  What the fuck?  No, seriously…what the fuck?  He didn’t ask for a guy, or a tranny, or a mythological anthropomorphous type creature with a penis.  He made no indication he wanted a man, nor do I sound like a man.  Then again, he made no indication that he wanted a woman either.  I stare at my wall in confusion and can see a part of my nose.  Evidently I cross my eyes when I’m confused.

“Yes.”

Oh shit.

“What?!”  Metal’s voice is hot, but his anger is starting to scare me.  I toy with the idea of hanging up and refunding his money…but I am genuinely intrigued.  His voice, his charisma, the fact that he is maybe gay…this story must come to a conclusion, and I want to know what that conclusion is.

“Yes SIR!  SIR!  I AM SORRY SIR!  YES SIR!”

He pulls me by my hair and drags me into the bathroom and throws me into the tub carelessly, as if he were throwing out an empty bottle.

“Sir Metal, I am sorry, sir.  Please.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

He says he is going to take his knife and cut my arm.  His words are so suggestive that I actually feel my arm tingling.  I can’t explain it any other way, but his commands seem to live and breathe.  They infiltrate me, and it’s exciting and spooky. 

…Even if he thinks I’m a man.

“Now lick your blood you whore.  Do it now, or I swear to god I will kill you.”

I’m torn.  I am creeped out and excited at the same time.  I am scared and exhilarated…all from a phone call.  What does this say about me?  What does this say about who I am as a person?  I write on this blog making fun of the jokers I encounter, and with this call I am one of those jokers, and I can’t help it.

I make a sound like if I were to stick my tongue out at the doctor’s office.  It’s all I can think of to sound like I’m lapping at the blood trickling from my arm.

“You want more, don’t you?”

“Yes sir.”

I don’t know what else to say.  Metal commands and I obey! 

“Then I’ll cut you more to feed you more.”

As intimidating as Metal is, I can’t help but wonder what his intentions are.  I have been confused and interested by this call since I first heard him speak.  I have invested well over 20 minutes already.  Curiosity gets the best of me, and I need to understand the purpose of it all.  So I say in defiance:

“Thank you.”

“That’s it.  You’ve been warned.  YOU HAVE BEEN FUCKING WARNED.”

His decibel level has risen.  He is legitimately yelling at me now.  He is shouting at me as if I were a dog who needed to be scolded, like Toby in roots, like Ike to Tina.  It hit a nerve with him, and I could feel it in the few seconds while he was waiting for me to address him as “sir” and the silence he received as a result.

“You’re dead you disgusting bitch.  You are fucking dead.”

He proceeds to cut my face.  I make screaming sounds.  These aren’t screams from me being passionate about my work.  These are screams from me wanting to please Metal and fulfill his fantasy, even if it is only on the phone.  It is me being passionate about him. I can hear him stroking his dick now, and his breathing is getting heavy.

“You’ve disrespected me for the last time.  I can’t fucking stand the sight of you anymore.”

I whimper.  His voice is confident and decisive.  He tells me he is going to slit my throat and proceeds to do it.  Metal wanted me to die.

“Now I can fuck you in peace.”

He bends my dying body over and necro fucks me in the tub.  He tells me about how he is going to use my blood and shit as lube.  He then tells me he wants to wait for rigor mortis and then post mortem lividity to set in, so he can rape my corpse in different stages of my death.  Unlike this rest of this call, I don’t find this oddly titillating.  I find myself getting bored with Metal, even though I like hearing him talk.  It’s similar to seeing a really hot guy and finding out he has learning disabilities.

He puts me on ice to get me cold, and has sex with me again.  In different positions, in different places.  I’m starting to think Metal may have some kind of problem or something.

All I can do is listen to him stroke and tell me his necrophilia fantasy.  I am, after all, dead…and dead people don’t talk.  I contemplate making “Oooooooooo” sounds like a ghost because I don’t want to die, but I feel that even if I did talk as a ghost or something, he’d still tell me to shut up so there’d be no point.

Minutes pass while I listen to him stroke.  If I could repress the 10 minutes of corpse fucking, I would probably be playing with myself along with him.  Why can’t Metal be normal?  His voice is so hot that it’s a shame he’s into fucking dead things.  He finally comes, thanks me, and tells me he will call again.  The disturbing thing is that I look forward to it.

Happy Halloween!
Bea

If you missed the beginning of this little mini saga, go here and here.

I received an email from Carolina today to give her side of the story.  This is taken verbatim except I changed the real names, obviously.  I promise the typos are real. 

