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“Phew, sorry,” I say to my friend, Amy, after our conversation was interrupted by the WhorePhone, “that was a request!”

“Yay,” she says.

“Yea, I’ve talked to him a few times. This is the first time I didn’t die!”

“Wait, what?!”

This is one of those moments where I realize the things I talk about at work aren’t exactly normal. Besides the time I broke heads for the mob, I’ve had to participate in erotic deaths with a couple of other people.

This guy, Mervin, has called me several times. He’s the type of caller who tells the story. These are my second favorite, close behind the random conversations. Not simply because I get to be lazy — which is nice — but because I learn a lot. I’ll be armed with new material for the next guy with the fetish.

I can’t be terribly lazy though, I still have to be an active participant, especially if it’s a detailed fantasy. How lame would it be if you spent 15 minutes laying down your beautiful orgasmic story and you gave your partner a command or a question, wait expectantly and she says, “Excuse me, what did you say?”

I still have to be there.

Mervin is in his 30s. He has a soft and friendly voice. He sounds like he’d be your high school Chemistry teacher. He doesn’t sound creepy at all. Engaging, but just a little odd.

He begins to weave his fantasy for me.

“You’re a college student, not really much money. That’s why you do the phone thing. You’re still not making quite enough to survive so you start browsing websites looking for part time jobs. You come across one that says, ‘Actresses needed! Earn $1500 in a weekend.’

You decide it can’t hurt to try it out, you know they’re filming a movie in the next town over, so you figure they need extras. You know there’s a good chance it’ll be some skeezy porn flick, but you don’t care at this point.

You go to the address, and it’s a nondescript house in a subdivision. The neighborhood is lower middle class. Well kept lawns and driveways cluttered with brightly colorful children’s toys.

The woman who answers the doorbell is a pretty, older woman. Blonde and curvy. She’s wearing a long, terrycloth robe and smoking a cigarette. She introduces herself as Claire. She sits you down on the couch and explains that they are in fact, filming a porn film. She asks if that’s OK. You tell her that you’d been filmed before. You thought it was fun and it turned you on a little.

She asks if you’re into bondage. She explains they’re doing a film that features strangulation. She asks you what sorts of bondage play you’ve done in your personal life. You tell her you enjoy being tied up. Being choked makes you wet, so you’re starting to get turned on at the prospect of this movie. She tells you that you’ll be choked with a noose. That you’ll be flimed hanging from the ceiling by your neck. She asks you if that is OK. You’re a little afraid, but you tell her yes.

She leads you into a basement where there are 4 other girls in long white terrycloth robes. You notice they have marks around their wrists from being bound, they have the same marks around their necks. Claire instructs you to take all of your clothes off and follow them into a little room.

There are 5 stools set up and each of the four girls stands on one. You notice a camera on a tripod in front of the girls. Above each stool, is a noose hanging from the ceiling. They each take their robes off and pull the nooses around their necks. Claire tells you to take the empty one. As you climb up on your stool, you notice that there’s a number 3 painted on it. You place the noose around your neck.

Claire tells you that each stool has a number placed on it. She will draw a number, and that girl will hang until she dies. She looks you in the eye and asks you if this is OK.

You notice the other girls are masturbating as the camera rolls. You’re turned on, too, and you begin to touch yourself. You tell Claire that it is OK.

She reaches into a hat, and what number does she grab, Sarah?”

“Three,” I say with a sticky gasp. That’s why you have to pay attention!

“That’s right. And you know what that means?” He’s closing in on the finish line now.

“It means I’m going to die,” I say, afraid and aroused at once.

“It means you’re going to hang from your neck until you die. Do you want that, Sarah?”

“Oh yes!” I gasp.

“Say it…”

“I want to hang from my neck until I die,” I whisper as he groans.

“Do you want to die for me today?”

“I do. I want to die for you today. I want to hang by my neck until I die…”

After taking a moment to regain his composure, Mervin thanks me. He reminds me that these are just fantasies, and he doesn’t really want to watch girls hang until they die. I tell him I understand, and that it was a hot fantasy. And it was fun, in that disturbingly interesting way. As I said, he’s called me several times since then, once with the same fantasy, once where I didn’t die, and once today.

I told my friend, Jeremy, about this caller yesterday. I’ve known Jeremy for many years and he wants to be a mortician. Thus we joke about horrible things. He asked me if I had a good death rattle for Mervin. Only he would think such a thing! It hadn’t even occurred to me. I had to admit it was a good idea.

I helped another guy hang his girlfriend. Then there was the guy I had to beat to death with a rock while I rode him. For whatever reason, these calls didn’t really make huge waves in my mind’s perversion ocean. That should bother me! How was your day? Oh the usual: pregnant trannies, sexy grandmas and snuff porn.

When Mervin called today, he had a pretty creepy scenario. I was a prostitute who went with a john to this cellar. Same bare white room with a bright light and a video camera. There was a drainpipe with a noose waiting for me. He was so excited describing the room, and it was so vivid. I always try to match my breathing and the tone of my voice with the caller’s. I was there. I could see the room with the milk-crate for me to stand on. Hear the drip off the drain pipe and its echo in the cold room. I wondered if he’d ever had a girlfriend who liked to be choked and if he “accidentally” strangled her too hard one night and got off at the thought of making her die. I wondered if he’d ever actually killed anyone.

I understand that these are just fantasies; it’s just difficult to keep in mind when you hear that tone of voice. I tried to put that out of my mind and play along with Mervin though. Aside from the strangling teenagers thing, he seemed like a nice guy. I was a little nervous when I made my first attempt at the death rattle today. I didn’t want it to be hokey. I heard the catch in his voice and the groan so I did it again. And then once more, the grand finale. I’m giving up last breath. . .for you. He absolutely loved it! I’d like to thank Jeremy for helping me creep myself out and ensuring Mervin’s place as a regular. I’ll take him over Mr. Fantastic any any day. I look forward to the many ways I’ll be strangled.

I’m having an interesting night of calls. It’s one of those occasions that I’m actually enjoying being on and having fun with my customers. And it shows, they’ve all stayed to talk to me for their entire alloted time. It’s amazing what simply deciding to change your outlook can do.

I talk to a disabled Vietnam vet. He was feeling depressed about being stuck at home, in a wheelchair with no company, no one to talk to. This depresses me, too. We shift topics to nicer things, since he just wants to talk, no sex. I’m saddened when he gives me his address and asks if we can be pen pals. As much as I’d like to, I can’t. But, over the next few days, I think more and more, “why can’t I?” If it would brighten this poor guy’s day, why not? I could send them with no return addresses, even though that’s not really in the spirit of pen pal-dom…

I get a request from my new favorite caller, Sam. He’s quickly becoming a regular. He’s very nice and easy to talk to. It helps that his fantasies aren’t so far out there that I can’t relate. It is interesting that his fantasies are based on telephone conversations. For instance, in one case, I was his cleaning lady and he’d realized I’d been looking through his drawers, and he called me to confront me. The conversation came around to me having a crush on him and what would happen when I came back to his place for my punishment. Another was I was his wife, and he called me on his lunch break, interrupting my masturbating to the pool boy. I told him what I was doing, it turned him on, and we talked about possibly inviting the pool boy to join us that evening. There have been a couple of other calls, and in each case, we played characters having phone sex.

