Burping in the Darkness – A Return to Blogging

Goddamnit, I am terrible at blogging.

Anyway. Don’t let that dissuade you.

This past year was among the most hectic of my life, in ways both good and bad. While I would heartily recommend becoming one’s own boss, it was…an adjustment. One to which I am still adjusting. Thanks to all you intrepid souls who stuck with me while I got the hang of this through moving and disorganization and burnout and upheaval. 

If you’ve been listening to my audios for a while, you probably know that when I started recording over two years ago, I did so in my bathroom, sometimes with a quilt over my head, sometimes not. Back then, I was still working my full-time office job, recording audios purely for fun. I had no idea what I was doing, which accounts for the distinctly porcelain echo that’s a trademark of so much of my early work. But it was the only room in my house that didn’t overlook a crowded, noisy street. The concept of not having to do every audio in one take and actually being able to edit, was but a dream. In December 2017, I switched to recording in my bedroom closet, right after I started getting serious about this freelancing jazz. I taught myself BASIC editing, the kind of thing they probably teach in elementary schools now, which I was never taught because I was too busy learning how to format a hand-written business letter.

Just like that, a new world opened up. Suddenly, if I burped during an audio, I didn’t have to start all over. I could just….edit it out.  

Naturally, I started burping a lot more.

Anyone who called me or listened to my audios regularly during this period probably remembers that I lived down the street from a hospital—the main reason why my street was so busy. This was obvious because every ten minutes, there would be a shrieking siren speeding past my building. I couldn’t really complain. After all, I wasn’t the one in the ambulance (and let me tell you, when you have an allergic reaction to a fruity mixed drink at 2 AM, it’s handy having a hospital within walking distance). I apologized to my clients again and again for these sirens, but they surprised me by expressing love and appreciation for them.  

“Hey, is that one of the sirens?!” A client would frequently exclaim during a call, often with sheer, unadulterated glee, no matter how intense the roleplay we were doing.

“Yup,” I’d respond.

“Cool! I’m so glad I got to hear one in person.”

Other clients enjoyed telling me when they heard a siren slip past in an audio, even though the perfectionist in me shuddered at the thought of having missed one. I apologize like I’m getting paid for it. If the ambulance had taken a wrong turn and crashed into my apartment, I most likely would have apologized to it. In other words, I often apologize just for existing. Call it a side effect of growing up socialized as female, but a lot of it is just my personality. I’m a placater. So, when the siren shredded in the middle of call, no matter how happy the client seemed, I’d do what I do—not best—but habitually. I’d apologize. A lot.

“I promise you,” one of my regulars finally assured me. “I don’t care. Nobody cares.” 

He was speaking on behalf of all my clients. Submissive that I am, I enjoyed the sense of carefree authority behind this statement. It encouraged me to believe him. I think about this now, every time I apologize for any phone related “mishap” entirely out of my control. I dare say it’s made apologizing a little more fun, though this constant contrition is still a habit I’m trying to break.   

Now I’m in a new apartment in a much quieter neighborhood. I have a small recording studio set up in my bedroom closet where I record gangbang audios all by my lonesome. Among other things. The three dresses I own are hanging up in this closet. The rest of my clothes are crammed into a too-small chest of drawers because there’s no room for them in there with all my equipment. Some things—many things—are strewn all over the floor, forming a multi-colored labyrinth I have to navigate every time the phone rings. I am not tidy.

Sometimes, standing in the dark privacy of my bedroom closet turned home studio, I’ll get swept along by the words I’m saying and the emotions they’re bringing out in me, and it’s the most incredible feeling. Powerful and proud. Other times, I’m sweaty, and tired, and every creak of a floorboard or gurgle in my stomach is a source of stress. Sometimes I feel like the sexiest creature alive, and sometimes as I’m building to a really great orgasm, I’ll burp, and then laugh. There are no perfect jobs.  

I still miss my old studio. I loved that apartment. I even, occasionally, loved the sirens. I’m still getting the hang of this freelancing thing, but I’m proud of everything I’ve learned and continue to learn, and excited to continue this new chapter. If you’re still here, thanks. If you’re new, stick around! Here’s hoping I can actually keep this blog alive for longer than a month.

As for burping in the darkness, Soren Zer0, the producer and animator behind much of my Giantess VR work, suggested I make a supercut of all these magnificent burps. Somebody’s bound to be into that.

Like Telemarketing Backwards: A Porniversary

My first job out of college was as a telemarketer.

I worked for a small tech company, making calls to clients on behalf of the sales team. My job was to plant a seed in the client’s mind that our sales rep was going to call in the near future, so please be aware of the company name and look out for us soon. My co-worker in the next cube eavesdropped on my calls and occasionally popped over the partition to tell me what I could be doing better. The first phone sex line I worked for did this, too.  

