The Real Mentalists...

It’s late. I’m on the phone line again, taking calls. I haven’t been particularly receptive for the ol’ phone sex lately. The Dom calls are okay, but good grief, I’m getting fucked off with the dicks who call on the other groups. Where have all the sexy men gone lately? I seem to have acquired a lot of regulars, almost all of who (whom?) I dislike.
Up until a couple of months ago there was always the odd caller here and there, who would do it for me. It didn’t happen every night. This job for me is primarily about making money. If I was having phone sex for fun, I’d be participating in quality calls. I wouldn’t be doing 200 boring repetitive calls every bloody night, would I?
　
So anyway, the this sexy caller would have a combination of things would get me going; the sound of his voice, the things he would say, vocal mannerisms that in my mind I could convert to an image of physical presence that I find attractive.
　
Quite often he’d only start the process and I’d run with it, dreaming up my own little scenario after he had long gone, with the images of past encounters running through my mind adding to the excitement.
The occasional sexy caller aside, most were just run of the mill, and that’s okay. It’s my job, even if it’s boring.

But lately the non-Dom calls have been more monotonous and repetitive that usual, to the point I find myself being sarcastic rather than sexy.

This is not a good way to make money!

But I can’t help it. What’s wrong with these fuckwits? Lately it seems to be antagonistic, argumentative wankers who have no clue how to hold a conversation on any level whatsoever, be it sexual or just about the weather. For fucks sake!
They ask for a description, so I give them one and they say they don’t believe me. This is usually followed by accusations of being in a call centre, and general disbelief at anything I say. I have found though that the best way to make money and keep them on the line is to argue with them. If I try to appease them, or be a Stepford Wife type, they hang up. It seems they are looking for an argument. Is there a market for this type of thing, I am wondering.
But I suppose arguing releases tension and I am a Scorpio, so I can stand my ground very well, to the point of being viciously honest.
It’s just annoying sometimes.

It’s the callers with lack of communication skills that are making me want to bang my head repeatedly on the desktop. They don’t listen, they don’t have any manners. They interrupt all the time, not making sense. It’s very draining trying to keep up and humour them.

Example? Here’s one;

Me: I’d like to lick your cock all over like a lollypop , big long licks, then use it like a lipstick to give myself pre-cum flavoured lip gloss, mmmm (etc etc) then I want to-
Caller; (interrupting) Tell me what you’d do to my cock if you were here.
Me; Okay darling (I thought I was you fucking dickshit). I’d like to lick your cock all over like a lollipop… (and here I repeat what I have just said)
Caller; (moaning) Yeah baby that’s it.
　
As if I was saying something different! That’s just plain mental.

Shiny Nails & Straw-Free Hair...

Short and sweet post. Feeling a bit blurgh.

Things are progressing. Nails are shiny, feet are smooth.
Over the past month my skin has been loofahed, moisturised and moisturised some more. I’ve been sunbathing, spray tanning and even had a couple of sun-beds.

I’ve been to the dentist, & dental hygienist, and started to use whitening toothpaste once a day.
I’ve had facials, (in the beauty sense of the word, not had a cum-mask) been plucked, exfoliated, used Youthful Essence (not bad actually) and my top lip has been waxed (the lady was very kind and said she didn’t think it really needed doing, so that made me feel better. Until she ripped the wax off. Maybe it was a ploy to distract me?)

I’ve been running, working out and I’ve cut out all snacks in between meals. My body is toning up nicely and I'm feeling healthy.

My bikini line is now as I say it is on the phone to my callers; smooth between the legs with a silky triangle of hair at the front.

I’ve shaken out the proverbial moths from my designer clothes and have them either ready to wash, or to hang out on the line to freshen.

I have three pairs of new shoes. Subtle, sparkly dinner types shoes, with a heel strap, a pair of black patent leather, high ones, and the very high sexy red satin ones.

New lace top stockings, in both black and natural.

New black lace knickers to match the new black bra I got a while ago.

It feels nice to feel ladylike and sexy again, after all this time of wearing wellies and mud.

I'm keen to get started now. I have appointments booked for next week in London.

The anticipation of starting work is building. I can hardly wait.

And So The Prep Begins...