The next hour is spent with another regular. He wants to call me back when our time is up, but decides he’ll wait a little bit. He waits an hour and calls me back for another hour-long request. We don’t really have conversation, we “listen to each other masturbate.” So, I fake orgasms at semi-regular intervals while he shouts, “That’s the real thing baby! You’re really getting off, I can tell!” Indeed. He sometimes asks me to do bewildering things, like shove my panties up my ass or pussy. I’m not sure how or why he figures this would feel good for me, but I try to make the appropriate sounds. Once, he told me to shove three vibrators in me, end to end…all in all, though, he’s a nice guy, so I don’t mind him. He spends a lot of money with us, because he calls several times a week and he also talks to this other girl a lot.

The best comes just before I sign off. Mindy tells me he’s a brand new caller named George, and he wants to talk to a sweet and sexy, black, 20 year-old.

We introduce ourselves. George is an older gentleman from the South. He tells me he has a rather strange fetish, and wants to know how comfortable I am role-playing. I am always a little wary when they tell me their fetishes are strange, but I tell him we can talk about anything as long as all participants are 18.

He clears his throat and hesitates. I assure him that he can tell me anything, that’s what I’m here for.

“Well, see…it’s like this,” he begins, “The other day, this telemarketer called me, and I agreed to buy something for her, but I had to give her all of my personal information…”

“OK,” I say encouragingly, still with no clue where this will end up.

“Well, that just turned me on so much!” he announces, still a little hesitantly.

“…talking to the telemarketer?”

“Yes! Just, something about giving out my personal information turns me on so much. I’d like to be able to do that, but I think it would be even better if the person on the other end of the line knew I had my dick in my hand while she was getting this information.”

OH! Really?! Wow…

“Oh, so it’s just telling someone your confidential information gets you excited?” I ask, just to be sure.

“Yes, it really does. I’m not sure why, but, oh do I get worked up!”

I chuckle a little, relieved. That’s nothing!

“We can roleplay that, George, no problem.”

“Are you sure, that won’t make you uncomfortable?” He asks. It’s sweet when they’re really concerned about me being comfortable with their fantasy. Obviously, George is unaware that the company he called is dominated by men with strange fetishes, usually gross ones.

I assure him that it doesn’t make me uncomfortable in the least and it actually sounds like fun. He breathes a sigh of relief and tells me that he wants me to ask him for everything. He says if I want to write it all down, too, that would be even better. So, I grab my notebook and click my pen, making sure it’s noisy enough for him to hear.

“So, George, your phone rings, and I’m a telemarketer calling to offer you phone service,” I begin.

“OK,” he clears his throat, “Hello?”

“Hello, sir. My name is Serena, and I am calling from PhoneWhore Communications. I have an offer for a new telephone service for your area. Are you interested?”

“Oh, yes, I am!”

I can feel him relaxing, and that makes me smile. Funny how something so silly to me can be so stressful to him. I suppose it is a little strange.

“Well, sir, I’ll need your first and last name to get this set up.”

“George Thompson, miss.”

“All right, Mr. Thompson, and what is your address?”

He gives me his address, and in this manner I get his Social Security number and driver’s license number as well. I tell him we can keep his existing phone number, so he gives this to me, as well as his cell phone number, just in case.

I tell him that I want to make sure I have the information recorded accurately, and I read it back to him.

At this point he groans, “Oh, Serena, I’m playing with my dick right now, and it feels so good!”

“Well, I’m glad Mr. Thompson! Ok, now, we can set you up for monthly payments to be deducted directly from your checking account. Are you interested in that?”

“I am interested in that, let me grab my checkbook…”

“Thank you Mr. Thompson. And when you’re ready, please read me your routing number, followed by your checking account number.”

He does. He also tells me the balances in his checking and savings accounts.

I explain he can use his credit card as a backup payment method if he’d like. Of course he would like.

“But, just so you know, you can’t open up new accounts, I have it set up that way,” he says. This is the first time he’s sounded a little concerned. It is probably occurring to him that I could be shady and take all of this information and run.

“That’s ok, Mr. Thompson,” I reassure him, “We don’t need to open up new accounts. All that matters is that funds can be deducted from these existing accounts.”

“That’s fine, then. You can make purchases from the accounts, no problem,” he says happily, then groans a little and tells me how good he feels.

“Do you have notifications activated on these accounts? So, if an amount above a certain level is charged, the company will call to warn you?”

“Yes, if you spend a lot in one place, or if you make many small purchases that add up to a lot in one day, they’ll call and ask me if I authorized them.”

“I see. But, if I make small purchases, spaced out over time. Say, weekly, or monthly, then no red flags will pop up?”

He groans louder this time, “No, not at all.”

I take advantage of the thickness in his voice and repeat all the information he’s given me so far once more.

“Oh, Serena, my dick feels so good!”

“That makes me happy, Mr. Thompson.”

I’m not really sure what else to ask him, so he starts offering information. He tells me his email address and password. He gives me the website for his credit card company, and his user name and password. Then he gives me the 800 number for his bank and his access code for said 800 number as well as his debit card number and PIN.

He asks me if I can log into the website for his credit card and see if the password he gives me is correct. As luck would have it, my internet is out on this night, so I can’t do that. I don’t tell him this, instead, I open up a word document so he can hear me typing away.

I tell him I can see his account information. He asks if I can see his credit limit there. I tell him I’ve logged out already, but I did remember seeing it. Was it $5000? My wild stab in the dark pays off, and he says that’s right, voice thickening even more. I’m far from psychic, but since his checking and savings account balances weren’t terribly high, I figured he couldn’t have an astronomical credit limit.

I keep typing, telling him I’m now entering his information in our database. This allows me to read all of his information back to him once again.

He tells me again how good he feels, and is silent briefly. I again tell him that I’m happy he’s happy. He thanks me finally, and tells me that it was fun.

He reminds me again that his accounts are set up so that no one can open up new accounts, or get another credit card issued. I tell him I understand and that he doesn’t have to worry about anything.

Sometimes I wish I had fewer scruples. I have an Amazon wishlist after all! I hang up with a bemused smile. Not a bad night at work at all.

As she talks about them, she seems to have that bitter disdain for men like a lot of sex workers do. She calls them “idiots” and “fucking bastards.” Even when she says “the guys” there’s an edge to her voice. It’s strange to me, these guys just want to get off. They can do that for free! Instead, they’re giving us money to help them with their fantasies because they can’t talk to people in their real lives about them. I guess after 7 years of talking to perverts, you get burned out. ~Me

Change that to 7 months.

