Mar 2019 20

Phone sex, even for a noble cause, can teach you a lot about yourself. Explicit language warning for all you eight-year olds who read my page.

‘Do I say I’m stroking my thick hard cock, now? Is that what I’m supposed to say?’

This is what went through my mind the other day as I was on the phone, in the car, and in the garage. Oh, and the door was closed so it was pitch black.

The person on the other end of the line was waiting for me to say something. And I realized I was out of dirty talk. Where was my normally foul mouth when I really needed it?

I had to find another gear.

I know what you’re thinking, you degenerates. But let me back up.

I get phone calls. Strange phone calls. Scam calls. You get them too.

You know how many cruises I’ve won? Plenty, pal. I could be Captain Jack Fucking Sparrow if only I had the time to accept all of them.

I’m also wanted by the government. In fact, at this point the CRA is just going to shoot me on sight due to my delinquent tax situation that I haven’t cleared up on the phone.

You know the calls I mean.

I usually don’t even answer calls where I don’t recognize the number. However with my father out of commission for awhile I’ve been having his calls forwarded to my phone. So I actually have no clue who is legit unless I answer. Who knows who’s trying to reach him? It’s kind of exciting actually. It reminds me of the 1990s, when you just had no idea who was calling. It was a surprise everytime. Like a Kinder Egg you opened and hey, Aunt Linda is inside! Sciatica acting up again, you don’t say!

Anyhow, I digress.

So last week on the third call in a couple of days from “Visa Mastercard” (cause they’re one company, y’know) and a recorded message about what a great payment history I have (that was my second tipoff, by the way), and how I was eligible for zero percent interest or something like that if I ‘PRESS 1 NOW’, I decided I’d had enough.

I fucking pressed 1.

I happened to have just parked the car in my garage when the phone rang. Hence the sitting in the car, alone, in the dark. The garage door had just shut behind me. Get the picture? Pants were on.

‘Please hold while we transfer your call’

I’ll show them, dammit. A ring, and someone answers.

1st VOICE: [Speaks in Spanish, something India-based or possibly Portuguese]

ME: Who are you looking for?

1st VOICE: [yells for someone else] English! English!

NEW VOICE: [takes phone] Hello, congratulations. Can I get your VISA or MASTERCARD number?

He was Male. Young 20s. South East Asian accent.

ME: (I use my creepy low, slow voice, kind of whispery) Mmmm…. Who is this?

VOICE: Hi. I’m from VISA MASTERCARD, can I get your number?

ME: You sound sexy.

VOICE: Are you interested in the VISA MASTERCARD offer today? Your payment history is outstanding.

ME: No. Tell me about you.

VOICE: I… am a man.

ME: Yes, I can hear that. What are you wearing?

So at this point, I’m thinking – ya, I got this motherfucker. He doesn’t know what to do. Fuck you. You scamming mother fucker.


VOICE: … What … do you want me to be wearing? What would please you?

And he starts talking low and slow too. All breathy.

ME: (INSIDE VOICE: shit, what just happened…) Um, I want you to be wearing … nothing. Naked.

Cause telling someone you want them naked is sexy.

VOICE: Oh, ya. You like that? What kind of men do you like?

ME: Men… like you.

VOICE: Oh ya. I’m the kind of man you like, huh?

ME: Oh. Yes. So much.

So at this point I pause. Cause I don’t know where the fuck I’m going with this. I got called on my bluff of calling him on his bluff. And now he doesn’t even sound like he wants my credit card number. I thought this was transactional, dammit. So I have to restrategize.

ME: Send me a picture.

VOICE: Ya, you like pictures huh?

ME: I do. So, so much.

VOICE: Okay, tell me your Facebook account name.

ME: No, just send them to my phone.  I like to look at them on my phone.

VOICE: No, I want to send them to your Facebook.

ME: C’mon, you called me. So you have my number. Just text them to my phone.

Where I was going with this, I don’t know. But it was too late. We were in a game of chicken now.

ME: Ya, I’m getting excited just thinking about them. Are you taking off your pants like I am?

VOICE: Yes. Oh yes. Send me your Facebook account name and I’ll show you.

Sigh. How do these 1-900 people do this? How do couples do this? New respect. The whole situation was getting ridiculous. It wasn’t sexy. Mental note – scam artist trying to bilk me out of money is not good sex role play for me. So believe me, I wasn’t hard. In fact, I think my penis had retracted into my body, like a reverse erection, and was somewhere near my kidney at this point.

Anyhow, so yes. I was in a dirty talk conversation with some guy in another country who was trying to scam me with this phone call. And I was getting out dirted. Which wouldn’t have bothered me except it sounded like english was his second language, which is fine – good for him for knowing more than one language, impressive  – but I’m a professional writer in this language, and a known pervert to boot and so I should be winning this, dammit.

I was so disappointed with myself. I didn’t even want to touch myself.

I knew right then I had to go away and think about my dirty talk game. I wasn’t ready for this. I had to end this call quickly the only way I knew how.

After a long, expectant pause where he was waiting for my Facebook account name…

ME: Uggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh (let out a really good anguished roar). I just came, baby.

Silence on other end. And I hung up.

I exited the garage looking very shameful and guilty. Cause my dirty talk game sucks. I couldn’t perform.

Anyway, here we are now. It is next week. And I am waiting for that phone to ring to offer me zero percent interest on my VISA MASTERCARD.

I have new shit. All new dirty shit that will make this guy’s hair curl.

I realize the above statement about making someone’s hair curl is not a good indicator of smut quality, cause never in my history of looking at pornography have I ever witnessed anyone’s hair curl from how dirty things got, but it’s just a saying. If anyone’s faking an orgasm this time, it’s gonna be the other person.

Fine, I sound a bit unhinged. But this is how us degenerates sound.

We hang out in garages. In the dark. Answering calls forwarded from our elderly parents’ phones cause they’re sick in the hospital.

We must teach these scam callers a lesson.

Good god, is it spring yet?











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