I'm staying at my sisters house for a few days. When I return I shall be preparing myself for my return to escort work and Sugar Daddy Buttering. I've two appointments set up for the following week, at restaurants in the West End. I am so looking forward to this! I've missed this for the last ten years but haven't done anything about it because of the BF, but now it's been discussed there is nothing to stop me.


It's not just the money- even though that is the initial reason for rekindling my past career choice. I wouldn't be shagging old blokes if there was no money involved, or at least some good shopping spree where I can buy stuff. Stuff I want to keep and stuff I want to sell of course.

Well, actually, I say I wouldn't be shagging old blokes, but I ain't no spring chook myself, so Silver Foxes may well be all I can get pretty soon.


Anyway, as I've probably said a thousand times, it's the excitement I crave. My life has been so fucking boring the last ten years. Yes, yes, elements of it I have loved and wouldn't change for anything, but the thrill of dressing up nice & sexy, dining at great restaurants, and being in control of the situation, makes me feel sexysexysexy.

LATER...

Back home. Don't feel so sexy right now. I haven't jogged for about five days, nor worked out, so feeling like a blimp, all bloated and lazy. Roll on tomorrow, I shall go for a lovely run.

Time to beautify my feet I think. I saw a pair of gorgeous shoes last week. I shall buy them on Monday. They are deserving of feet with scarlet nails only.

Inspired By Strangers...

As you know, I joined Twitter. I've been jumping from person to person, reading their blogs or websites. It started off as just research to catch up on the sex industry after being out of it for ten years, (I don't feel that being tucked away here like a hermit qualifies as being anything but on the peripheral) but now I... find myself tuning in to see what the people I'm following are doing. Crazy eh, people I don't even know. Seems a bit freaky actually but it's quite motivating seeing people lead productive lives.

I've been working from home for so long, with just odd jobs here and there. Not really been around inspirational people since I worked at the recording studio.
It's nice. It's motivating, just what I need.

Bedtime Stories for Big Girls

I have just writtent this, as a bit of practice. Hope you like. Bit rough around the edges but if I start tweaking I'll be here all bloody day.


1990
The gritty details were organised by Tina, an older hostess at a Champagne club in the West End of London which I had started working at that night. I was to receive £90 for my sins.
“Ninety pounds” I thought, trying to concentrate on what Tina was saying. “Ninety bloody pounds. That’s about two hundred and sixty NZ dollars. Yeehar!"
I was only used to doing it for about 80 or 100 NZ dollars. Well, fuck me, I thought. Then I laughed out loud because that was exactly what was going to happen! Things do seem funnier when you’re drunk, don’t they.
“Are you listening?” demanded Tina “Get the money first, it’s very important!”
“I know, I know. I’ve done this before you know, just not in London”
Being practically straight off the plane from New Zealand, I thought £90 was a fair sum. What a fool!


After an evening of sipping & tipping fine champagne I felt slightly giddy. “Too much sipping and not enough tipping” Tina scolded in my ear, as I giggled thanks and goodbye. I was soon to learn that the real problem wasn’t too much champagne, but not enough cocaine.
However, drunk as I was, I was nowhere near as drunk as my client and that’s they way you want it to be.