A couple of people have pointed out how my attitude has changed since I started. I’ve referred to callers as “assholes.” I’ve stopped focusing on the caller and started trying to IM and watch TV shows with closed captioning while talking to them. I get mad at them for not saying what they want, even though not very long ago, I wrote how that was an aspect of many calls and it was up to me to figure out what they really wanted. I actually enjoyed that process and felt proud of myself when I finally unraveled the mystery.

I use to have entries stockpiled for this blog, waiting for my weekly update. I’d write something at the end of nearly every shift. Now it’s been a month since I’ve written anything.

Why?

I’m not sure. On some level, I feel like I’ve heard every incarnation of the fantasies I’ve already written about. Perhaps since it’s not new to me anymore, and actually a little boring, I figure you’ll be bored, too.

But, why all of a sudden, am I bitter and angry at the poor pervs who just want to get off? Those men who probably don’t have a woman in their lives to tell these things to and turn to me suddenly get attitude. It’s not like anything has really changed. Most of the guys I talk to are surprisingly nice. Just because I’ve already talked to two guys who want to fuck their moms today, doesn’t mean the third guy deserves a half-assed phone call.

It is draining. You’re perky, and sexy and interested in his every word, or else he hangs up unhappy and you don’t get paid. You have to let men call you every terrible name they can think of, and describe doing disgusting things to you, without taking it personally. For 25 cents a minute. Or you have to verbally humiliate and abuse a caller, without letting them know you feel sorry for them. You have to convincingly talk seductively about things that might disturb you. Or offend you. For 25 cents a minute.

Do you realize that there’s a permanent, unalterable change in your mentality after you’ve described the texture of your poop as it flows into some guy’s mouth? Or that part of your brain screams in horror while another part describes the joys of bestiality? That sometimes, when you’re alone, handling your business, a man in heels will enter your dream, unbidden, and beg to suck the cum out of you?

You know, being a phone floozy ruins everything sexual in your life. I’ve thought more about what I’d do if a guy I dated wanted to wear panties in the past 8 months than I have ever in life. Comments from a man that ordinarily wouldn’t even register, I now wonder if they’re indicative of some deep, dark fetish. A guy might say, “yea, I’ve had a girl rim me, it was pretty cool. I’d let a girl do that again,” and it used to be barely eyebrow raising. Now? Now I wonder if he’s got manties in his closet and secretly wants to get assfucked by a big black dick.

Forget about ever having phone sex again. I wasn’t a big phone sexer before this job, but it would be impossible now. I tried exactly once. It’s difficult to not be Charlotte and be me, the girl who was into this particular guy. In my mind, he kept becoming a caller, not a guy I wanted to hump. I kept slipping into work mode and saying things that didn’t feel natural since they’re Charlotte lines. It took a lot effort to keep Charlotte at bay and just enjoy the moment. He felt as though he had all this competition since I’ve already heard everything, what could he possibly say to turn me on at this point? And in a way, that’s true. Not that a man I’m interested wouldn’t be capable of saying something sexy to me anymore, but the telephone thing has become so separated from my reality, it just won’t work.

Apparently, it’s intimidating, too. Guys have told me they wouldn’t want their girlfriend to be a phone whore. Or that they feel at a disadvantage because my dirty talk skills are way beyond what they can imagine. It takes sexy banter to a whole different level when, as a woman, you say something absolutely shocking to a man and leave him speechless. Unless I just meet pansy asses…

Even sex itself changes. On one hand, it’s awesome that suddenly, you can be very dirty talking in bed. Well, me, not you. I was never talkative, I was way too self conscious. Now that I understand the effect that some choice nastiness flowing from your lips can have, I’m not so self-conscious. On the other hand, now I worry that he’ll think I’m just exaggerating, saying dirty things because of my job. I can’t win!

And really, what do I tell people I do for a living when I go on job interviews? I provide customer service from home over the telephone. Well, what type of customer service to you provide? The type where the caller hangs up with a smile. And kind of sleepy and in need of a sandwich.

I’m trying to get back to bright-eyed, bushy-tailed Charlotte, who took such pride in making men cum from my well-crafted, personalized fantasies. I feel bad for them. How low must that feel? To have your phone whore yawning at your fantasy?

I need a rejuvenation! A rediscovery of what makes telephone acting so rewarding!

I’m trying.

Before we begin, I’d like to offer a suggestion to anyone calling a phone whore. Do not tell her that you’re into anything if you’re not really into anything. I will ask you multiple times if you’re sure you mean anything. Especially if you call on the “No Holds Barred” line and ask for a kinky girl. If you reiterate that yes, you’re into anything, I will warn you that I like to do very dirty things. If you tell me again that you’re into anything, and I can do whatever I want to you, I will bring my big black friend with his big black cock to play. If that fucks up your fantasy, it’s your own damn fault for telling me I could do whatever I wanted to you.

Anyway…

Mindy is chuckling lightly as I answer my phone. “Oh boy, I got a fun one for you tonight!”

She says this gleefully. I love that she gets so excited when I have messed up calls. I need to ask her if she’s ever phone whored or if she’s always been a receptionist. I bet if she’d been a phone whore she wouldn’t giggle so much at some of the requests we get.

I grab my notebook and pencil. I’m tired and distracted. I’m not in the mood to play tonight. I really haven’t been at all lately.

“Oh lord. What do you have for me tonight?” I ask warily. I remember when this job was fun and I was all gung-ho about making sure the guys enjoyed themselves with me. It didn’t take long for me to be irritated. Of course, it’s still nice when I make a man cum over the phone. I still get that sense of pride in a job well done, but sometimes, my heart is not in it.

“I have Jermay for 10 minutes. He wants 19, hot and horny, and motherly.”

We laugh. We always laugh when they ask for teenaged and motherly.

“That’s not all,” Mindy warns me, “He wants you to be pregnant.”

“OK, pregnant. Like, how pregnant should I be?” They usually want 7 or 8 months along, for whatever reason.

“Like, ready to pop!” She giggles as she tells me this.

“Ok, 19 and 9 months pregnant,” I say as I write in my notebook.

“Not just 9 months pregnant, but you’re in labor now!” She laughs heartily. She’s so good at saving the best detail for last.

“Oh yay!” I say, unenthusiastically.

“Of course we just happen to have a girl working at this moment who’s in labor! It’s his lucky day!” She jokes, “Connecting you now!”

Unsurprisingly, Jermay has a thick, very thick, very hick accent. “Hey baby,” he says huskily, “How you doin’ tonight?”

“I am so tired,” I say. Tiredly.

“Oh yea? How come you so tired?” He asks me. Tarred, actually. How come you so tarred?

“I am ready to have this baby out of me!” I exclaim, heavily.

