A Few Things You Wanted to Know About Phone Sex

~ But Were Afraid to Ask

It just might be that — rather than being afraid to ask — you just don’t give a damn.  … one way or the other.  But this lass does care.   It’s what I DO.  So if you don’t mind, we’re going to go over some basics today.  If you actually do find this topic of interest, then I urge you to read (or re-read, as the case should may be) my post, Phone Sex Tips for Men.

⇒No Two Phone Sex Calls Are Alike

Yes, you heard that right:  Phone Sex calls are kinda-sorta like snowflakes.  And we may already be starting off on the wrong foot, because I’m going to  rephrase myself:  No Two Phone Sex Calls SHOULD BE alike.  If they are, um, buddy, then something is just not kosher.  Key turn-ons flirted with? Sure.  Certain hot buttons tickled?  Of course.  You’re the "boy" after all and need your milk-and cookie-fix like clockwork. 

Try thinking of phone sex as melody/medley  of musical chairs/speed dating.  Really, I mean it.  Picture it.  How could any encounter, even if you occasionally end up sitting across from the same girl, repeat itself?  So expect the unexpected, even require the unexpected.

But here’s the catch:  You must not only require the unexpected of that girl whispering sweet nothings into your ear, you must require the unexpected of the moment you are in, and you must, more importantly, require it of yourself.  In other words, don’t be the same old boring you.  You get to do that every day. 

Dare to be audacious, open yourself up to adventure.  And don’t forget that part of opening up is giving a little or even a lot.  Take a leap of faith and  tell her that "extra-dirty" detail of your secret fantasy.  You know — the one you’ve never, ever told anybody, not even other PSOs.  Ask her about something you’ve tbeen ip-toeing around the edges of.  ie. exactly what is cuckolding?  Or tell her about a particular XXX website or blog that has caught your attention so that your phone cohort will get the "hint" about where to take you.  Describe a scene that’s been playing over and over again in your head.  If she is wise, she’ll take the hint(s) and your off and running!

⇒Good Phone Sex is NOT About Fucking

And I mean that in the nicest way.  No, really, I do!  Stop smirking.  Now this doesn’t mean some serious copulation  won’t occur sometime during your Phone Sex encounter.  Of course not.  It just means that when and if it happens (because, believe you me, there are a lot of other ways to orgasm besides intercourse and even masturbation — particularly during a fetish-y, kinky type of call) it will usually be absolutely-tutely mind-blowing, due to the mind-fucking and word games played beforehand.  In other words, good Phone Sex is all about the adjectives (i.e. sleek, wet, rock-hard, swollen, spasming) and the adverbs (answering the incredibly important questions of how, when, where and why).

Let’s get real here.  Getting laid is the stuff of everyday life.  You really don’t need a PSO for that.  You have your significant others and/or friends with whom you share benefits, and/or one-night stands and/or massage parlors with happy endings.  And never let it be said that I don’t encourage the real sex of every day life.  It’s healthy and it’s necessary, both physiologically and psychologically. 

I would never underestimate the importance of the human touch … the textures, the scents, the taste, the emotional bonding of sex with a real, live person.  But we’re not talking about that, are we?  We’re talking about Hot Sex Chat.  We’re talking about Erotic Fantasy Conversation.

Yes you could call me and be quick about it and mount me and I could moan and groan and we could say goodbye.  Wam.  Bam. Thank you, Ma’am.  But didn’t you just do that with your wife last night?  Why waste your hard-earned cash on a Phone Sex Call doing the same thing with me?  How can we make it worth your time and money to call me, while also making it !hot damn! stupendous, tremendous, and even maybe down-right earth-shattering?  Back to those adjectives and adverbs. 

What if … long before any fucking:

Happy Howl-O-Ween

  EAT, DRINK & BE SCARY!

