Secret Confessions of a Smart Girl

Tomorrow I will be spending the day in Connecticut narrating a series of erotic films. I am, to be perfectly frank, horribly amused by this entire situation. It’s one of the best paying voiceover gigs I have ever booked, and I don’t even have to say anything particularly dirty. The only downside to the gig is the fact that I have to get up way too early for a Sunday, but there are certainly worse ways to spend the morning than talking about sex. Especially since there is only one difficult script that requires multi-voice dialog. The rest of the scripts either have no first person speech or the lines are both far enough apart and well enough attributed that vocal separation isn’t all that important.

This is a good job for me. I enjoy talking about sex. I’ve never, however, been all that fond of phone sex, although that may be more for lack of opportunity than inclination. The first person I ever had phone sex with was a gorgeous nutty lesbian down in Baltimore who I was utterly crazy over. I thought she was the bees knees. In retrospect, I have no idea why we never dated, or hooked up, or did anything more than kiss. Possibly I was too girly for her for anything more than a casual flirtation, but we did have an awful lot of fun together. The phone sex was pretty damn hot, too, although at that time I was still a bit too shy to fully hold up my end of the bargain.

That was probably 10 years ago, and I don’t think I had phone sex again until earlier this year. I met a very very pretty, and naughty, man on a personal site and the very first time we spoke on the phone he turned it into some rather impressively erotic phone sex. There were some awkward moments (like when he wanted me to call him “Master”), but it was incredibly arousing to be able to get someone off verbally. The phone sex, which happened several times, essentially became an extensive sexual negotiation for when, and if, we were to meet in person. Which, for the record, we never did. Why? Because although the phone sex was an enormous turn on I didn’t feel he would respect a “no” if I said one in person. I don’t appreciate being wheedled. I don’t say no unless I mean it, so when I do you had better damn well listen.

(I really do think the sexual world would be a happier place if no one said no unless they meant it, and everyone listened when they did. People who say no because they are hoping to be convinced otherwise, or want plausible deniability for their sexual actions are contributing to an environment that encourages otherwise reasonable people to commit acts of sexual violence. After all, if when their last partner said “no” it really meant “I just want to be persuaded so that I can maintain my image of sexual purity,” it may encourage them to run roughshod over their next partner’s ‘no,’ and end up quite rightfully accused of rape.)

But lack of in person meeting aside, that phone sex was a hell of a good time. I’d get off the phone with him to drive into Manhattan, and have trouble concentrating on the road. One evening, I actually had to pull over to a rest stop on the side of the highway for a while to cool off, and when I got into the city I wrote the following while sitting outside waiting for a friend…

—

Sometime it feels good to be bad, to do the things you’ve been taught are wrong… even when you know deep in the recesses of your heart that they’re not. It would be a lie to say that I didn’t know what I was thinking when I agreed to meet Jonathan at his apartment. I was thinking he was handsome and dominant. I was remembering that he had talked me to the brink of orgasm over the phone the very first time he called. He had heard the change in my breathing as I lay there on the floor, skin naked and warm beneath my terry cloth robe, and imagined.

“Are you touching yourself,” he asked.

“No,” I replied, voice full of breath, oxygen replete from the depth of my inhales.

“Do you want to?”

The odd thing was that I didn’t. I was wet, so wet, and ready, but all I could think of was that my hands, my touch, would break the spell.

I don’t do things like this. I don’t negotiate to dance for him. I don’t plead to spend time on my knees in front of a perfect stranger. I don’t tell him how much I want his cock in my mouth. I don’t promise to swallow.

Except I did. And I asked for him to fuck me, begged for him to hurt me, told him that I needed it. Because I did. He made me tell him what I want, and that was the hardest thing of all.

I can sit, in the car or by the computer, and lose myself in imagined sensation. I can write my desires in pen or script them in electrons, but to say them out loud to a real person is terrifying. Speaking my desires in my own words makes me vulnerable. It makes it real. I can sit here, on the crowded steps of Penn Station, and write my most secret fantasies where anyone could see them, but to say them out loud, one on one, was almost more than I could bear.

–

And then my friend showed up and I had to run to rehearsal and I didn’t write anything more. I only spoke to the man in question a few more times after that night, because I found his unwillingness to respect my reluctance more and more disturbing. I do miss the phone calls though, and for one thing I must give him credit. I think it was talking to him that allowed me to play at being a cam girl a couple of weeks later. Being aggressively pushed into expressing my desires helped me to embrace them… even if the way he did so put me off ever embracing him.

Be Bold, Be Bold… But Not Too Bold