“Oh you are?” His voice instantly takes on that horny tone I love so well, “Is that baby comin’?”

“It is! I’ve been having regular contractions and everything, I feel like I wanna push!” I say this as though I’m breathless and struggling.

“How can I help you?” He asks quietly.

“You can shove your hands up there and rip this baby outta me, Jermay!”

“Really?”

“Yes, Jermay, I want this baby out!!” I yell. I wonder again if my neighbors think I’m crazy.

“Just breathe, Sarah!” He encourages.

I start in on Lamaze breathing. That really seems to get him going, and he shouts more encouragement.

“That’s right, Sarah! You can do it! Breathe baby!”

“It’s coming, Jermay!” I shout, trying hard not to laugh.

Is this guy beating off to my Lamaze breathing? He’s the only guy in middle school who didn’t get grossed out at the birthing videos in health class. I wonder if instead of porn, he has natural childbirth sites bookmarked. I talk about a lot of very disgusting things with my callers, and he’s not the first to want a pregnant girl. I don’t understand what could possibly be erotic about a woman in labor, but who am I to question?

“Keep going! Push it, Sarah!” He’s shouting, too, so I imagine he’s having a good time.

“Oh, it’s coming, Jermay!” I shout and groan louder. I Lamaze breathe faster and harder. He hangs up halfway through my “pushing,” and I can dissolve into laughter.

I had an interesting conversation with Lil Tim Tim. He knows me as Mary Anne, but has never called me by name. He always calls me Mom, and has never dropped the baby talk with me. I’m never really sure what to do with him; it’s hard enough having a conversation for a half an hour with a real 5 year old!

Our conversations used to start with me being angry because he got in trouble at school for not acting his age. He’d tell me his teacher didn’t think he was ready for kindergarten. He just wanted to stay home and be a baby. We’ve reached an agreement where if he behaves at school, he can be Mommy’s Baby when he gets home. He gets a bubble bath. He gets to dump the baby powder on himself when we put the diaper on. Sometimes he wears footie pajamas, but mostly he kicks it in just a diaper. We’ll have a snack and then chit chat. Every once in a while, I’ll sing to him. The singing cracks me up, I am absolutely tone deaf but a real baby doesn’t really know any better; I don’t know how he tolerates it.

This call was a little different. He asked me what I was wearing and what I did for a living. He asked how old I was and what I looked like. I’ve talked to him countless times and these things have never come up. I was never more than this abstract “Mom” in his fantasy. It threw me off a little bit and I had to remember to use my mommy voice and not the sexy voice in describing myself.

We were laying on my bed and he had his head on my stomach. He was wearing his baby bunny diapers and I was stroking his hair while we talked about baby bunnies and duckies. It was a quiet sort of thing, since I was really tired and out of things to talk about. We were getting ready for a nap, when he asked me, “Why do I like being a baby, Mommy?”

Now there’s a loaded question for you.

I thought for a bit, then I said, “Sometimes it’s hard to be a big boy. You have to do all sorts of things you don’t want to do. And sometimes, when you’re a big boy, you have to do things you don’t even like to do. That’s not very fun and it’s very stressful. So, it’s nice to come home and be a baby with no worries at all. It’s nice to lay your head on a warm tummy and just relax with someone who loves you. And who loves you more than your mommy?”

He was quiet for a long time. I didn’t know if I’d said something wrong, so I just sat there waiting. He finally said, in a husky sort of baby voice, “I really enjoy talking to you, Mary Anne.”

It didn’t strike me as I was saying it that I was anywhere near the mark, I was mostly just rambling. Early in the conversation he’d said that kindergarten was hard and that he was very tired. I took it to mean he had a stressful week at work, and that’s why it was a sleepy sort of conversation we were having. I was only trying to talk in the way you do when you’re laying in bed half asleep, just enjoying being warm and near someone.

I don’t tend to question “why” when I talk to my pervs. That’s not really for me to know or attempt to figure out. In most cases, I can’t even begin to think of whys. Much of the time, I can’t figure out why I do the things that I do. How can I begin to understand why some guy would want to have sex with a pregnant tranny? The least important aspect of that conversation is how the tranny got pregnant to begin with and that’s a big fucking question.

I’ve never thought about why people want to be adult babies. I mean, I’ve wondered why Tim Tim talks to Mindy in the baby voice, too, and why he chooses to be 5. I often wonder why he snivels all the fucking time. I wonder why listening to a grown man pretending to be 5 only really infuriates me when he won’t stop sniveling. I wonder if he gets to play this fantasy out with a significant other, or if he ever has. How would that conversation go? How do you even tell your lady that you like to put on a diaper and talk like a 5 year old? He gets so into his character, I can’t imagine I’d be his only outlet. If I am, I feel bad for him.

In fact, I’ve never even wondered what he does for a living until I was relating this story to a friend the other night. I’ve never wondered how old he really is, or if he’s married or has any children. I was never convinced any of that really mattered. It’s all about making sure they get off within their allotted time, right? Well, Tim Tim never gets off as far as I can tell. Our conversations never turn sexual, I don’t know if he makes it sexy once we hang up. I suppose it’s possible.

Now I wonder if my attempt at answering why will change the dynamic between Lil Tim Tim and Mommy. Is Lil Tim Tim my new biggest fan now because I figured out why he likes being a baby? Is he in awe and in love, thinking I get him? Maybe our conversations will be easier since I’ve touched a part of his psyche.

What if he really did have to do something that made him unhappy in his real life version of kindergarten? Did he have to fire someone? Did he have to sit in all day conferences listening to discussions of profit margins and second quarter earnings? Maybe he got fired; I keep hearing the economy is in the shitter after all.

Or maybe I was way off and he hung up laughing, saying, “This whore thinks she’s smart!”

I went back to my lovely digs working with Mindy.

USA Chatlines is a horrible, piece of shit company. Phone whores don’t make much money as it is, but the money they promise you is unattainable. It is impossible to make money as they outline it in the stupid emails they send you multiple times a day.

If you want to be a telephone actress, DO NOT work for USA Chatlines. Fuck them bitches.

Besides, the dudes that call there and stupid and boring. In the two months I was there, the only interesting calls I got was from Mason and the Pussy Gnome. Those guys know nothing about having cool and weird fetishes. Boring!

Luckily, Mindy has a kind heart and happily welcomed me back into the fold. My names were still available and everything!

It’s like I never left. My first day back, I spoke with Mr. Fantastic and Lil Tim Tim.

Lil Tim Tim and I picked up where we’d left off, with him still being a naughty little boy in school, and me punishing him by making him wear diapers. We’ve talked many times and now we have basic chit chat before we delve into the role play. The last time we talked before I left, there were those fires raging in California, where he’s from. Getting that news report from a man pretending to be 5 was a bit surreal. This time, I told him that I had to take a couple months off for “personal reasons.”