♦♦♦♦

Broomstick Rides Available:  Click Here

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Little Orphan Annie

by James Whitcomb Riley

Little Orphan Annie’s come to our house to stay,
And wash the cups and saucers up, and brush the crumbs away,
And shoo the chickens off the porch and dust the hearth and sweep,
And make the fire, and bake the bread, and earn her board and keep;
And all us other children, when the supper things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire and has the mostest fun
A-listeniin’ to the witch tales that Annie tells about,
And the Gobble-uns that gits you if you don’t watch out!

Once they was a little boy who wouldn’t say his prayers–
And when he went to bed at night, away upstairs,
His mammy heard him holler and his daddy heard him bawl,
And when they turned the kivvers down, he wasn’t there at all!
And they seeked him in the rafter room, and cubby hole and press,
And seeked him up the chimney flue, and everywheres, I guess;
But all they ever found was just his pants and round about!
And the Gobble-uns’ll git you if you don’t watch out!

And one time a little girl would always laugh and grin,
And make fun of everyone, and all her blood and kin;
And once when they was company and old folks was there,
She mocked them and shocked them and said she didn’t care!
And just as she kicked her heels, and turnt to run and hide,
They was two great big Black Things a-standin’by her side,
And they snatched her through the ceiling
‘fore she knowed what she’s about!
And the Gobble-uns’ll git you if you don’t watch out!

And little Orphan Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
And the lampwick sputters, and the wind goes woo-oo!
And you hear the crickets quit and the moon is gray,
And the lightning bugs in dew is all squenched away–
You better mind your parents, and your teachers fond and dear,
And cherish them that loves you, and dry the orphan’s tear,
And help the poor and needy one that cluster all about,
Or the Gobble-uns’ll git you if you don’t watch out!

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Believe me, it’s very scary when PQS reads this aloud to you!  That man has a way with him.  Oh yes he does.

The poet’s website:  Click Here   Wikipedia Page:  Click Here

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And did you hear about the Twitter "Tweance" wherein a psychic contacted Michael Jackson, Kurt Cobain and River Phoenix?  Sadly, Avon Bard, Shakespeare was apparently rather tired and chose not to participate.  You can "see" the Seance HERE.  And read about it HERE.

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Before you go …

… shall we Dance? 

Dance the Monster Mash?  Click Here

Doctor’s Visit

by Porno Person

My wife and I had been trying to get pregnant to no avail. I had grown up in a really toxic area and had the sinking feeling that my swimmers weren’t treading water.

I had been putting off this appointment for months. It’s not that I detest doctors or office visits; I simply can’t stand the whole "referral process" that requires me to see my regular doctor, knowing that he needs to send me to a specialist but has to set up on official referral. Such a crock. It’s a waste of my time, the doctor’s time, and everyone’s money.

I had expected a simple "jerk into a cup" kind of appointment with the specialist, Dr. Lan. What I got was something quite different.

We started with a series of questions. He wasn’t shy asking about how often I masturbate, the frequency of sex with my wife, and when both things had last occurred.

You would think that I would be fine admitting how frequently I jerk off but it still caught in my throat; the Catholic guilt runs deep. "Three times a week," I croaked and mentally added, "More, if I can." As for sex, after sixteen months of trying my wife seemed to put sex on indefinite hiatus. It had been two months since we’d last "engaged in copulation" (as the doctor put it).

He nodded to each of my responses and marked my chart.

His questions exhausted, I thought that now was the time for the cup and squirt. Far from it. He rolled his chair over next to the padded, paper-covered table on which I sat and cuffed my arm to take my blood pressure. I could smell his cologne, it was a nice counterpoint to the typical medical office odor.

He tore off the cuff when he was done and, like every doctor or nurse I’ve ever had, didn’t tell me the results.

And then began the part of the exam that I had never before experienced at a doctor’s office. He had me stand up and take off my shirt. While I did that he retrieved a tape measurer. He unspooled it and wrapped it around my chest with my arms down. Getting the number of inches he marked these on a chart next to a line drawing of a figure. He repeated the process around my stomach, around my shoulders, along one arm and then the other.

Initially I felt like I was being measured for a suit but quickly I found that Dr. Lan was being far more thorough in his assessment. Up and down my arm, even noting the length of my fingers.

