She’s Hot And Wet And Waiting For Your Call
By Ana Weir
For me, being asked, “Can I have your number?” has become an incredibly loaded question. It’s usually preceded by, “What do you do?” to which I open my mouth, catch my breath, and quickly do up a pros and cons chart in my head before responding. Nine times out of ten, I’ll simply say, “phone sex.”
Everybody’s curious about the same things. How much do you get paid? Have you ever spoken to a lesbian? Does your mum know? Does your boyfriend know? Not much, but I’m under skilled and pay buckets in rent. Once, but I think it was a dare at a sleepover. Hell no. Of course he does, we share a house for Christ’s’ sake.
If it’s only girls around, they’ll then ask, “So what is it men want?”
I don’t sugarcoat it. I have hundreds of calls worth of experience, so I feel like my answer has merit. I say, “Blow jobs, followed by anal sex for most. A surprising number really want to wear your lingerie and get pegged, though.”
Has it made me jaded? Yes. Has it changed my perception of monogamy, the sanctity of marriage and the male species? Yes. I look at the hunky bricklayer who’s pouring water on his rippled, sweaty abdominals and I think of the equally muscular tradesman who wanted to be my sissy boy in plastic underwear just hours ago. I see the chubby, ginger family man holding his pregnant wife’s hand and wonder if he fantasizes about double-teaming her with his happy-ending-sleepover Boy Scout buddy from 20 years ago. Or was he the one who wanted me to tie his wife up with Shibari rope while he masturbated furiously onto her wedding shoes?
If the conversation hasn’t come to a natural end by now (or my phone hasn’t rung to interrupt us) I get asked one final question. “Do you still believe in love?”
Well I haven’t dumped my boyfriend out of contempt, but I wasn’t the most romantically inclined person to start with. I have learned that the way to a man’s heart isn’t — as my grandmother suggested — through his stomach, but through his penis. I still live in hope that romance isn’t dead and love can be beautiful and turn frogs into hot royalty… but unless I become a dirty talking, oral sex robot, I doubt thousands of ships will be launching in my honor. My advice is to ditch the Disney and get down and dirty. Right now. Go find a willing participant. Better yet, you could call me. My rent’s overdue as it is.