He said, “I hope you all o-tay now, mommy! I gwad you back to pway, I missed yooooou!”

My reunion with Mr. Fantastic didn’t go over as well. I greeted him with my best, “How are you!” in an attempt to recreate the emotions after encountering a long lost friend that I didn’t really like to begin with.

His reply was an offended and rude, “Who am I?!”

I was instantly reminded why I hate him, but still tried to be nice. I clarified that I asked how he was. How could I not know Mr. Fantastic, after all? I told him, too, that I’d left for personal reasons.

“What kind of personal reasons?” He demanded.

I didn’t like his tone, and even though I didn’t have personal reasons for leaving, really, I was still offended on Sarah’s behalf because, if she says “personal” he should respect that. Asshole.

“Just personal stuff, I don’t want to talk about it. How have you been Mr. Fantastic?”

“Have you been in school this whole time?”

“Yes.”

“Did you break up with that guy?” He demands.

“No…”

“Oh, so he’s not the personal reason,” he says.

“I told you, it’s not important and it doesn’t need to be a topic of discussion.” I lost Sarah’s sweet voice, so I stop myself before I get more obviously pissed off.

“Well, I’m just going to hang up. I don’t like this conversation,” he whines petulantly.

“What? Why not?” I ask, honestly surprised.

“You don’t sound happy to hear from me…”

I really have no idea how I kept from laughing at the pouty tone in Mr. Super-Dom’s voice. I did try half-heartedly to convince him he was wrong, but I really wasn’t happy to hear from him. I’m actually glad I pissed him off, now I don’t need to worry about hearing from him anymore.

Unfortunately, he was replaced by another “Dom,” who’s called me twice.

This one is Jed, a 60 year old man with a lot of money and a preference for 18 and 19 year olds. The first time he called he told me how much he loves treating girls like shit. Of course, I like being treated like shit, too, so we hit it off.

He told me how he has his 19 year old girlfriend, as well as 4 other young girls he can degrade and abuse. He tells me about setting up gang-bangs for them. His favorite thing to do is take them to peep shows, make them jerk him off while they watch the girls dance, and then lick his jizz off the window. Yum, sexy!

He asks me if I’m a dirty girl, and specifically I’d be his dirty girl.

“I’m super fucking filthy, and I’m willing to be your dirty fucking cum dumpster!” I reply happily. (Thanks to Dennis for supplying that line, by the way!)

He tells me how he’d treat me if I were his girlfriend, “I’d have you tied to the bed, naked, and there would be two girls pulling and sucking on your nipples,” he says, all old and raspy.

“Oh yea?” I’m intrigued!

“Oh yea, and then, I’d bring in a bunch of guys to take turns fucking your whore holes!”

“How many guys?!”

“10!”

“Wow! Ten cocks, just for meeee?!” I say this in my best, opening presents on Christmas morning voice.

Eventually, he asks me if I’ve ever fucked an animal. Well, of course I have, silly! A big Great Dane in fact!

He starts to ask me about it, then asks about horses. I confess I’m afraid to fuck a big horse cock, but I have sucked one. He likes this well enough, and soon shoots his old man load.

He calls back just two short days later, and tells me how much I turned him on. I wonder about where his 5 teen-aged girlfriends are if he keeps calling me. He’s less dominant this time and more indulgent. He tells me how I should go out and find a rich old man like him to buy me things. He says that if we lived in the same state, he’d buy me all sorts of things and take me out to fancy restaurants. He says he knows I’m beautiful and I turn him on so. He’d been thinking about me since our last call, and couldn’t wait to talk to me again.

I coo and thank him, and then he asks me to tell him about fucking that Great Dane.

That’s really why he wants to spend money on me! He tells me he’s got two dogs, so he’d wine and dine me just so his dogs could take advantage of me.

I spend the next 10 minutes listening to him fap furiously away while I spin a delightfully disgusting tale of doggy-fucking.

After we hang up, I get a call from a man requesting a she-male with big, natural breasts.

God, I missed this place!

The recorded message shouts, “This is a foot fetish call! He wants to worship your feet! He wants to give your feet a tongue bath!”

I gross out and take the call. Feet are so gross! Foot fetish calls are easy enough though, as long as I don’t think about it too much.

Ryan dispenses with the small talk and gets right to the point, “I want you to be submissive. You’re going to be my little whore.”

“Ok!” Which is odd, usually guys who want to tongue bathe my feet are the subs. Maybe he called the wrong line, whatever.

“Choke on my cock, whore!”

“Yes, Sir!”

Yay, good fun. Ryan’s idea of dom and sub is degradation, I play the meek girl, thanking her master for allowing her to choke on his dick. This doesn’t require a whole lot of effort, it’s basically cooing something whenever he stops talking, so I go back to StumbleUpon.

He tells me a line, and I repeat it. Unfortunately, he’s not very creative, and it’s just whorebitchslutwhorebitchslut on a continuous loop. After a dozen times, it’s hard to say, “Oh yes, I’m a dirty fucking whore” with conviction anymore. Especially when you stumble upon cute cat pictures.

“I’m going to lay you on your back and fuck you! I’m going to suck your fucking toes while I do it!” He says with a growl.

“Oh, yes! Do you like my little toes?”

“I do, such cute little toes! Press your foot against my cock, your foot’s even smaller than my dick!”

“Oh, such a big dick!”

We go back and forth for a while about how big his dick is. He doesn’t sound like a big mean dom anymore, or maybe I’m just projecting. I mean, really, once you tell a girl your dick is 10 inches long, why do you need her to keep verifying that for you? But more than that, it was the breathless little whimper he gave when I described my hot pink toenail polish. I could hear him shudder when I tickled his balls with my toes. So I get a little less submissive and start giving orders.

Gently of course, “Let me feel your tongue in between my toes! That’s right, slide that tongue up and down the arch of my foot!”

I feel him start to give, and I’m wondering how far I can push him, “You wanna fuck those feet, don’t you?”

“Oh yes…”

“Want me to press them together. . .let you fuck that little arch?” I whisper.

“Yes…”

“You like those little feet wrapped around that dick, don’t you?”

Then, suddenly snaps to.”Call me Daddy, now!”

Damn, I was just starting to have fun.

I’m back to the meek little girl now, not so much submissive as innocent. “Oh Daddy, your dick is so big!”

There’s a lot of fake gagging and more repeating what he tells me to say. He’s basically talking to himself, describing what we’re doing, and I moan accordingly. Then I check back out of the conversation and back to stumbling. I’m a terrible phone whore. I remember the days when callers got my undivided attention.

I’m in the middle of making my own kaleidescope when I notice he said something about black skin and his white dick. I’m black in this conversation? My default description is white, and I try to remember if we described ourselves in the beginning of the call. Well, it barely matters, since my voice is the same no matter where Charlotte is from, so I now talk about his big, white dick.