He requested that I remove my pants as well and, once I was finished, he began unspooling the tape measurer down my legs, his fingers brushing under my buttocks.

He told me to turn around so he could do the same for the front. I was hesitant to do so as I found myself with the beginnings of a hard-on. I hoped that he wouldn’t notice, that he’d be too involved with my legs to not look at the bulge in my underpants.

All the way up and down my legs he worked, the warmth of his hands a welcome presence in the cool of the examination room. He knelt down as he took his myriad measurements, his head even with my crotch. Though I tried not to, it was then that I started thinking about Dr. Lan in sexual terms.

When standing he was a half a head taller than me. Handsome, with an strikingly handsome face. Far thinner than me, he was still muscular and, noting that his white coat was opened, I wondered what he might look like naked. I tried to shake these thoughts from my head as they continued to make my erection more prevalent.

Dr. Lan had me turn around again and walk across the room to watch the way my hips worked, checking for any kind of dysplasia. I caught my reflection in one of the many mirrored surfaces of the room, feeling ridiculous stripped down to my whity-tighties tented out with a hard-on. Worse, after walking away from him I had to walk back, I could feel my dick bobbing in my underpants and hoped that he didn’t notice it.

If he did, there was no reaction. Instead, he asked me to repeat my walk a few times before he had me walk in place. While I did so, he put his hands on my hips, pushing his fingers along my joints. Finally he let me stop and marked more notations on my chart. I tried to spy what all he was writing but couldn’t make heads or tails of it. He got back up and, putting down his pen, donned a pair of rubber gloves.

"I need you to remove your underwear," he said. I felt my heart jump. As I lowered my underpants I half-expected to hear a cartoon sound effect, "Sproing!"

My "one-eyed snake" stared Dr. Lan in the face. Ignoring it, he reached underneath and grabbed onto my testicles. "Turn to the right and cough," he instructed. His hand felt wonderful on my balls. I wanted him to tug on them. I coughed for him and he had me repeat this a few times.

"I’m going to take your temperature," he said, getting up and going to his cabinet. I sat on the exam table, the paper crinkling under my ass. As he returned with a thermometer he said, "I prefer to do it rectally."

I shrugged and got off of the table to turn around for him. "Reach back and spread your cheeks for me," he said. As I did I felt the cool of lubrication being applied to my sphincter. This gentle rubbing was all too quickly interrupted by the intrusion of the thermometer sliding inside of me. I stood there in this awkward position, my erection pressed between my body and the exam table and my hand spreading my ass cheeks for what seemed like an eternity, all the while one of his hands rested on my lower back.

His watch beeped and he took out the thermometer. He read it and put it aside before he began sliding his fingers gently inside of me. He slid them in deep until he began gently prodding my prostate gland. My cock jumped at his touch.

His fingers seemed to linger longer than maybe they should have as they continued to press against my prostate. I felt a tingle in my loins, the kind that comes with urination or orgasm, that "loss of control" sensation. I tried my best to resist it.

"Very good," he said, removing his gloves with a snap behind me.

"Please get up on the table," he instructed as he disposed of his gloves and donned a new pair.

I lay back on the table, my legs hanging off the edge and my cock waving.

Standing next to me, Dr. Lan looked down, a small white plastic cup in his hand, and said, "I need a sample of your sperm so I can test the motility. There are a few ways we can do this; you can manipulate yourself, I can give you a prostate massage, or I can give a prostate massage and manipulate you at the same time."

I gulped and wondered if he could be serious about his offer. Rather than repeating what he said I merely indicated, "The last one, please."

"In that case, I’d prefer if you kept your eyes closed." He reached into a drawer underneath the exam table and brought out some gauze. He unrolled a bit and placed it over my eyes. I lifted my head and he began wrapping the gauze around it until he was satisfied that I couldn’t see. I could still make out shapes and shadows but only through a white curtain.

After adding some more lubrication to his gloves, Dr. Lan reached down between my legs and to insert a finger inside of me again. This time he found my prostate immediately and began rubbing it softly. Meanwhile, he wrapped the fingers of his other hand around my cock and began stroking me. His firm, sure grasp made me moan before I could even realize what I was doing.

