The thing about perverts is this/here’s the thing about perverts: a crucial element of the appeal of whatever their twisted erotic fixation(s) is/are is knowing what sick fucks they are . . . AND knowing that the casual observer or even their spouse — in certain extreme cases of “Calculating Stealth Freak” (you know who you are) has NO idea.
It makes sense to me. And not just because I’m a total perv, either. Part of why I love being a phone sex operator so much is that it’s something that has a distinct unwholesomeness. As far as mainstream morality, slutty girls who love masturbating and getting men off for money deserve only a disapproving stamp of “degeneracy” and “whorish-ness” . . . but guess what?
Knowing that the sweet old lady who smiles and says hello to me in a grocery store aisle thinking I’m a sweet, pretty young girl would:
a) NEVER guess that I will be spending (my favorite part of) the evening playing with and fingering myself to climax with a “strange man” about “dirty things” using “profane language” . . . until he blows his huge load, all for ME . . .
and b) the truth would HORRIFY and shock the shit out of her! Kinda makes a girl feel smug, you know?
Why is knowing a dirty secret so arousing for filth-loving freaks?
Especially the REAL nasty, twisted fucks out there? What’s your fetish? Worried it’s too “obscure” for me? Try me. I love agonophilia phone sex, for example.
For me, the filthier a caller’s idea, the better. Take for example one of the degenerate sex-crazed weirdo’s dearests to my heart — for whom I play the role of his twisted Mummy, a big-titted slut somewhere between Mommie Dearest-style Joan Crawford and the terrifying lunacy of the mom from Carrie, the infamous aversion-therapy zealot. Oh, and add “pedophile” to that character profile. Incestuous pedophile.