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Life Arts

Phone Sex for Amateurs

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Me: Hello?

Him: Hey, how are you? (My knees buckle at the sound of him saying, "Hey").

Me: I'm very well thank you, how are you?

Him: I'm good. You wanna do this?

Me: Yeah, sure. This is very romantic.

Him: How do we start?

Me: I have no idea. What do I look like? One of those 900 phone sex numbers that you call?

Him: Well, I thought you knew how this thing works.

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Me: Not any more than you do.


Him: Okay. Where are you?

Me: I'm at home. You called me on my house line, remember? Idiot.

Him: Very funny. I know you're at home. Where in the house are you?

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Me: I'm in bed. Where are you?

Him: I'm in bed, too.

Me: No you're not! There's only one person in my bed and that would be me!

Him: You're going to make this very hard, aren't you?

Me: I certainly hope so.

Him: Are you on top of the covers?

Me: What the hell difference does it make?

Him: I dunno. Just asking.

Me: Thank you, Larry King. Actually, I'm under them.

Him: What are you wearing?

Me: Beside the covers? Nothing.

Him: Now we're getting somewhere.

Me: What are you wearing?

Him: A pair of jeans.

Me: Are you crazy? Go back three spaces! We're not going anywhere!

Him: Do you want me to get undressed?

Me: No, I want you to go to New Orleans and look at the levees. Well, if you are planning on having any sex of any kind in the next few minutes, that might be a start.

Him: Okay. Hold on for a minute. (Fumbling, muffling sounds).

Him: Okay, I'm back. Now what?

Me: I dunno. You tell me.

Him: All right. I'll drive.

Me: Wait?! Are you telling me you're in the car now?

Him: No. We're in a restaurant.

Me: Glad somebody told me. I am feeling a little peckish.

Him: Let's try to do this, please. We are sitting in the restaurant bar having drinks. You're wearing a pair of tight jeans and a very sexy shirt made of really thin material.

Me: FYI. We don't call them shirts. We call them tops.

Him: You're killing me, here.

Me: Mrs. Peacock with the lead pipe in the conservatory.

Him: Huh?

Me: It's a reference to the old board game, "Clue". Apparently, you don't have one. Let's move this thing along, shall we?

Him: (Clears throat) So, you're wearing tight jeans with a sexy top and we're sitting at the bar having drinks. We're start kissing really deeply and passionately. We are so hungry for each other.

Me: Mmmmmm I like this. Go on.

Him: I'm lightly caressing your neck and whispering in your ear what I'm going to do to you when we get home. Everyone in the bar can see how turned on we are but we don't care. We pay the tab and go in the back of the restaurant to a dark corner booth.

Me: What kind of food does the restaurant serve?

Him: Are you f*cking kidding me? Who cares what kind of food they serve. Shut up already, will ya?

Several seconds of really long silence.

Him: Hello? Are you still there?

Me: Yes. You told me to shut up. I was looking at the menu.

Him: I'm glad you're not this much of a pain in the ass difficult in real life.

Me: You should be glad I'm not hungry, either. Otherwise, I would be looking for the waiter and wondering what you were going to order.

Him: Funny.

Me: Yeah, I know. Let's see if I can speed things up a little.

Him: Be my guest.

Me: I'm already your guest. You invited me out to dinner. So, we're sitting at the table as close to each other as two people can possibly be without getting arrested discussing the merits of the escargot.

Him: b*tch.

Me: Something like that. And I have my hand on your leg as we are kissing madly and my fingers are slowly inching up toward your package thigh.

Him: This is definitely working.

Me: I am pressed so tightly against your chest that it feels as if your heart is beating inside mine.

Him: I'm really liking this.

Me: Have you tried the veal?

Him: I'm going to spill my drink down your top.

Me: That could be interesting.

Him: I would love to watch you squirm with delight.

Me: Just be glad I don't spill my drink on your lap. We would end up having to go shopping for new clothes after dinner.

Him: Are you getting at all turned on by this?

Me: What? The restaurant or the phone sex?

Him: What do you think?

Me: I don't know. The service is kind of lousy in this joint.

Him: We're not very good at this, are we?

Me: Nah. I think we do better with the real thing. But at least I won't have to change the sheets when it's all over. This almost makes it better.

Him: Yeah, you're probably right. But we do it so well in person.

Me: I know. Why ruin a good thing?

Him: You're right. But we really do have a good thing going, don't we?

Me: We're like teenagers in middle-aged bodies.

Him: That we are. You know, you could always write about us and what we do. That would be way hotter than phone sex.

Me: What do you think I'm doing right this moment?

Him: I thought we were still in the restaurant.

Me: Now who's the comedian?

Him: We both are. I'm funnier.

Me: If that were true, you would be writing this column.

Him: I hate you.

Me: I hate you, too. I really do.

 

Patricia A. Smith is a writer and artist (and sometimes both at the same time). A former columnist, restaurant critic and cruise line executive, Smith has lived in London, Greece, Denmark, Hungary, Egypt, Costa Rica and France. She returned (more...)
 

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