I could hear the sound of lubrication squelching in my bottom as he began moving his finger in and out of me in time with his hand pumping my cock. It felt so good as he expertly jerked my cock.

"What do you usually think about when you masturbate?" he asked me. The question startled and embarrassed me. Moreover, it perplexed me. Did he want the truth or did he want to hear something that would please him? What would make him happiest to hear? Why was he asking? Was this turning him on too? Did he want to know so that he could fulfill my turn-on?

These questions flew through my mind while my mouth quietly uttered, "Sucking cock."

Again, I couldn’t believe that I had admitted this to anyone, much less this stoic physician. My body seemed to be in revolt. I wasn’t saying or doing what I thought was right, only what, apparently, was necessary. This became completely evident as I reached my hand out to where I thought the front of his slacks should be.

I found his cock tenting his pants and gently rubbed my palm against it. He felt huge and rock hard. I hoped that I wasn’t stroking his otoscope. His reaction made it clear that I wasn’t. He pushed himself against my hand and I felt the wonderful upward curve of his cock filling my fingers.

"Would it make it easier to ejaculate if you were holding that?" he asked.

"Yes, Doctor."

He stopped stroking me and I heard the sound of his belt and zipper being undone, his pants falling to the floor with a jangle of keys and change. He put his hand back on me and I reached again for his cock, fumbling in the dark until my fingers found him and wrapped around him.

His cock felt wonderful, so hot and hard. I could feel the tendrils of pubic hair as my fist went down his length and the dribble of precum as I moved back up him again. I licked my lips and began jerking his cock in time with the way he stroked mine. "Tighter," he said. I obliged, tightening my grip on his manhood. He groaned in appreciation and I squeezed even more, so tight that it was difficult to stroke him completely. He helped by pumping his cock into my fist.

His cock was like a living relief map. I could feel the veins throbbing in my hand. He groaned again, I looked up at his face, trying to gauge his reaction but was unable to see anything but a blurry shadow through the gauze.

He plunged his fingers in deeper inside of me and I knew that I was going to cum soon. I felt him pushing me farther along, taking me to that place I love to go. Needing him there with me, I pumped him harder, faster.

His manipulation put me over the edge. I felt hot drops of spunk landing on my stomach. They were quickly joined by more on my chest as Dr. Lan began cumming. My hand was wrapped around him so tightly that I could feel the cum moving under my thumb as he drained himself onto me.

I didn’t want to take my hand off of him. I wanted more of him. I could feel his pulse pounding in my hand. He slowly removed his fingers from inside of me and took his hand off my cock. I did the same for him. He ran the plastic cup along my belly, collecting some of my ejaculate.

"That should be enough for testing," he said, the zip of his pants loud in my ear. "Though, we may need to take another sample if the lab can’t process this."

I felt him wiping me off with a wet towel, cleaning himself off of me, before he cut away the gauze over my eyes. I felt like proclaiming, "I can see!" but ruled that a little melodramatic. By the time I sat up on the table he looked as if nothing had happened.

He made one more mark on my chart before off-handedly saying that I’d have my results back in two weeks and to make a follow-up appointment at the front desk before leaving me to re-dress alone in the exam room. I made my appointment and knew I wouldn’t mind spending the money on my co-pay the next time I came around.

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Ah, Porno Person.  He’s such a kinky guy and I simply adore him for it.  The man’s mind is a wicked, wicked place and perpetually in hyper-drive. 

Lucky for us.

Visit Porno Person’s blog, Prurient Interests, to be inspired, shocked, amazed and feel the overwhelming urge to masturbate furiously.

America, you’re a fat, sweaty bastard. For your sake, and for all of our sakes really, you need to embrace pornography.

You’re The Great Satan. You’re a canker sore in the mouths of countless people around the world. For every good thing you do, there are a dozen bad decisions you make, another hairy, beady-eyed war criminal painting his ugly visage on the yellow and orange slums of whatever Third World country you decided to rape this year. There are thoughtful, intelligent, decent people within your borders who embody the true meaning of the American Spirit…most of whom are crudely silenced by their overweight, dimwitted American counterparts.