“You’re a dirty whore, aren’t you?” He says, rushed. It sounds like he’s getting ready to cum, and thank goodness. I’m ready to be done with this call because I can’t watch YouTube videos while I’m on my internet phone.

“Oh yes, I’m a dirty whore!”

“Tell me you want me to fuck your black ass with my big white dick!”

So, I did.

“Say, ‘I’m a dirty whore!’”

So, I did.

“Say, ‘Fuck my nigger ass with that white cock!’”

“Fuck my ass with that white cock!” Fuck him. I feel like I should hang up, but I’d rather fuck with him.

“Say, ‘fuck my nigger ass!’”

“Oh, fuck my ass!”

“You fucking bitch, say it, say, ‘fuck my nigger ass!’”

“Fuck my ass!”

He growls low and deep, “Tell me you want my big white dick in your nigger ass!”

“I want your white dick in my ass!!” It’s difficult not to laugh at his frustration.

“You stupid fucking whore piece of shit!” He’s spitting in the phone he’s so mad, but he still sounds aroused, “Say it! Or are you a really nigger? You are, aren’t you? You’re a fucking nigger whore for real aren’t you? SAY IT!!!!”

“No.” I say calmly, “I’m not going to say it.”

There’s an extended moment of silence and I wait for him to hang up.

“You fucking bitch!” He’s so mad he’s stammering, “I would fuck you so hard!”

Now, I actually laugh at him, “You would?”

“Yea, I would.”

“With that big white dick,” I say, dripping with sarcasm.

“It is big!”

“So you say.”

“You bitch, I would fuck you so hard with this big dick!” He groans.

“Really? Is it big?” I say in baby talk. Then, “You wouldn’t know what to do with a black woman in your bed,” I say with a nice heap of disgust added to the sarcasm.

I can hear him fapping furiously, and I’m surprised. Although, I guess I shouldn’t be.

“Oh, I wish you were here right now so I could show you what I could do to you,” he says, gasping.

I laugh again, “With that big white dick, huh? You think you would know how to fuck this black girl the right way?”

He doesn’t say anything, he seems like he’s trying to, but he can’t. He screams his orgasm, and unlike most of the callers at this company, he doesn’t hang up right away. I sit expectantly, saying nothing. He makes a couple of false starts then finally hangs up. I log out and play Retris. Stupid asshole.

One night, I was talking to a guy who told me he was a 20 year old college student living in the dorms. His voice obviously put him in the mid 50s range, but I played along. I asked him what he was up to, and he said, “Oh nothin’. Just coolin’ out.”

It took all I had not to piss my pants laughing. Because “coolin out” is what all the kids say.

***

I was talking to a guy who told me he was 24, even though I questioned he was even 18. I asked him to describe himself and he told me he was 5 foot 12. Nice. I had to hang up when he couldn’t tell me what year he was born.

***

A 19 year old from California told me I was special, and that he really wanted to get to know me. He said that I didn’t seem like the other phone girls who were only trying to get his money. I point out that this is a job, after all, and he says he knows. But, he also knows I’m different, and he can tell I’m really into the sound of his voice, and I’m really getting turned on. Meantime, I’m actually IMing Dennis about how stupid this kid is.

The kid gives me his number and asks if I’ll ever call him. I tell him maybe. He says we should talk, since he can tell we’d be good together, and I should come out to California to visit him.

I tell him that’s kind of weird, since I don’t know him. He says he wants to know me, and that we have a connection. I’m not like the other phone girls, after all, and he just wants to meet someone special. I tell him that perhaps a phone sex line isn’t the best place to meet a nice girl. He says you never can tell where you’ll meet that special someone. He gives me his phone number and asks if I’ll call him. I tell him maybe.

He goes on to say he knows I like him since he’s not desperate like the other guys who call me. Then he asks me if I’m going to call him or not. I tell him maybe.

The guy tells me he knows I’m all aroused and playing with myself since his voice is so sexy. He says he knows I like him since he’s confident unlike the guys who normally call me. I laugh and ask him how he can tell I’m playing with myself while I write a quick email to my friend. He can tell just by my voice! He asks if I’ll call him. I say maybe.

He says he knows it turns me on that he can read me so well. “I’m already in your head, aren’t I?” Of course you are! He tells me how he’s not a loser like the guys that normally call me. He asks if I’ll call him later. I tell him maybe. He says, “If my mom answers, just tell her you’re one of my friends.”

***

I ask a caller to describe himself to me. He tells me he’s tall with a really big dick.

“Oh yea?” I say.

“Oh yea, it’s really big! It’s huge!!”

“Ooooo,” I coo, “I like a big dick! How big is it?”

“Six inches baby!”

***

I ask a guy what he would do with me if I were laying in his bed with him. He told me he really liked to cuddle.

…

***

Then there was the guy whose fantasy was to be the most popular guy in his high school that every girl wanted to fuck. He was the talk of the school and every girl knew he was an amazing lover with an enormous dick, so none of them could resist him, including me, the Principal. Even though I was 48 to his 18, I wanted him badly, because I knew he had much to teach me in the pleasures of the flesh. So much so, that I built him an office in the girls’ locker room that only he and I knew about. From therein, he had a computer linked so that he could watch the girls throughout the school using the hidden cameras we installed. Of course we made love there when he was supposed to have been in class.

He informs me, “My cock is the size of a baseball bat and my balls are like two cantaloupes!”

When we have sex, he likes to yell commands.

“Tell me I’m a stud!”

“Tell me I’m an amazing stud!”

“Tell me I’m the ultimate stud!”

“Tell me I’m a good lover.”

“Tell me I’m an amazing lover!”

“Tell me I’m the ultimate lover!”

“Tell me I’m a stallion.”

“Tell me I’m the ultimate stallion!”

“Tell me to ride you like the stallion that I am!”

Now, at this point, I’m annoyed and confused. I’ve left out numerous adjectives I was to call him, progressing from regular to ultimate stages. So, I say, “What?!”

“Tell me to ride you like the stallion that I am!”

I’m confused. How does a man ride a woman? Since when do horses ride anything? I think maybe I’m missing something, then I remember he has balls the size of grapefruits and wants me to install a secret office for him in the girls’ locker room.

So, I decide to fuck with him.

“Let me ride you like the stallion you are!” I yell, enthusiastically.

“No, you’re supposed to tell me to ride you like the stallion that I am…”

“You’re such a stallion! I wanna ride you like the stallion you are!”

“No! Tell me to ride you like the stallion I am!!” Now he’s angry and confused. Good. “I’m riding you right now, later on, you can ride me.”

I laugh in my head. I’m turning into a horrible phone sex operator.

“Oh, OK. Ride me like the stallion you are!” I yell.

“Tell me you want me to move in with you.”

“What?!”

“Tell me that because I’m such a good lover, you want me to move in with you and marry you.”

