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Saturday - February 07, 2004
Even Cowgirls Get The Blues
So, the other day I finally erased the Reverse Cowgirl Blog out of my browserís blog favorites and removed it from my links page. New Yearís cleaning. Probably not doing enough of it. Taking Sus down made me feel strangely vulnerable. Like witnessing an inevitable conclusion.
The holidays gave me good cover allowing me an excuse to ignore the diary (not like I ever needed an excuse before) in every possible way. I never felt even a secondís guilt over not updating. Not sure what that means. Probably a great deal of nothing.
Business has remained steady and healthy despite the disastrous Google Florida update (more on that laterÖmaybe). I am working less hours for more money than ever before. I still love my job and my regulars, and I still feel like I am getting away with something getting paid for doing something that gets me off as well. Itís the modern-day proverbial doing what you enjoy and loving it.
But the Diary is a bittersweet factor. On one side, it has been the bridge to new clients and friendships and many other happy tidings. On the other hand it is also a source of an exhausting, never-ending onslaught of crap. Every entry is accompanied by dozens of emails either agreeing or disagreeing. Some of these are justÖokay, Iíll show you.
This is a letter I got in response to my uncharacteristically heartfelt entry of 9/11/03:
You call yourself the red cross slut, I though my ex was the red cross slut, She works for the red cross, they sent her every, found out that screwing men every were they sent her, even men who worked for the red cross. She took the idea of the red cross giving comford serious, got her all the way to a job with national, I know a lot about the red cross, it's not what a lot of people think it is, the other women in her office even call her the red cross slut, I though maybe this was her. She is not the only woman I know of that helps durning the day and screw around at night, and the r c is paying their way.
Now, yes, when you open emails like this, your first thought is generally along the lines of ďsomeone needs a thorazine dripĒ but day after day of opening up stuff like this is somewhat daunting. And, as always seems to be the case, the nutjobs and Annoyance Patient Zeros are the ones who have the time on their hands to write in and explain how Shari Lewis and Lamb Chop were actually secret lovers and youíre a sick fuck for allowing Charlie Horse and Hush Puppy to be around them.
Would that I were kidding.
So, more often than not, my inbox is ignored and cringed at, and emails from addys I donít recognize are lowest possible priority. And I hate that. So, you know. Where is the diary going? What is it for?
There are more and more resources for phone sluts out there. Some of them are actually valuable. But there is a harsh reality in experiencing these sites. Iíve discussed before how phone sluts just do not play well with others. There is an unfortunate dishonesty that seems to be inherent in the system. Iím not sure why this is, or how it continues to proliferate. Iím also not sure why Iím different and why I therefore gravitate to more ethical individuals. Maybe because I came to phone sex from the business world. Maybe because the reason I left corporate America was because I didnít agree with the ethics behind a lot of it. It sounds crazy, but talking to men about sex for money is so much more ethical to me than what goes on in the offices of CEOs. Plus I donít have to wear heels unless I want to feel sexy, so you know, perk.
I have evolved a lot with this site. The early entries were all about dressing up in my Doxy persona and my early idealism with the sex industry. There was very little ďmeĒ in the entries. It was a safe hiding spot. I didnít have to take any of the diary mail personally. I have progressed beyond that and there are consequences along with the benefits. There are ads and link trades and jaded little knick-knacks here and there. They donít bother me as I thought they would. There is a bridge between tacky and tasteful that I enjoy walking. I get to be fru-fru and girly without sacrificing sexy. Because really thatís who I am. Iím sarcastic and bitchy, but I have a lot of little girl and tomboy in me, too.
There is a funny social acceptance of men that are straight suits by day and groveling submissive slaveboys by night, but it doesnít go vice versa. A bitch is a bitch is ever a bitch. Except that sheís not. Iím not. I can debate Hamlet, but I still love the Muppets. Iíve dined at the Rainbow Room and Iíve lived off Goober sandwiches and Raman noodles. I can rant and I can purr. And I can alternately say ďfuck you if you donít like itĒ and ďSorry if it bothers youĒ and mean them both. I can spank and be spanked, fuck, and be fucked, whore and be whored, and I can be the schoolgirl tease in need of raping and the dominant housewife cuckolding her husband and everything in between. And I can be FEMINIST and still take money from men for acts of sexuality. And Iím a Southern liberal. SoÖsorry if it bothers you, and fuck you if you donít like it.
No, I am not the Red Cross whore. Iím not some ďDebbie Does the Peace CorpsĒ knee jerk, panty-wetting liberal crybaby bra-burning wanna be flower child. Iím a prissy, professional oversexed generation Xer that realized I wanted to explore my sexuality in terms of a profession. I like to be treated like a whore, and I like to play one on TV. But Iím not a whore and just as often want to be something other than a whore, and there are those that can grasp that and those that canít. There are those that get off on it and those that donít. There are those that walk the backstreets of my mind and find nirvana (here we are now, entertain us) and those that are too afraid of their own sexuality to even open up to a stranger on the phone for more than a few minutes of strewn-together obscenities.
So, why the hell did I spend even fifteen minutes growling about this worthless idiot email in my inbox? Some disenfranchised guilty ďeveryone must agree with meĒ or ďI just have to please everyoneĒ fallout? I think itís just an element of the isolation that goes with the job. Sitting in a room with my friends, sipping whiskey sours, emails like this stuff makes for great laughter. You canít take it seriously. But, sitting at home in a Van Halen t-shirt and panties sipping a mug of ďI like a little coffee in my cream and sugarĒ this stuff registers. I know. Poor me. Fuck that. I want to say bring it on. But I also want to say "cut it out." I want to say I never take it seriously and I and I want to mean it. But until I can it's just a consequence of being me and a consequence of this diary and Iím going to have to rant about it from time to time or allow it to make me disappear. Because now this diary is more of me than it once was. Sure Iíll still tell you all about how I love to describe blow jobs and how to fake certain noises for bodily functionsÖbut Iím going to have to be able to be real here too. Because Doxy is real for me now. Much more real. And the diary isnít just a passing flight of fancy. Not anymore.
I wonder, when I can no longer live in ďmaybe sheíll be backĒ denial over people like Cowgirl Sus, if she just got tired of all the trappings that go along with walking this very thin line. Dancing between Iím a girl, Iím a woman, Iím a whore, Iím a sweetheart. Iím sex and Iím intellect.
This is what makes people like Heather ten steps beyond amazing. There are no gray areas for her, really. She is what she is, sheís beyond all the piddling crap. She doesnít walk any lines, or hand out any. Sheís in your face and up-front and bold in the spotlight. Sheís mag-fucking-nificent. So maybe one day Iíll want to be Heather when I grow up.
Only I donít wanna be so responsible and respectable just now. Right now I want to be a little sleezy and seedy and secretive. I want to dress up and play Doxy, because I am Doxy. And sheís me. A lot of me. But not ALL of me.
This really doesnít have a point, which means the ending isnít going to be very gratifying. Anti-climactic entries R Us. Lots of pseudo-intellectual rambling should have a witty ending, but Iím just not going to get to it. Iím like a Dean Koontz novel that way.
So, how about this? Iíve added a bunch of new stories to the erotica section. Some of these are oldies returning for good. Others are actually new. So, enjoy and see ya. Sorry if it bothers you, and fuck you if you donít like it.
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