You’re secretive. You love to lie. When you make a mistake, it takes you years to admit it. Basically, you’re the international equivalent of a terrible, cheating girlfriend. Except when the girlfriend makes mistakes, it results in a drunken argument at 3 am. When you, the USA, makes a mistake, it results in smart bombs blowing the turbans off numerous brown-skinned peoples.

People in the Third World hate you so much that they follow badly dressed psychopaths masquerading as heads of state. They hate you so much that they’ll blame you for anything; if the people of Venezuela are stricken with a nationwide case of hemorrhoids, Venezuelans will no doubt blame their predicament on CIA administered poison toilet paper. My friend, they hate you so much they’re willing to strap pretty much anything flammable to their chests and run screaming into your embassies. Hell man, some crazy bastards hated you so much they even crashed fuckin airplanes into buildings. And it wasn’t even an accident.

Now now, don’t get defensive. Millions of your citizens would jump to your defense, scream that America is an innocent and god-fearing nation, then proceed to slit our throats and burn Liberating Porn to the ground for uttering such unspeakable insults about their country, all in defense of the freedom of speech. You need to stop listening to your yes-men: the piss poor hicks, the capitalists raping the planet, the assbackward, football coach generals, the captains of the booming lapel flag industry. These people are sucking on your huge, glistening, red, white, and blue nipples. You need to listen to the citizens who love you, but don’t hesitate to call you out on your mistakes. These are the dissenters, the true and honest patriots of all stripes, the intellectuals, the generous middle class, the free thinking working class, poor, and disenfranchised. Or, as your most ardent supporters refer to them, ‘terrorists’.

There’s a reason why people hate you. Though you present yourself as a benevolent force for good, more often than not you act like a sniveling corporate douchebag. You’re in it for the money. You broker backdoor deals with thugs and gangsters from countries with unpronounceable names. And you cover it up. You’re a no good stinking liar. You sweep all your dirt under the couch, then kill the maid.

Sure, we could advocate nationwide revolution. Americans certainly have the weaponry to do this; compared to the average citizens of Camden, New Jersey, the resistance in Iraq looks like a squad of poor kids playing with Soviet Nerf guns. Having a handgun in Philadelphia is laughable; even the most peaceful, law abiding civilians are armed to the teeth with automatic weapons. Let’s not forget the bat-shit insane white people in the Midwest, more than a few of whom belong to paramilitary groups who are right now crawling through shrubbery, acting out their favorite scenes from Red Dawn.

No, instigating armed revolution is not our goal. Instead we suggest that you, America, embrace pornography. Millions of your citizens are avid fans, and very few of them harbor sexual perversions. Well perhaps they do, but these are mostly harmless perversions, legal everywhere in the country except in Texas (where half of the criminal population is on death row while the other half is elected for office).

Sexually uninhibited people are among the healthiest in America. They live longer, happier lives. Mental health-wise, they pop less Prozac. They raise better children. Most people who live happy, sexual lives are liberal in thought and action, open-minded, and tolerant of others. Rarely do they harm anyone, as it’s almost impossible to fly into a murderous rage when you’re getting laid on a regular basis.

Compare these liberated people to the flag waving denizens, the ugly, pimple-faced, angry children of America. Their evangelist says they can’t fuck for fun, so their bedrooms are dull places of god-fearing, supposed do-goodery. It’s not just the obvious nut jobs, either. We live in a democracy, and the angry, non-sex-having people vote for other angry, non-sex-having people. Angry, no-sex having people have done their best to ensure that you, America, come across as the same. But angry, no-sex having countries tend to bomb the piss out of a lot of people.