“Dear Bea

i am so so so sorry for what I did….i know there is nothing i can do to make up for what i did probably….but i have to day what i feel and that bruce basically coaorced me into giving real information….so i did what i though i should do instead and send it to headquarters….but lets be honest….was that an absolutely awful thing to do….in theory i didnt give all of my personal information and i didnt accept any gifts because you guys took them….so i should still be able to keep my job….i actually need this job because i have two kids and i cant walk good….so please consider this when you make your final decision.

tyxo

Carolina” 

 I wonder how I should respond to this warm email.  I bet it could be a lot warmer if she changed her email signature from “drinking it up downtown casey lol” to something else.

I just got off a call ten minutes ago.  It was the first and hopefully only time I will have to be a marionette puppet.  I’ll expound.

I get a call from the operator, Nina.

“Dane is looking for a twenty-something blonde girl with big breasts.”

“I can do that.”

Nina connects me with Dane.  Dane has a raspy voice.  He sounds like a smoker, but with a slightly high pitched voice.  He speaks with a southern accent and speaks slowly, like a child sounding out syllables when reading Dr. Seuss.

“Hello Dane, I’m Trixie!”  I speak with an enthusiastic tone.  It’s my first call of the day, so I have no excuse to be jaded yet.

“Hey, Trixie, I was wondering if we could play out a fantasy together.”

“Sure honey, that’s what I’m here for.”

“Have you ever seen Mr. Rogers Neighborhood?”

“I have when I was a little girl.  Yes.”

“Well I want you be a puppet, kind of like a puppet from the Land of Make Believe.”

“Wait.  Like any puppet or an actual puppet from that show?”

“Any kind of puppet, but I want you to have strings so I can do what I want with you.”

“I can do that.”

“Ok, so let’s begin.”

“Hello Dane, my name is Ms. Pennyfeather, how are you?”

“Hello Ms. Pennyfeather. I see you’re not married, are you?”

“No!  I haven’t met the right man yet.  I am too busy teaching children how to read and sing songs!”

At this point I can hear him groaning.  This is borderline creepy, but the line between pervert and ridiculous fetish is gray, yet fine.  If he starts talking about fucking one of Ms. ‘Pennyfeather the Puppet’s’ students, we’re going to have problems.

“Can I hold your strings, Ms. Pennyfeather?”

“Why yes you can, Dane.  Please.  I need a puppeteer so I can teach people how to read and behave themselves.”

“You have to sit on my lap, Ms. Pennyfeather.  Sit on my lap so I can hold your strings better.”

“Oh thank you, Dane.  Thank you so much for controlling me.”

“I’m holding your strings now, and you’re going to rub your puppet pussy, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes, Dane.  It feels so good when you manipulate my strings like that and make me touch my puppet pussy.”

Dane is getting very into this as well.  I can hear him stroking his dick.  What’s funny is that when he masturbates, he squeaks like a dolphin using echolocation.  I am in the zone though, and even though this call is creepy, I have a job to do.

“Do you like me holding your strings and making you touch your pussy?  You like it don’t you, Ms. Pennyfeather?”

“I do!  It feels so good and soft.  My skin feels like a new carpet.  I get really hot when you hold my strings.  I can even feel your cock getting hard as I sit on your lap, while you hold my strings.”

“Pull my cock out.”

“You have to do it for me, Dane.  You control my strings.  You have to pull the cock out.”

Dane was moaning from this line, and I thought it was quite clever on my part.

“I’m going to make you take my cock out and then I’m going to put your puppet ass on it and make you ride on my lap, Ms. Pennyfeather.”

“Oh that feels so good.  I can’t stop you either because you’re in control over my puppet strings, and there’s nothing I can do.  I am powerless, Dane!”

*Note to future phone sex operators.  When you’re strapped for ideas, a little rape never hurts.*

“My puppet ass is gripping that cock and I am just milking you off, now, right Dane?”

“Oh that feels so good, Ms. Pennyfeather.  Oh my god.  Oh my god.”
Dane is getting closer and closer.  He sounds like he’s having a good time with a muppet/marionette creature thing riding his cock.

“That cock is so big and filling up my tight ass perfectly, Dane.”

“Oh Ms. Pennyfeather!  OHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhh”

*click*

Dane comes and then hangs up.  Another job well done, if I do say so myself.  This was the first time I ever had to be a puppet.  And I thought nothing surprised me anymore.

We’ve added an archives and story tab at the top of the site to help with the navigation.  No more endless clicking throughout the site.  Hooray for organization!

If you missed my story yesterday, it’s right here.

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To be a successful phone whore, you need to pretend to be a tranny, sometimes more than a normal woman.  The other day I got a call from a guy requesting tranny cock.  A lot of guys want cock for some reason.  It’s the nature of this game.  It’s fun too, because a lot of these guys are living the straight life, and I like giving them what they want.  If they can’t get a face full of black cock in their real life, then I’ll give it to them.

