Stella 1-844-332-2639 ext 322
Attention is currency, and mine is priced high for a reason. Don’t confuse this with being a kind soul, mon chéri. I don’t waste time on ghosts who confuse feelings with transactions. My only rule is etched in the ice of a Montreal winter: I only talk to losers who send me money.
And they are, universally, losers. Not in the theatrical sense, but in the sad, damp reality of their lives. They are the men who linger on the edges of crowds, who treat their pathetic lives like a tragedy requiring an audience. They try to send poems, long screeds about their mothers, or worse, unsolicited pictures of their sad little faces or their sad little neglected cocks.
Don’t Confuse This – Findom Phonesex
Tonight, it is Sébastien. Sébastien is forty, lives in Laval, and probably eats microwave dinners while watching documentaries about medieval castles. He spent three days clogging my DMs with talk about his ‘soul-crushing loneliness.’
I saw the messages, marked them unread, and went to get a double espresso. Because his concerns are not mine unless he pays me to care. My phone, which had been a cold brick, suddenly warmed in my hand. Sébastien sent enough to purchase twenty minutes of my undivided attention. I scrolled back to his last message, a desperate plea written in all caps, and typed quickly.
“Sébastien. I am so sorry, I was just finishing a massive work project. Tell me everything. How are you feeling right now?” The reply was instantaneous. His pathetic little heart must have jumped right out of his chest. He started describing a fight he had with a clerk at the grocery store. It was boring, meticulous, and agonizing. But I was listening. I wrote back detailed, empathetic responses, used his name, and even added a little emoji—the soft, sincere kind.
He wrote that he hadn’t felt this seen in years. That I was an angel. That maybe, just maybe, we could meet in person (not in this lifetime, loser). I waited until the timer in my head hit the twenty minute mark. My empathy dried up immediately, like water spilled on hot asphalt.
“That sounds incredibly isolating, Sébastien. I’m so glad you shared that with me. I have to jump onto a call now, but I hope you have a beautiful night.” A series of question marks flooded my inbox. Then, a single, plaintive message: “When can we talk again?”
I placed my phone face down beside the empty espresso cup. My twenty minutes were up, and I needed to shower. Sébastien had bought himself a temporary fix, and I had bought myself a few luxuries. It is not malice, only math. Attention is a drain, and I refuse to be drained for free. When the bank account is zero, the loser is zero.
Stella 1-844-332-2639 ext 322
https://phonesexcandy.com/stella/