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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 browser’s blog favorites and removed it from my links page. New Year’s 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 second’s 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 later…maybe). 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. It’s 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 just…okay, I’ll 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 “someone needs a thorazine drip” 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 you’re 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 don’t 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. I’ve 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. I’m not sure why this is, or how it continues to proliferate. I’m also not sure why I’m 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 didn’t 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 don’t 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 “me” in the entries. It was a safe hiding spot. I didn’t 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 don’t 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 that’s who I am. I’m 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 doesn’t go vice versa. A bitch is a bitch is ever a bitch. Except that she’s not. I’m not. I can debate Hamlet, but I still love the Muppets. I’ve dined at the Rainbow Room and I’ve lived off Goober sandwiches and Raman noodles. I can rant and I can purr. And I can alternately say “fuck you if you don’t like it” and “Sorry if it bothers you” 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 I’m a Southern liberal. So…sorry if it bothers you, and fuck you if you don’t like it. 

No, I am not the Red Cross whore. I’m not some “Debbie Does the Peace Corps” knee jerk, panty-wetting liberal crybaby bra-burning wanna be flower child. I’m 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 I’m 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 can’t. There are those that get off on it and those that don’t. 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 “everyone must agree with me” or “I just have to please everyone” fallout? I think it’s 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 can’t take it seriously. But, sitting at home in a Van Halen t-shirt and panties sipping a mug of “I like a little coffee in my cream and sugar” 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 I’m 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 I’ll still tell you all about how I love to describe blow jobs and how to fake certain noises for bodily functions…but I’m going to have to be able to be real here too. Because Doxy is real for me now. Much more real. And the diary isn’t just a passing flight of fancy. Not anymore.

I wonder, when I can no longer live in “maybe she’ll be back” 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 I’m a girl, I’m a woman, I’m a whore, I’m a sweetheart. I’m sex and I’m 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, she’s beyond all the piddling crap. She doesn’t walk any lines, or hand out any. She’s in your face and up-front and bold in the spotlight. She’s mag-fucking-nificent. So maybe one day I’ll want to be Heather when I grow up. 

Only I don’t 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 she’s me. A lot of me. But not ALL of me.

This really doesn’t have a point, which means the ending isn’t going to be very gratifying. Anti-climactic entries R Us. Lots of pseudo-intellectual rambling should have a witty ending, but I’m just not going to get to it. I’m like a Dean Koontz novel that way.

So, how about this? I’ve 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 don’t like it.




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