Yes, even with our new President, we at Liberating Porn fear for you, America. You need to put down the anti-abortion sign with that dead baby picture, smoke a doob and take it easy. Because even with B-rock in the Oval Office, you’re still filled with anger, still the jock doofus who shows off the Lexus his rich daddy bought him. For Christ’s sake, look at you. You’re at those stupid evangelical churches all the time then you finger-bang old men in truck stops. You’re a walking contradiction, a Great Satan that decorates brutal, elitist capitalism with Wal-Mart party balloons and Big Macs while your citizens die fat and poor. Please stop defending your actions with failed ideology. You misinterpret Adam Smith, demonize intellectuals, and have yet to hold a press release to inform the masses that Ayn Rand was a giant cunt.

Embracing porn may not fix all of your problems, but it will help you be honest. Naked people cannot hide much. It’s hard to keep a lobbyist in your pocket if you’re not wearing pants. Let us see your warts, so that we can have a doctor remove them.

So let your cock out, America. Put on a skin flick and crank one out. Hell, you can call Canada over to the house. She’s a sweet chick. We hear that she’s down for just about anything, given that she can get all types of crazy drugs from her free clinics. (Let your beard grow in; Miss Canada loves guys who look like lumberjacks or hockey players.) Get your nut off, experience some free love, then see how you feel in the morning.

With love,

Mitch and Chip — LIBERATING PORN

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I don’t know Mitch and Chip, but I sure as hell like what they’ve got to say.  Mostly, it’s what I’ve been saying all along, but they say it more  — um — in-your-face poetically than I ever could. 

In fact, it turns me on so much that I’m masturbating to this essay.

… every.  fucking.  word.  of it.

I could say a lot more.  Oh my darlings, soooo much more.  But I want you to savor THEIR WORDS, not mine.  Maybe later.

What can I say?   Someone (a rather um … passionate Republican) sent it to me.

And despite my liberal leanings, I’m a tolerant and unbiased type …

… most of the time.

And it’s funny.  So there.

At least that’s the way it was between Mr. N and myself until I got this absolutely wonderful email from him:

Dear Angela St. Lawrence:

From an old friend who remembers you as Misty.

I must have done something good to somebody once to have found your card with your web site and all on it.

By the way, there used to be a picture of a lady with a strap-on in your site. That’s gone. Ahhh. Where is that picture?

OK. Enough blabbering. I pray that you are healthy and well-taken care of, that you are safe and loved, that life comes back to embrace you with goodness and joy even when things go up and down, and that you embrace it back.  Be good to yourself, eat lots of veggies, stay away from soft drinks, drink water and juice and delicious teas, and be good to yourself.  You are a delight.

Dying to talk with you,

Mr. N.

Yes, he knew me as Misty — one of my "characters" at the phone sex service I worked for when in college.  Regardless of the name — and believe you me, a phone sex operator usually goes by many — the connection was a good one.  So, a few years back — when I left the corporate world to rev up the kink-O-phone once again — I’d contacted him and we’d started up again like there hadn’t even been a lapse.  And so we continued for quite a while.

Until he suddenly disappeared.   Being a busy girl with a lot of regular clients, it took a while for me to notice.  Hey?  Wonder what’s up with Mr. N.?  He hasn’t called in quite a while now. Hmmm.  But the world kept turning and the phone kept ringing.  So, although I never ever forgot him, I had to move on.  Two years later — during which I thought about Mr. N. at least once a week, sometimes more — and there he is in my mailbox!  Woot!

I immediately emailed him back and — as they say — the rest is history.  WE ARE ON!  We picked up — for the second time — right where we left off, without skipping a beat. 

It was so much fun to catch up.  Mr. N. apologized for the disappearing act, explaining the whats, wheres and whys of it.  We commiserated about OUTSOURCING — of which we both have too much experience.  We talked about the validity of ANY fantasy and the psychological dualities and complexities of human sexuality.  He told me about his new business venture.

So then I reminded Mr. N of the two-girl call he’d done with me and another (supposedly talented) PSO when I’d been with that service where he’d first contacted me, because it is one of my funniest and fondest memories of him.  He really didn’t remember, but that speaks a lot more to my ego than his memory retention abilities. 

