sometimes we were wrong in our own assumptions.
sometimes we regret the decisions we've made.
sometimes we just miss the people we miss.

now, more than ever, i can identify with the callers i've had.

Well, it's been a while, but here I am, back at it again.

Where did I go? Why did I stop? I didn't really go anywhere, but I stopped because I missed a life that wasn't just about sex. This became the definition of me. I'm not going to lie and say that I don't like it, or I don't like the attention, because I do; I'm human. But there is more to me than dirty talk and sex appeal. I swear it. This is a fun part of me, but alas, it is only a part of me. So I needed a break and tried to pursue a life outside of simple, yet complicated, sexuality and also one that didn't involve me being tethered to my phone and computer 24/7. It's nice to exist in the realms of real people sometimes.

What else has been added to my resume as of late, you might ask? Well, since my last post I've moved from the house with my eclectic posse into my own little bachelorrette pad downtown and I've gone undercover as your neighbourhood barrista. I'll serve you up a cappucino with a dash of sassy that'll leave you with a chuckle and a smile to start your day. If you don't piss me the fuck off, though. So watch it. Fuckers.

People. You drive me nuts. Absolutely fucking batty with your non fat decaf extra hot no foam half sweet white moccacinos with double whip cream. But I missed it. Being part of this thing called society. All that happens outside my bedroom walls can be infuriating but intriguing, but I like being part of something that seems a little more real, with co workers and customers and a community. It's fun.

But I did miss the dirty talk. And the money. Dirty talkin' money. It feels good getting a cheque that's free of federal taxes delivered to my doorstep that's there for whatever I want. The stuff I make serving lattés is already spoken for, this stuff? Not so much. So it's there to be thrown at debt, at nights out, flights to where ever whenever and just some pampering, damnit.

I'm back. That's all you really need to know, though. So watch yourselves.

When I answer that call, the real me slips from mind, and I am gone and I become she.
She with no memory, no family, no baggage. She who can do whatever she wants whenever the feeling strikes her.

She, unlike me, can do things without being bothered by what her friends say about her cooking. Unlike me, she's free from judegment by every single fucking person around her. She doesn't have to deal with her mother wondering if she's going to drop those last few pounds, or with her father constantly telling her she needs to do better in school, and she sure as fuck doesn't have to deal with the stress of ungrateful friends pulling on her limb to limb.

The thing I miss with this job is co workers. I miss having co workers and another life.
I live with three friends that also go to my university. A flaming homosexual, a technology geek and a hypochondriac. And the last two unite to become an oversexxed couple. She's too sick to do her dishes but she can still fuck him later that night. But because they go to my school, are my friends, and live with me...they begin to monopolize my time. And when I bring over a friend separate from them...they suck them into their lives too so I no longer have a place free from them

When I worked at a Dairy Queen for six years, there was that other part of my life. When I played soccer for 11 years, that was a separate life. Field hockey, separate life. I had all of my separate lives to be who I wanted to be when I wanted to be....

I think that might be the reason why when I went out to a pub the other night, I pretended to be Scottish. I had my accent, made my story as I went, flirting with the men flirting with me. Oh God it was fun to be so free again. So completely free from all the shit dragging me down. I had that separate life, the freedom from me in reality.

I was -she- in reality...not just in fantasy anymore. I was sexy and confident. I had men wrapped around my little finger, drinks coming from there, asking for my number from over there.

I made my pick and went home with a man that night. I made the mistake of giving him my real number.
He called when I was with my friends. They asked who it was. And I made another mistake of saying who it was and divulging my secret story.

Here I am again. In my little bedroom alone, surrounded by the noise of them outside my door. Eating neopolitan icecream. And I wait for him to call. Not the guy who thinks I'm scottish him, but the ambiguous him that will call me to be She.

I want my separate lives back...I want to have secrets again.

Thougts

Day in and day out I'm me but hardly anyone really sees that. I may regale them with tales of my operating, my own personal sexploits,and the insanity of my family, but they don't know me.

Do your friends know you beyond what you tell them? Beyond that façade that you so cleverly hide behind? I think the more you look at it, you'll soon find that they don't.

Someone said to me the other day, merely in passing, that he wished hecould have a life as normal as mine. He's someone who considers himself the best of friends to me, yet he said that still, and completely demeaned my human experience thus far.

I suppose it's my own fault, though, for not wearing my heart on my sleeve any more. I don't tell them about the sickness in my family, I don't tell them about how I feel after sleeping with a man that I can't even remember his last name. But does that mean that they can chalk my experiences that they do know about up to some kind of normal?

