Strumpetversary

This month (the 6th, in fact) marks the one year anniversary of this blog.

In that same respect, it marks a year that I have been your ever faithful Phone Strumpet.

What a crazy year it has been. It feels like every week, I am learning more and more about fetishes and kinks, and not a month goes by that I’m not wishing Brain Bleach had been invented already.

In twelve months, I have made 13 entries. This is pathetic. But to be fair, I really have a hard time coming up with new entry ideas for my clients. They fall into certain categories, which you can only talk about so much. I mean, you’ve seen one Trans Mommy in High Heels Diapering her Little Bitch Boy blog entry, you’ve seen them all.

I find it intriguing that this weekend, I’ve gotten two clients that I spoke to right at the beginning of my Strumpet life, and then never got again. There is a very real reason for this, as I managed to royally piss them both off straight off the bat.

As mentioned before, I’m not a “roll over and take it” Strumpet. They ask for their fantasy, and I provide it, but I’m not going to fall all over them exclaiming how hot their fantasy gets me. Unless I want them off the phone, I will put up a bit of resistance.

This is what happened with John Mysogin. Now, Mr. Mysogin is an interesting case. I’ve spent the better part of the last 12 years or so purposefully ignoring stereotypes. They may creep into my head from time to time, based mostly on location more than anything else, but I don’t automatically assume anything about someone based on nationality, accent, religion, or choice of nail polish.

However, with Mr. Mysogin…he pretty much lives up to every stereotype I could come up with based on his first and last name. The first time I spoke with him, I wasn’t expecting it, and after talking to him for 6:58 (yes, I looked up his card from last time), I hung up the phone and shook my head.

Mr. Mysogin’s fantasy involves asking his strumpet, in details, questions related to her being gang raped when she was younger. But unlike most rape fantasists, he’s more interested in the girl’s reaction than anything else. He uses technical terms, such as “anal penetration”. Technical terms always make me snicker, so this really does assist in getting through the calls.

After a few questions, he starts. It isn’t that he gets off hearing about rape fantasies. He wants a fighter. He wants someone who will curse and flail and yell at him that he is a sick fuck, an asshole, a woman hater, and that she hates him.

But, again, I’m a different type of Strumpet. So, when Mr. Mysogin told me, “Isn’t that what women are put here for?” and that “you should have been thankful”, my eyes rolled so hard they may have scratches on them. And I refused to play. When he asked “How do you feel about those men?”, my response is, “I don’t.” And I wouldn’t play his game.

It should be noted at this point, I’d made my 2:30 and I was getting paid for 5 minutes no matter what.

When we hit our five minute mark, I interrupted his dumbfuckery to ask if he wanted to keep going. He asked if I would curse at him. I sighed, very put upon, and said that if I must, I would.

In a very bored deadpan: “Sigh. You’re a useless fuck. You’ve never had sex with a woman, because no one would touch you. You have a tiny cock, and you can’t get it up without these idiotic phone calls. Sigh. Have you come yet? Because I have better clients to talk to. Useless fucker. Blah blah.”

And we made it past the next time point. So I got paid good money from him. I didn’t miss this client, and I only got him because we were running low on young girls.

Then there’s the clients who will NEVER be happy. It doesn’t matter what you do, you can repeat their requests word for word, and emphatically agree in every which way, and they will still hang up on you and tell your dispatcher what a waste you were and they want their money back.

Yes, this happens.

John Skipper is most closely catalogued as a Closet Case, though he falls into a category all his own. I tried looking up his card from the only other time I spoke to him, but it would appear I didn’t find him notable enough for a card. I know it was longer than this time, which was a whopping forty-two seconds.

John wants his strumpet to treat him like a barbie doll. Yes, he calls to have us dress him up, stick him in a situation, and tell him what is going to happen. But, much like playing barbies with the older, bossy, only child bitch your mother made you play with, if you dress the barbie in the wrong outfit or make him say something he didn’t want you to, he will screech and pout and stomp his feet and go home.

I personally thought I dressed him in a perfectly wonderful outfit for going to watch football and drink beer with his very manly construction buddies who had no idea he was “that way” and who he was so appreciative to for getting him a job and who he wanted to show his appreciation to.

Stomp stomp stomp. “I wouldn’t wear THAT!”

Of course you wouldn’t.

Once we got the outfit acceptable, I had him knock on the front door, in his skintight leather, wedge heels, and…I don’t recall the rest. And then I had to explain precisely how the burly uber-hetero boys reacted to him.

Stomp stomp stomp. “They wouldn’t react THAT WAY! That’s not realistic AT ALL!”

Because that’s what we were going for here. Realism.

Forty-two seconds. I did not recognize his name at all, but as soon as the fantasy was laid out for me, I facepalmed.

He told me the pants, and the shoes. I described what I thought was a perfectly acceptable top.

Stomp stomp stomp. “I REMEMBER YOU. I want a different girl!” Click.

Two different clients, who I managed to piss off and yet somehow get again, right around anniversary time. Lovely.

Suppose I should also mention my “master”, who called for the first time in four or five months. But I should devote an entry solely to that one.

Happy Strumpetversary to the people who read this. I appreciate you.

 

Special shout-out to my best friend’s sweet little girl, who was born just this morning. Gorgeous. I can’t wait to share these stories with her.

In twenty years.