My supervisor said I was “good on the phones.” This meant I sounded sweet and uncomplicated. I put strangers at ease quickly. Sometimes I even made them laugh. I got to work on my own writing while navigating company directories. I judged companies by their hold music. It was a dull job, but never a miserable one.

Sitting in my cube on the phones, I was frequently horny. That rarefied early-twenties kind of horny. Some of the clients flirted with me, and I was always happy to add their voices to my erotic Rolodex. (Surprisingly, I've always had a thing for voices.) When one client said he would enjoy getting to know me better, I had enough material to last a week--fuck, I still think about that guy. Then there was the afternoon I got held up at reception because I was mistaken for a mistress (“You were told never to call here again,” the receptionist hissed at me; it was my first time calling the company). 

Many of the men I spoke to seemed to be dealing with their own barely sublimated work-a-day lust. The stuff office audios are made of. Eventually, I thought how much more interesting my job would be if I could actually talk to these guys about sex instead of software sales.

Then I realized there was a job where you could do exactly that. 

Over the next few years, it became a joke I told myself. “Well, if all else fails, I bet I could be a good phone sex operator. I bet, but I can’t actually do that. Could I do that? Why does this suddenly seem more fun and more suited to my interests than any other job I’ve had? Could I actually do it?”

Finally, I went to my local hardware store and bought a landline phone, because most phone sex lines recommended I have one. I had not lived in a home with a landline in almost ten years. As soon as it was installed, I knew I was going to find a way to do it. Just to see if I actually could. And to justify this purchase.

I did not have to audition. The first line I worked required only that I prove I was over eighteen. That’s all. My employment commenced when I was assigned an extension and told to record a greeting. Welcome aboard, good luck, and that’s it. I took a shot of whiskey and waited for the phone to ring.

That first call was terrifying. Probably any call would have been, but looking back on it now, I can’t believe I started with that. The call itself was neither good nor bad, but it was….intense. I had to expand my graphic vocabulary tenfold on the spot. I had to dabble in violence. I’m no stranger to extreme content now, both on the phone and in audios, but that night, I thought dispatch was fucking with me, training me by pushing me in the deep end, first thing. This can’t be a real call, I thought. This is a trial by fire. Of course, it was a real call.

When I hung up, I was flabbergasted that I’d gotten through it without laughing or crying. I was also fucking elated. The job was mine and I could do it.  

That first caller went on to become a regular. Later on, he couldn’t believe it when I told him that was my first call.  

Because I’m good on the phones.  

At some point, during that first week as a PSO, I made a client laugh. He had just asked me the question many clients ask me. Essentially: “what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” My voice has a “nice girl” quality, especially when I first answer, before the scene begins in earnest. If I’m not careful, I don’t sound like a PSO. I sound like a PSO’s younger sister who answered the phone by accident. Which is what some clients are looking for. Sweet and uncomplicated.

“Nice girl” in this business, as in life, is a relative term.

I told him I’d been a telemarketer, which was good experience because professional phone sex was "like telemarketing backwards.” The sale has already been made; now get ready for the pitch.

The guy found this funny, apparently, so he laughed. A good laugh, too. There was a pause--audible surprise--and then a true, full-bellied guffaw. The laugh of someone who was not expecting to laugh.

It probably happened because I was pleased that even though the “sexy” part of the chat was over, the client still wanted to talk. I felt loose and relaxed, and he seemed truly interested in my life and what had brought me here. Sharing a laugh with a stranger can be a quietly beautiful thing. And sharing a laugh with a stranger at work? On the phone? After one of you has come?

I thought of how an improv teacher of mine had said that the best laugh is the first one you get without trying. How it can stop you on stage, in the middle of your sentence, and all you can do is stare into the dark and blink at the audience.

If I wasn’t already in love with the job, that laugh tipped me over the edge. 

March 12, 2018 marks one year since I started talking dirty professionally. What a year it’s been.

I have a blog, apparently...?

This month has been quite eventful:

I wrote and performed a myriad of exciting audio orders. 

I started taking calls on my own line.

I gave my notice at the 9-5, which I've been trying / hoping to do for the past year.

And I remembered I have a blog now. 

The first rule of keeping a blog is that you're supposed to, you know, keep it. Write in it consistently and such. This is one of the many reasons I'm looking forward to the New Year. A blog will keep me honest. Or, at least, enticingly dishonest. 

This holiday season kept me exceptionally busy. between filling orders, traveling, visiting family, and general shenanigans. On this New Year's Eve Eve, I want you all to know how grateful I am for your support. I'm venturing off into the woods here. It makes all the difference knowing there are people listening out in the darkness. 

You're going to hear from me a lot more. Dare I say....regularly.

You've been warned. 

Happy New Year.