I have always prided myself on being open to new experiences and opportunities. If it does not involve jumping from high places, or spending long amounts of time underwater, I see no reason not to get involved. Yet, last weekend I ventured into unknown territory, and I am still recovering. Last weekend I took a risk, searched within myself, and pulled out the dirty little girl that has been inside me all these years. Yes, that’s right. Last weekend, at approximately 11:15 PM, while the rest of you were deciding what beer to buy, or what skanky shirt to wear with your new hip hugging blue jeans, I had PHONE SEX!
I need to make it clear that this was not a pre-planed event. I did not look in my planner Saturday morning and see,
3:00 Post Office
5:00 Grocery shopping
7:00 Dinner with grandma
11:15 Phone sex
The incident was synonymous to the time I woke up in a foreign bed covered in cash, looked down and saw that I was wearing red boxers with Christmas trees on them, and thought to myself, “How did I get here, and why is this man calling me Candy?” (If you are reading this and cannot relate to this scenario, stop reading right now and send this article to one of your slutty friends who can) My point is, I did not intend to get a man off via Verizon on Saturday night, I did not intend to give in to the pressures of verbal persuasion, and I did not intend to use words like, “lick,” and “bite” in a situation that did not involve food consumption. So let us now examine how I ended up under my lilac duvet, whispering R-rated sentences into my large, twenty-dollar cell phone.
That Saturday evening I had plans to hang out with a guy that I was not friends with, was not dating, but had made out with a couple of times. I was definitely getting the, “I don’t want to date you, I just want to do you” vibe from him. He had asked me to spend the night at his apartment multiple times and I had always declined. I don’t think that I am opposed to having a no strings, physical relationship, I just think that maybe I was going through a, “I’m 23 years old, and it’s time to stop giving it away for free” phase. Regardless, when he called that night to cancel our plans because he had work to do, I was a little relieved. “I’ll call you later,” he said. I replied sincerely with, “Ok, I’ll just cover myself in whip cream and wait by the phone.” I realize now that uttering those words was a fatal mistake, and probably opened the big Pearly Gates to the Kingdom of phone sex, yet at the time I was just being honest. It was Saturday night. On Saturday nights when I’m bored, like all single women around the country, I lick whip cream off my body and watch Cinema Therapy on the We network.
So around 11:10 he called.
Anonymous Phone Sex Guy: Hey, it’s me.
Mindy: Hi, what’s up?
APSG: Not too much, just watching TV. What are you doing?
Mindy: Getting ready for bed.
APSG: Are you in your pajamas?
APSG: What are you wearing?
I looked down at my ensemble and quickly replied,
Mindy: Flannel pants and a U of M rose bowl t-shirt with BBQ sauce stains from 3 summers ago.
He answered back breathily,
APSG: That’s hot.
There was an awkward silence. I felt the need to talk; yet I did not know what to say. I finally decided it would be polite to reciprocate his question. I asked,
Mindy: What are you wearing?
APSG: Are you wearing underwear?
I wasn’t wearing any. I had lots of laundry to do and had been going commando all week. I shamefully answered back,
APSG: You’re naughty.
Was I naughty? Yeah, I guess I was.
APSG: You shave?
Mindy: When I have time.
APSG: Is it shaved now?
I thought about the last time I made the effort to really make myself presentable down there, I couldn’t remember. So I lied.
Mindy: Yeah, of course.
I was ready to hang up. I didn’t know what I was doing. I just lied about the appearance of my genitalia, and I sensed that the guy on the other end of the phone was unnecessarily turned on. But then he started talking about me; about all theses things he wanted to do to me, and well . . .I was flattered. I just sat there listening to all his fantasies. They were crazy. They involved places I had never been, furniture that I did not own, and lotions I had yet to buy. Then he asked me how I pictured the two of us. I drew a blank. Maybe it’s an estrogen thing, but I don’t have sexual fantasies that aren’t grounded in some rational, committed relationship. I decided he would not be turned on if I answered,
Mindy: Ok, well sometimes I picture us lying in my bed. I’m wearing lingerie that’s really expensive and really flattering, and you’re feeding me cannolis. No, Éclairs! You turn to me and wipe some chocolate from my lip. I stare into your eyes and then you open up your big, wet, cream-filled mouth and say, “Mindy, I love you, and I want you to meet my parents.”
So I started off hesitantly with,
Mindy: Well you and I are . . . ah . . .kissing . . .
APSG: and . . .?
Mindy: And . . .I’m really enjoying it.
APSG: And . . .
Mindy: And . . .ah . . .we’re um still kissing . . .
APSG: where are my hands?
Mindy: um . . .
I knew that once I uttered these next words there was no turning back. It all happened so quickly. My voice dropped a whole octave and I actually said,
Mindy: On my breasts?
APSG: Yeah, and where are your hands?
I was getting into it. I wasn’t really turned on, but more creatively charged. I felt as though I was the author of some fabulous choose your own adventure, romanitca novel. Everything was going great until,
APSG: oooooh! Ooooh god!
I guess I had forgotten that I was speaking to another person and not writing it all down on my computer screen. I guess I had forgotten that there was a man on the other end of the phone touching himself. I felt like I was the accomplice to some sick crime. I felt very dirty, and yet very powerful.
Later that night, while I was finishing off a loaf of cinnamon raison bread, I thought about the events of the evening. Yes, it was a new experience, but the dynamics were not unfamiliar: a man sleeping soundly satisfied by another’s hard work, and a woman consuming food by herself in her apartment.