So, I do, and thus begins a conversation about whether he should move his stuff in or if he should just bring clothes. If he should move in that day after school, or wait until the next day, or even that weekend.

Finally, he thanks me and asks me if I enjoyed the call. I lie and say I had fun, and he asked me if I had any favorite parts about the conversation.

“Well, you’re such a good lover, I learned something new, even though I’m much older than you!”

“You did? What did you learn?” He asks.

“I never knew that men could ride women!”

I really don’t know what’s wrong with me anymore.

I used to have a regular caller named George. For him, I was a 25 year old, blonde housewife. He usually called on Sundays and liked talking about group sex. Therefore, my husband and I were swingers, and often participated in group sex with our friends.

More often than not, George would tell me he was with someone while we were talking. Usually it was a girl or two, but sometimes men were there, too. Of course, I never heard any of these other people, but I’d ask him to describe the situation and I’d give him directions on what to do to the woman (or man) he was with. Sometimes I’d pretend my husband or some strapping young black fellow was with me.

In my mind, George was in his 50s, tall and balding and slightly overweight. He’s fussy about his clothes, and wears slacks and a jacket often. His hair is short and graying, and he’s always smiling. I liked him, and had fun talking to him, so I didn’t mind the Sunday afternoon chit chats.

One Wednesday night, I’m surprised to hear George’s voice on the other end of the line. He sounded particularly horny, so I asked what he was doing. He told me he was there with a female friend, Lisa, and she was busy sucking his dick. I laughed to myself, because “Lisa” is Charlotte’s best friend and often shows up in stories when an extra girl is needed. I figured that George forgot that when creating his Lisa, so I played along.

I asked him what Lisa looked like, and he described her as red-headed and wild in the sack. Then asked if I wanted to talk to her. I said sure and was stunned speechless when an actual woman said “hi” to me.

We exchanged some highly awkward small talk while I tried to wrap my head around George actually literally having a woman there.

In my head, Lisa, too is in her 50s and thick. Not a big fatty lady, but well-built, I guess. She’s got long, wavy auburn hair, with a bit more frizz than wave. She’s one of those older ladies who wears purple jackets with big, colorful, asymmetric designs on them, and clunky necklaces made out of wood and rock.

Then I had the dubious honor of listening to them fuck for the next half hour. They’d pass the phone back and forth and describe what the other was doing on occasion. Mostly, I listened to thick wet slaps and incoherent groans. I could hear him sucking, licking, slurping, as she tried disjointedly to describe how he was eating her out.

I IM’d Dennis, “I’m listening to two people fuck right now.”

“Really?!” he shot back, “that seems like it would be hot.”

“It’s not. At all.”

It was disgusting. I’d see where you’d think it’d be hot. Everyone has that voyeuristic streak that chuckles when you hear your neighbors doin’ it. Porn is lame when there’s no sound, right? I actively tried to change the image of the two of them in my head, so it wouldn’t be so gross, but they sounded like two older adults fucking. It’s like watching those Real Sex shows on HBO. They tell you that we’re going to this beautiful island to watch a bunch of horndogs have orgies. Which, in theory, would be hot. But in reality, the horndogs are always weird old hippies.

Lisa tried to carry on a conversation with me. In coarse grunts and groans, she asked me to describe a time I had sex with a black guy. She said she wanted a black dick so bad. Which is weird to say when you’re getting fucked by a white guy, in my opinion.

I started describing a situation, and I could hear the fat wet slaps getting faster and faster. I stopped talking but she breathed for me to keep going. I tried, and she interrupted me by screaming, “My man is fucking my pussy!” Loud enough for me to take the phone from my ear and squeeze my eyes shut. I do that a lot, squeeze my eyes shut on the phone, I don’t know why since it doesn’t seem to prevent me from hearing!

Then she had what sounded like a pretty good orgasm, during which she dropped the phone and George picked it up, and just panted in my ear for a while.

“She sounds kinda hot when she cums, though,” I typed to Dennis. Sometimes you have to laugh to keep from crying.

Eventually he came loudly in my ear. They thanked me, and I hung up, feeling thoroughly grossed out.

I hadn’t thought about George in months, until I got a call from Rodney.

Rodney, I’m sorry to say, sounded like a hick, so, in my mind, Rodney was very skinny, probably sporting a greasy blonde mullet and wearing a wife beater. I try not to be prejudicial, so I really actively tried to alter his image in my head, but his voice wouldn’t let me.

He said he liked to call up with his wife, and told me she was lying there next to him. I asked him to describe her and he said, “She’s curvay. And, she gots blond herr and blue eyes and great big ol’ titties.”

He told me he was going to give his wife the phone and I was to tell her what I’d do to her. Once again, I was shocked when a woman picked up.

She sounded fat, so I didn’t feel quite as bad having imagined her as pale and flabby, lying on a king sized bed with messy blue sheets.

Shock turned to laughter, though, when she hollered, in the perfect redneck accent, “Suck mah tittays!!”

Then I was subjected to the soundtrack to Jack Spratt fucking his fat wife with her vibrator. She told me it was a Rabbit. I could hear the whirrs and clicks get louder, get smothered into silence, then get loud again, over and over in time to her cigarette induced wheezes.

I think it’s nice that these couples are experimenting with sex together. It’s kind of sweet in a way. It’s just very very gross for me, as an unwitting participant.

It’s mostly my fault, I think. I don’t know how or why people I talk to show up so clearly in my mind, even without them describing themselves. I guess it helps me make their fantasies real when I can see it in my head, but it’s a double edged sword. I know you understand the torment of having seen something that you can never un-see, like goatse. But, when the thing you can’t un-see is something you made yourself? That’s a special kind of hell, let me tell you.

I didn’t want Rodney and his bride to not have fun, so I tried very hard to play along, telling her what naughty things I’d do to her. The call was obviously mostly for her, since if she did give hubby the phone, he’d barely speak before handing it back. I just told a tale of the married couple having sexy sex with a young bisexual girl. She enjoyed it well enough, interrupting with Lamaze breathing and the occasional reference to her husband’s dick.

Mercifully, she came, and also dropped the phone. Rodney picked up, told me thank you very much and hung up.

I’m glad men calling with their women doesn’t happen more often. It’s awkward and confusing. You know how in threesome porn, with one man and two women, there’s always that “extra” girl who isn’t quite participating? I feel the way she looks. They’re always just off to the side, shifting on their heels, not quite sure what the fuck is happening. “Hmm, I’ll just rub her thigh a little bit. Moan some. Oh, I should toss my hair. Then I’ll squeeze his ass, that’ll be hot. . . God, when is this over?”

“Hi, this is Charlotte, who’s this?”

“My name is William,” he sounds distracted, I figure he’s already stroking so this call should be over pretty quickly.

“Hi, William. How are you tonight?”

