A few years ago, Nicholson Baker made this huge splash with his phone sex novel, Vox. I haven’t read it. I tried, but I found it a bit too precious. I have no patience for people who feel the need to refer to their body parts with purple terms like “fafa” or “fuffle” or whatever it was his female protagonist used instead of “tits.” I did, for what it’s worth, read The Fermata and liked it quite a bit.
Anyway. Phone sex took the literary world by storm. It was as if Nicholson Baker had invented it. All of a sudden, like the media-emulating firestorm surrounding the rabbit episode on Sex in the City, everyone had to have phone sex. As if it was some kind of radical discovery like Columbus’s discovery of America, which, actually, it kind of was because this land now called America had been discovered by the Vikings, and even previous to its discovery had been happily existing for time immemorial. So not much of a discovery, in short.
But back to phone sex. I have had lots. And lots and lots. With boyfriends, with strangers, with boys who want to be lovers. With chicks. Donny, for example, loves phone sex. It’s one of his fantasies to have me talk to some guy while he fucks me, me describing what he is doing to me.
The very first time I had phone sex was 1990 and I was on a family vacation on Cape Cod. (My sister still refers to that vacation as the week of “the stress family Robinson,” but I digress.) I was in the midst of extricating myself from a seven-year relationship with my then-boyfriend, and we both had been very, very busy fucking other people. (I picked up some Cape Cod lifeguard and had barely memorable sex in, I think, a hayloft, but again I digress).
Eff, I’ll call him, and I ended up on a payphone in the quaint, clapboard town square of wherever, Massachusetts and I told him my fantasy of being splayed across the warm hood of a ’68 Mustang, cherry red, having my calico sundress raised over my hips, my cowboy booted feet lifted in the air, and fucked slowly while a summer rain fell on us both.
And I on the other end of the phone, I heard the very familiar sound of a man I had been in and out and in and out and in and now out of love with come.
It was pretty cool.
This past summer, I had a torrid phone affair with a young lawyer who lives somewhere near Lincoln Center. I don’t know his name, so it was an anonymous phone sex affair. He liked to put me against the wall, raise my skirt, or lower my jeans, depending on his mood, and spend a lot of time inspecting my naked ass and my pussy. And then he liked to lead me blindfolded to his couch and fuck first my pussy and then my ass.
On the phone. I’ve never met him. So that’s what differentiates him from the anonymous sex I’ve had in real life, which is another story altogether.
A couple of days ago, I found myself on the phone with one of the men I’m considering dating. Billy is a carpenter/artist, and his pictures look pretty sexy. In addition to pictures of himself, he has sent me some of his art and furniture, and they’re sexy too. I had called him during a study break at one of the libraries at the university where I am currently pursuing my Ph.D., so during our long, rambling, phone foreplay, I was rambling from one large, open common area to another, aware of the people passing by me, potentially listening in on my ever-increasingly dirty patter.
Basically, as soon as he asked me to tell him what I was wearing, I knew where we were heading. That question is always the starting point for dirty talk, if it comes from a man. If it comes from a woman, it’s just making sure that her outfit is appropriate/dissimilar.
Billy, typical of the men I meet, was intrigued by my history as a stripper. So we talked a bit about that, which naturally led to a discussion of my body, my booty, and, yeah, sex. So after about forty minutes on the phone with him, I found myself on the other end of a cellular masturbation session.
“My cock is mushroomy.” Billy told me.
I like mushroomy cocks, I told him, which is true. I get this image of him, sitting in his minimalist loft his hand wrapped around his crimini-headed cock that sprouts out of the moss of his pubic hair. Leaning over a podium in the gallery of the public space, I feel myself getting wet in my jeans (I’m commando that day). He continues on, talking about what he’d like to do to me: have me on my knees and my shoulders, my face buried in a pillow, and my hands peeling apart the two halves of my ass like a peach for him to tongue fuck me.
Billy’s dirty patter gets interrupted every now and then by Cingular/Verizon dropping the ball and making him sound suddenly as if he’s talking dirty through a can on a string stretched between tenements.
He asks me if I’m wet, and I assure him I am. He asks how I can tell. Because I can feel it, I tell him, and I can, my pussy is suddenly a bit cold, and I’m aware of what little draft there is in this building.
He asks me to check. I take him to a stairwell, and there I sneak my hand down my jeans and confirm what I already knew: I’m dripping. In the stairwell, he asks me to tell him what I’d like do to him. I describe his cock on my mouth, my lips and tongue swirling around its mushroom tip, it sliding incrementally into my mouth, my teasing it with my open mouth so that he can feel the heat and the presence of my throat, but not actual contact, until it slides all the way down my throat and I deepthroat him.
So here’s the rub: I have to return to my library and my studies while my new phone lover is stretched in post-orgasmic bliss, granted he has some housecleaning to do.
And I’m feeling a bit like a goddess and a bit like “what the hell?”
And I’m wondering, why do all the men I’m currently considering dating have such high-pitched voices.
And I’m wondering why do I give this gift to a stranger when I’m getting sweet fuck-all in return.
And I’m wondering if he’ll call me in the morning.
And the answer is Nope.