You see, at that point in time, way back when …

Mr. N really wanted to try two girls at once.  This was new ground for him and, obviously, an expensive endeavor.  While I usually don’t like other girls in on calls with me (it’s a mixed bag and you never know who will be up to the task or professional … I’ve actually heard the other girl typing during a call), who was I to rain on his parade?  Despite the fact that the other PSO had only been with our company for a few days, the dispatcher assured me that she was experienced, having worked a considerable length of time  for another phone sex company before signing on with us. 

So — just to be safe — I took it upon myself to talk with this girl first.  Because while Mr. N. delighted me to no end, he was a rather demanding caller.  His fantasies were complex and multi-layered, and he required a lot of verbosity from my side when we played.   So I explained all this to Mr. N’s and I’s pending phone mate, giving her a general outline of Mr. N’s likes, dislikes and hot buttons and emphasizing that it was absolutely essential that she pay close attention to the fantasy as it evolved and to then respond/interact in explicit and creative ways.

You might think that was rather bitchy of me, and perhaps this new PSO thought the same, despite the fact that I went out of my way to be positive and friendly during our entire pre- phonesex huddle.  Oh well, too bad.  Mr. N was paying double for this adventure and he deserved the best.  I owed it to him, myself and the phone sex company to do everything possible to make this thing work well.  Jezuz Chrizt!  Mr. N was paying double for what would probably be an extended call.  In other words:  BIG BUCKS!

But no worries!  This gal told me so.  No worries at all; she knew what she was doing and had this thing in the bag.  And so, it was time to do the dirty deed.

And let me tell you, my friends, it was bad.  We got the moaning, the groaning.  And then more moaning and groaning.  With unflagging expectations and hopes that this was just a case of stage fright which Ms. New PSO would soon overcome, Mr. N and I moved forward with the fantasy.  Then silence, then more moaning and groaning.  I think at one point she did say, "Does that feel good?"  How original and spontaneous! This was an interactive role-play!  Where were the visual pictures and clever words she’d promised?  More groaning.  Then some grunting and heavy breathing — well at least that was something new.  As you might imagine, I was rapidly approaching panic status.  Poor Mr. N!  What was I do to to get us out of this mess?

Suddenly, Mr. N cleared his throat.  Girls, lets stop this for a moment.

Uh oh!

Mr. N proceeded to basically tell New PSO — in his soft-spoken and genteel manner –that she absolutely sucked at this.  He told her that he wanted her to disconnect from the call so he and Misty could continue the fantasy without her.  He assured her that he was not angry, that he was confident that she’d get better at this phone sex thing IF she followed Misty’s example and learned all she could from Misty.  Because Misty was the absolute.  Misty was an artist.  Misty was perfection.  Misty would teach her how to do it right.  Misty was the alpha and omega. 

… and all that jazz. 

While I’ll be the first to admit that Mr. N is possibly a bit biased and even perhaps smitten, seeing me as he does through the erotic glaze of our unconventional and downright dirty escapades — she really wasn’t any good at this phone sex thing.   And even though Mr.N did go on-and-on-and-on about my wonder-hood-ness, he had a valid complaint and was paying for what he’d hoped would be an extraordinary experience.  He was frustrated, poor man.  Even so, he was diplomatic and encouraging with New PSO.

It didn’t matter though.  She was offended or pissed or whatever — because she abruptly hung up the phone.  Very loudly hung up the phone.  And that was the very last of New PSO.  Literally.  She was gone, vamoosed, poof, disappeared.  Bye, bye bye.  Later, after Mr. N and I had said our goodbyes, I called the service and gave them the scoop.  When they rang her up, they got her voice mail.  She was officially missing in action and nobody ever heard hide nor hair from her again.

Oh well … 

Maybe she’s married with five children now.  She could be a model, a nanny, a doctor, an Olympic competitor, a beauty consultant.  Who knows?  Or perhaps she’s the CEO of one of the successful Phone Sex Companies with whom I compete for business.  Where ever she is and what ever she’s doing, I wish her well.

Because Mr. N and I — for the second time — found each other again.  And all is right with the world.  Now I gotta get going and find that strap-on picture for Mr. N.  I promised!

xo, Angela