“I am fine. How are you?” He talks very slowly, I’m pretty sure he’s mildly mentally handicapped. He sounds like a less retarded Cuba Gooding, Jr. That’s how I picture him in my mind, sitting on the edge of his car-bed, whispering into his Garfield phone.

“I’m doing great!” I realize I’m speaking baby talk to him, and I stop myself before I ask “what’s him doin’?!”

“Where do you live?” He asks abruptly.

“I live in Minnesota!” Again with the baby talk.

I love the troubles I have with my job. I feel bad making fun of tiny penises. I don’t get nearly enough calls where I get to be a tranny. I suck at being a dominatrix (I am improving, though). I often forget to bring out a pussy simulator when I start my shift and have to squish my fingers in canned food in my cats’ dish. And I cannot stop myself from babytalking to retards.

“Oh. . .” he hesitates, “Do you live in an apartment? Or like a house or a dorm?”

“I live in an apartment,” I can feel he’s just going to ask more questions. The way he fires them at me is more job interview than conversation style.

“How long have you lived in your apartment in Minnesota?”

For some reason, he’s starting to creep me out. Maybe it’s the deep monotone of his voice coupled with his thick-tongued slow speech. He looks less like Radio in my mind now and more like John Coffey.

“A couple of years,” the baby talk is gone while I remind myself there’s no way this dude knows where I live so he can’t come kill me. I hope.

I’m worrying more and more now about my callers finding out who I am. I’m not so sure where this new fear comes from, even. At my last company, I had a guy who called several times a week, Thomas, and we’d talk for hours. It was annoying, because he wanted me to cum over and over and over. For hours! I had a pretty clear picture of him in my head and his voice was very distinctive. Before I wised up and started lying about where I was from, I told him what city I live in. Lo and behold, he lives there, too.

One day I was running down the stairs of a friend’s building and I heard his voice coming up the stairs. I flipped the fuck out! I froze in place, listening to him talk on his cell phone, wondering what to do. Sweaty, heart pounding in my chest, I realized he had no idea what I looked like. Thomas thinks I’m a blonde, slightly overweight housewife in her 40s. I laughed at myself and continued on down the stairs, but I still couldn’t make eye contact. Even though I don’t even know what he really looks like. What a mess!

Anyway.

“What does your bathroom look like?” William asks me after a long pause. I’m so taken aback, it takes me a moment to reply. I’ve never been asked what my bathroom looks like, so I’m not even sure if I heard him correctly.

“My bathroom?”

“Yes, your bathroom. How is it decorated? Is it big or small?”

It seems like he’s breathing faster now, so I figure the bathroom better be crystal clear in its description. I’m too confused by this strange turn of events, so I describe it to him in my regular phone whore voice. I’m not sure where this bathroom comes from, but it’s certainly not mine:

“It’s pretty big, lots of room in there. It has a nice sized window over the toilet. It has black tile, you know, it looks like fake marble? And I have those poofy rugs in there. The kind that are like shag carpeting, they’re red. And my sink is a tall pedestal sink, with a big oval mirror surrounded by lightbulbs, like an old vanity. The walls are plain white, but I decorated with some black and white paintings. And my shower curtain is one of those clear ones, but it has black dice over it in certain spots.”

Wow, ok. I can see the bathroom so clearly in my head. Sometimes it feels like “Charlotte” has begun her own life in some section of my mind. When I first started, I’d feel bad for callers if they seemed to like me too much. My friend Daniel had to remind me that these men aren’t talking to me, and I needed to separate me from her. I worked on sectioning her off. There are moments like this, where I come up with these random scenes on the fly, and I wonder if I’ve done too good a job sectioning her off.

But I digress.

“How long have you had those red poofy carpets?” He asks me.

“Oh, I bought them a year ago or so,” I’m not afraid anymore. Usually, anytime a guy is all about my bathroom, he wants someone to get licked clean after they poo. I’m guessing he wants to lick me clean. Or perhaps lick my bathroom floor for me. We’ll see.

“What color is your toilet?”

Do they sell colorful toilets? Should my toilet be colorful? Nah.

“It’s just plain old white porcelain.”

“OK. And, what does your toilet paper look like?”

“My toilet paper?” I said it out loud before I could stop myself, what the fuck? “It’s the white quilted stuff, it’s got pink flowers on it.” Do they still make toilet paper with stuff printed on? Yikes.

“Where do you buy your toilet paper?”

“From the grocery store. . .”

“Do you always buy your toilet paper from that store?”

Now I’m creeped out again, up till now, he’s sounded remotely aroused, but now he sounds like he’s acutely paying attention. His breath is sharp in my ear.

“Yes. . .usually.”

“Have you been buying that same kind of toilet paper the whole time you’ve lived in your apartment in Minnesota?”

“Um. Yes.”

“I have a fantasy, do you know what it is?” He asks me, quietly.

“I’m guessing whatever it is, you want to do it in the bathroom. . .”

“I want to be your toilet paper,” he said, voice husky and thick.

I fucking knew it!

“Oh, you want to be on your hands and knees in my bathroom? You’ll clean me up after I go?” I’m using my teasing phone sex voice now, since I feel like now I can just describe using the toilet and make him clean me up. Simple.

“No. I want to be actual toilet paper,” he clarifies, only confusing me anew, “You know, be changed into toilet paper somehow and be in your bathroom.”

Wow! Ok. . .

“You want to be rolled up,” gone is phone whore voice, gone is mama voice. All I am is confused Charlotte, “You’re like on the roll, and the holder? Attached to my wall?”

“Yes ma’am, that’s what I would like.”

“And I can tear sheets off of you when I poo?”

“Yes, what would I look like on your toilet paper roll?” He’s all wound up, and I try my best to play along.

Since he’s black in my head, I figure he’d be black as toilet paper, too. Well, brown anyway, “You’d be a light brown roll. Very thick and very soft.”

“Oh yes, and would I unroll over or under?”

“You’d unroll under, along the wall.”

“After you wiped with me, would you flush me?”

“Oh yes, I’d flush you.”

He moans.

The rest of the call was a barrage of questions, which included:

What’s in the garbage can in your bathroom?
Do you fold or wad the toilet paper?
How many times do you wipe after you poo?
What does it look like in your toilet after you poo and wipe?
What does your poo look like?
What kind of stuff do you flush?
What else do you flush?
Do you flush anything else?
Do you flush it after you blow your nose?
Do you like to flush stuff?
Would you flush me?
Do you ever have to flush twice?
How does it look when you flush?

After the third time he asks me to talk about what I flushed, I remember there is scoopable cat litter you can flush. We talk about the cat box and their poo for a while. Then I remember you flush used tampons. We talk about that for a good long time, too.

Eventually, there is silence. I really didn’t know what I was supposed to say to him at this point. I search for something I flushed, or a toilet paper related story. I can hear him beating furiously away, panting wetly in my ear, and I draw a blank. Eventually he hangs up.

I hope he enjoyed it. I’m just confused.