It's not possible to equate someone else's life experiences with this trumped up idea of normalcy.

Considering what I do for a living and what I aspire to be, my life is anything but this idea of "normal." Our lives are all different, beautiful, fucked up and twisted but in their own special way. hOne person's idea of normal is another's idea of hell.

So, here I sit in my university sweater in my little room in a house of people who don't really know me, signing in to work where no ones knows me, waiting for the men to call me before they get ready for work, or after they arrive home from a night shift.

Girl of the moment:

Ava She's 22 years old, 120lbs, 5'6'', big brown eyes with wavy light brown hair and a 36DD chest.

Putting on the headset...microphone close to parted lips, and the call comes into her.

"Hey baby, how you doing?"

With a little stretch and a yawn, "I just woke up. I'm a little sleepy still..."

"You know, I like it when you're just waking up. I like the thought of sliding my hand
up your silky smooth legs, slipping a finger up that warm, wet..."

His breath echoing through the earpiece, she softly moans, telling him just how she's touching herself just for him....while she reads the play for class in three hours.

how...normal.

Stephanie wakes up alone, her husband away on business, and brushes out her long dark brown hair. Splashes water on her face, dull cheeks revitalized with the cold. Her hazel eyes become sharp and awake. She slips her satin nightgown down long, slender limbs and soft white skin, casting it aside. In the mirror she eyes herself, running her hands over her soft, supple breasts.

"Hmm.." she thinks to herself, cupping those same breasts, "I can see why he likes them."

The phone rings, jolting her out of her little reverie. She glides over to edge of the bed, gingerly brings the reciever to her ear, and waits. Naked, she crosses her lean legs, woven between eachother so you can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

She waits.
The credit card goes through.

His breath is heavy when he says hello.
"Darlin', I've had a long night. All I want to think about are those sweet lips..."

She sighs, as though this is what she's been waiting for all her life, to hear those words spilled out through the cold reciever.

Faceless

I give them a description but they don't really know what I, or the girl they want me to be, looks like. They just create some image in their head and settle on that. Some how from the floating parts I give them, they fashion a being of attraction out of them all and begin to work their fantasy with her.

I like it. I like the anonymity that this job provides me. Each night, morning or afternoon, I can be someone else; something else. They don't who I really am, what I really do, where I really live. None of that. And one day I could just vanish. It wouldn't matter in the scheme of things. They wouldn't care.

Or would they?

Would the men that call me saying they "just wanted to hear" my voice, would they miss me? Miss this character that I created, rather.
Miss her soft gentle voice telling them that she loves to hear him. Miss the quiver in her voice, in her moan, when she tells him it's happening.

They wouldn't miss me, or her. They never had her to begin with. They just had the parts that make up a shell of a woman.

But each time I pick up that phone I relish in the moment. I breathe it in deep. I open my lips, and speak the words that they want to hear. I am just a voice. A disembodied voice.

I am someone else.

Who am I this morning?

I'm 5'8'', 38D-26-36, long black hair, olive skin, dark green eyes.

he calls...she answers...
soft but confident, "Hello there handsome."
an exhilarated sigh, "How're you this morning, Bianca?"

The Relationship Between Father and Daughter.

You're their little girl. Pure, innocent, and ever loving.
Well, okay, the former is what they hope for but the latter is true.
I'd rather my parents die in ignorant bliss when it comes to my life away from them.

Life with them:
My father is an anglican priest and my mother is a principal.
My brother is a banker, my sister is a cop.
I am an actor.

Already I'm the outcast, the one without direction, the one that's going
to suffer a life in poverty in the pursuit of happiness..

Life beyond them:
My brother is married to a man, also a banker.
My sister is shacked up with a female paramedic.
They've been secretly dating for 2 years.
I'm an actor working as a phone sex operator.

I love my family. They're annoying, and I might not like them all the time, but I do love them.
But I mean...they're my family. They are where I came from.

How could anyone ever violate the trust of family with something like sex?

The Caller: Gerrard
Me: Rebecca (5'7'', 124lbs, 34C-24-34, long red hair, green eyes, 22 years old)

who was i today?
I was a kinky coed who liked to play with her father.
Just having to imagine something like toys with me slightly.
How can i go through something like that and not think of my own father?

Could you do it and seperate yourself from your life to imagine having sex with your own father?

I don't think I'll ever be able to get past the incest fantasies that these men bring to me.