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.