Tonight Michael calls me.  He’s looking for a 6′5 girl with a 9″ surprise.  I’m super tall, and for some reason this excites me.  I’m not used to being tall.  A 9″ penis, yes…but never tall.  My tranny’s name is Elektra.

Michael asks me what I’m into.

“I can go from mild to wild, Michael.  What about you?”

I can hear Michael panting.  Already he’s in the zone.  Three minutes into this call, and we’re right on target.

“I’m just sitting here stroking my hard cock.”

“How big is that hard cock, Michael?”

“5″.”

Here’s the thing.  When guys talk about having small penises, it usually means they want to be humiliated, which is fun.  I love dom talk.  Making fun of men is my specialty and is a great stress reliever, however…tonight was a bit different.  Usually I’m good at picking things up, so when someone says, “I have a five inch penis,” it makes me think I should make fun of it.  Well I was wrong.

“Oh you’ll never be able to please me with that small cock will you!”

“What do you mean?”

“Your cock is too small to do anything with.  Luckily I have a huge cock for you to play with.”

“It’s not that small, Elektra.”

“It’s pretty small, Michael.  I bet I can’t even grab that cock without crushing it in my large hands, right?”

“It’s the national average.”

“That tiny little pecker?”

*click*

Well I was a little wrong on that.  Oh well, fuck Michael and his stupid mixed signals!

Danny calls me.  He’s looking for an obese mountain of a woman.

“I can do that,” I tell the operator.  My name is Bell.

In my mind, Bell has cottage cheese thighs.  She is wearing a white shirt, with black panties and cut jean shorts.  She has blonde hair and blue eyes.  And speaks with a redneck accent.

“Hey Bell, my name is Danny.”

“Hi ya’ll!  What are you doing?”  I say this with a lot of gusto.  Between each sentence I am panting.  Every fat girl I know pants, so in my head, this made perfect sense to me.

“Umm, I’m just sitting here in my briefs.”  He doesn’t sound that excited, but we can change this!

“What are you into, Danny.  I am so hor-nay.”

“Ummmmm why do you sound like you’re on Jerry Springer.”

*click*

Oh well, fuck Danny and his stupid mixed signals!
I’ve taken hundred, thousands of phone whore calls, and there’s always an exception to some rule.  Danny and Michael are perfect examples.  Fuck them in their stupid asses.  In my world all boys who have small penises and talk about it WANT to be made fun of.  If they didn’t, why wouldn’t they lie about their sizes?  It’s not like I’m really going to know you have a five inch cock!  If you wanted to dominate the tranny, you should’ve just said that instead of assume I can read your mind.  And Danny, you want an obese woman?  That’s fine, lots of guys do…but if I have a southern accent, all of a sudden that’s offensive to you?  I can’t understand how being from the south is absolutely gross, but fucking a morbidly obese chick isn’t.  Your damn fetishes are so confusing!

I make it no secret that I’ve had an abortion.  I’m not proud of doing it, nor am I ashamed.  It just wasn’t something that myself or my now husband was prepared for.  I was just starting grad school, and had way too much time to alter my life in such a huge drastic way.  It wouldn’t have been fair for my child.  Children are brought up into such disastrous atmospheres everyday, and I think it’s mortifying and reprehensible.  In a way it’s completely irresponsible to raise a child in an unstable environment, and more irresponsible than me getting knocked up and having it sucked out like a Hoover on crystal meth.  The reality is that it was a good decision and I do not regret it at all.  This doesn’t mean I get knocked up every weekend and have an abortion.  I don’t throw abortion parties.  It’s quite the opposite, ever since I’ve done that I’ve been incredibly careful in having sex.

In a way, I’m glad I’m not going to have children.  Kids are worthless, gross specimens of humanity.  They’re worthless creatures meant for three things:  draining money, getting sticky things everywhere, and pissing you off.  What annoys me the most is that every parent thinks their kids are beautiful splashes of sunshine.  What is even more annoying than that is that they say, “Don’t you think little Victor is just darling???!!”  My answer is an always brutally honest, “Not right now.”  Your kids aren’t darling.  They’re wastes of space and serve no useful purpose except a drain of the society of people who choose not to suck as bad as you do.

The story of my abortion isn’t funny or interesting.  I didn’t put on a puppet show with the fetus or anything like that, but it did make me think about how much I truly despise children.  It’s not like the internet does a much better job of convincing me either.

I want to stick a pin in this kid’s face to see if he’ll deflate. Fat singing kid…you are NOT cute!

And another reason to have an abortion?

He could be BLACK. I kid.

And finally, the cutest kid on the internet. Just in time for Halloween. Your tears bring joy to millions, little guy.

So fuck kids is basically what I’m saying.