Back at his flat, it all happened-or rather didn’t happen- in a matter of minutes, and my first ever client in England fell into what can only be described as a drunken coma, confirmed by a good poke in the ribs with minimal reaction.
I looked at him, lying naked, his withdrawn, limp dick looking more like a cartoon piggy’s snout than anything remotely phallic. Was it something I said, I wondered?
Another sharp poke in the ribs got the response I wanted. Absolutely nothing, not even a grunt of discomfort. Rising off the bed, I stripped off my stockings and lacy underwear in a most undesirable, unprofessional fashion and stuffed them into a large handbag which also contained my jeans, a tee shirt and a pair of clean, cotton knickers. I slung the bag over my shoulder and disappeared into the bathroom. Sex or no sex, I had worked up a sweat at the club, dancing to all the eighties hits, with his clammy hands touching my bare shoulders and that was enough for me to want to scrub down
The en suite had a fantastic shower, and for a bloke that lived alone, his towels were remarkably soft and smelt of summer fresh fabric softener. Probably courtesy of his cleaner no doubt, as he seemed to have a few bob.
As I was drying off I checked my reflection closely for signs of guilt of my latest transgression (I always tried to check) but saw none, so I rolled up one of the smaller towels and stuffed it in my bag and checked again. Nope, still nothing, so I took a new-looking flannel and two bars of wrapped soap. I was moving into a flat and needed all the help I could get to set myself up. Right down, in fact, to a bottle of vodka, a purple paisley shirt (it was much nicer than it sounds, honestly) and two pairs of white sports socks, brand new. (He had about fifty pairs!). Oh, and enough of his marijuana to last about a week, seeing as he had a huge bag of it.
His wallet, that was stuffed with cash, I left untouched, as I am not a thief, just a homemaker. To throw him off track about the rest of the stuff, I left a note by the wallet telling him to be more careful about the girls he brought home as I could have taken anything! Although, I did admit to taking some weed, as most potheads don’t mind about stuff like that when they have as much of it as he had. So long as you’re honest!
I glanced in the hallway mirror on my way, and saw an innocent face grinning back, free from guilt. I wondered, could there be a portrait of me tucked up in some dusty attic somewhere, my features a twisted, contorted, dribbling grimace? I should be so lucky. I knew even then my looks wouldn’t last forever, so I’d better make the most of it, romp in the hay while the sun was shining.
I decided to walk a little before catching a cab to my sisters flat in Putney. It was about 4.30am and the sun was rising above the rows of terraced roofs, teasing them with a glimmer of another hot and hazy day.
I had absolutely no idea where I was in London, but I think it was close to Putney as it didn’t take long to get home, and the driver had no complaints about going south of the river.
Although he did tell me I could pay the fare by blow job, (did he know I was a whore or did he try it on with every girl he picked up at that time in the morning?) which I gracefully declined. After all, I had ninety of your finest English pounds. I was rich!

Who's The Boss Now, eh...

Feeling rather blue lately. I know what needs to be done to save me. I need to write write write but I'm finding it hard to find the time. I feel so tired. This chatline work is disrupting my sleeping patterns so much. Actually, cancel that, no it's not. It's the other stuff I have to do that is disrupting my schedule.
Fucked if I want to go down and clean the frigging landlady's filthy house twice a week, but at the mo its part of the deal with my rent. That sucks. If i didnt have to get up to do that, I could work late, have a decent lie in, then get up refreshed and do a few hours on the book.

As it is now, I try to write the book while on the phone, but it really is pointless. However, it does have it's benefits being constantly interrupted. I get pissed off and really let rip at the subs. They love it.

Lunchtime seems to be the busiest time for domination calls. Most of them are sitting at their desk at work, wanting to hand over the controls to a strong woman. Just his way of finding an inner equilibrium, I suppose. Then he goes and fucks up that balance by belittling the PA or the office runner. Makes him feel like a man again after he's visualised himself bent over his desk with his bosses dick in his mouth.
Oh I love that one lol. They go silent for a few seconds when I say it, they even try to say no, but I am the Mistress... hahahahahahahahhhhaaaaaaaaaaa

Just a Quickie...

I want to be young again. I took some pics today, of myself, just for fun. The rot has well and truely set in.
I've never been particularly photogenic, the nose always looks a bit phallic, the teeth seem to look quite crooked, even tho they hardly are. Now I'm older my face looks longer. Longer! What the hell is that all about then? It's not long skin, it's the whole face.

But on moving film I look good. graceful. Where the hell I get grace from I'm unsure, but there I look, all elegant and flowing. Thank goodness I have something going for me.

Based on the pics and how crap I look, I doubt if I'll be able to join a decent agency. OMG I'll have to join one that specialises in Mature Ladies.

Getting old sucks.

ARSEHOLE...

I've been working on the chatline, talking to some northern git who was a bit of a dick, but not too bad.
I put up with his inane ramblings for nearly half an hour. Then he told me that his dog bit him and for 'punishment' he had tied him in the bathroom, so short that he could only stand or sit, for 48 hours.
I couldn't hold my tongue.
What a fucking thick piece of shit he is. He said "but he bit me" I said something like "well, no surprise, if that's how you treat him, you idiot"

Does he really think he will get an animals trust if he treats him in such way. I told him to go to dog training and learn how to do it properly, and that I didn't want to talk to such a piece of shit like him and slammed the phone down. I'd like to string him up by his neck so he has to stand for 48 hours.
Moron- drag yourself into the 21st century and stop being such a medieval wanker. Tosser.