Phone Sex

by Gina Gold

The first thing I noticed was the way my mind seemed to splatter all around, twist and shout, corner the room. Nobody understands what we mean when we say we leave our body, and I donít know if thatís really what we mean. We donít really leave; we compartmentalize, put a shade over our soul. We move back, divide, recede, elevate, but we donít leave. If you look real hard, you can find us in a tunnel that looks through our own eyes and tapes a movie that will be played later.

And that tape will be played later. No matter how much you try to destroy the records, it will be played. Iím afraid of that tape, so I watch it in bits and pieces, fragments and distortions, mostly distortions. Several tapes are played simultaneously, some of them false. Thereís no way of telling who the impostor is, you try to guess but it makes you scared when the truth comes up and you believe that you must be playing the wrong tape on purpose. After awhile, you realize that your only hope is to play these tapes so they donít play you. You donít try and figure out which tape is real, you just accept that there are tapes.

The sounds of moaning were so loud I thought that maybe they were having sex in the rooms, maybe it wasnít phone sex, just straight fucking. Maybe this was a brothel and I was about to be forced into having sex. Iíd be trapped and then what would I do? Would I explain to them that I was 24 years old and had never had sex with anyone, anyone ever? Couldnít even if I tried, cause my damn pussy wouldnít open, clamps shut when I try to fuck. Maybe itís deformed and thereís a wall, flesh, a piece of skin that keeps it shut, and maybe if I fuck it will break the wall and Iíll bleed.

What if thereís no phone sex job and I get raped? What if I get pregnant and I canít have the baby cause....

The rooms were set up like an office. Dull blues and grays, rotary phones in cubicles and women talking, moaning into the phone with no fear, no embarrassment. They were professionals, experienced. I had never had sex. How could I moan into the phone? I shouldnít be there. I knew I shouldnít be there. I wanted to be an actress. Why were there so many Black women? Were they taking advantage of Black people and exploiting women at the same time? No, not exploiting, itís just an acting job.

Why is that woman on two phones at the same time, moaning and screaming, "Fuck me, fuck me Baby, címon stick it up my ass and fuck me. You know I like it like that." Like what?

Could I ever do that? Could I let myself love like that on the phone, not love but fuck, talk dirty have sex and more sex, more intimacy, more happiness? Would this job bring me joy and would it make my problems go away and would it help me take care of my self, answer long-lost questions, and get me back on my feet? Could it get me back on my feet? Was there any hope of another life? One that didnít feel empty, pathetic, hopeless, worthless and lost?

I was led into the next room, there were women sitting on the floor talking loudly, very loudly.

"Donít you want me to lick that joystick, that juicy hot-dog of yours? I want you to give me that mustard so I can lick it. Then I want you to drive that Cadillac into my garage. Do you like that, sweetie?"

Hot-dog, mustard, Cadillacs.

"Isnít this a phone-sex job?" I asked my tour-guide, a short, fat white woman with Michael Bolten hair.

"Ya, but you canít use dirty words on the soft-porn line. You substitute food for body parts."

"Food?"

"Well it doesnít have to be food. It could be anything, like instead of saying fuck my ass you might say drive your car in the back door."

"Why would you drive your car in the back door? That doesnít even make sense."

My ugly tour-guide wasnít amused by my sarcasm. It made me feel better though. It took my mind off what I was allowing myself to do. What was I allowing myself to do? Sit it in a cubicle and talk about cotton candy and hamburgers. I wondered what the pay was.

Six dollars and fifty cents an hour. It figures. It just figures that not only was I about to degrade myself, I would be doing it practically as a volunteer job. I was going to go through with it. Why? Why? Why? It wasnít paying anything and I was still standing next to Ugly Tour-Guide. Was I being polite? Too shy to leave? What did I want? I was afraid, so afraid, and yet I wanted to be there. I wanted to be there because it was the most interesting thing Iíd ever done. It wasnít real, but it would be a whole new world, different than the world I lived in, and anything was better than that. Better than what? Better than that. Better than life, the life I had then. I was willing to let go. I took the phone.

"Ah, I ah..."

"Whatís your name?"

Name. He asked me my name and I realized I needed a new name. The thought excited me. A name, a name, something special and exotic, sexy and quirky. Something quirky, a nickname. I always wanted a nickname....

"How about Brown Sugar?"

"Brown Sugar?" I turned to Ugly Tour-Guide, then to the woman next to me. Who suggested that? It better have been the girl next to me cause she was Black and was the only one allowed to say stupid shit like that.

It was the girl next to me. Iíd use Brown Sugar for now but I didnít like that name. I couldnít believe someone would suggest it. Itís degrading, like some kind of "Come get Christie Love" kind of degrading, like men donít like Black women, and when they do they want to fetishize us, kind of degrading. Like I-donít-want-to-be-rejected kind of degrading. Rejected cause Iím Black. If you know Iím Black, you know a little more about me, and then you can hurt me kind of degrading.

"This is Brown Sugar," I said.

"Are you Black?" Well he was dumb. Good, I felt a little better.

"Yes... Iím Black."

"What do you look like?"

"Well, Iíve got long wavy brown hair" (hair extensions) "and big tits"(size 32 D) "and a big round ass" (my butt wasnít bad, but a little small by Black menís standards).

"What are you wearing?"

What was I wearing? An orange Betsey Johnson dress that had gone one too many times through the rinse cycle, black tights, and cowboy boots. The boots were turned over, which made me walk with a slight limp. Odd, damn it, I looked Odd.

"Iím wearing, um, a corset, a red one, and some red slippers with heels and a..."

"Iím coming."

"You are?"

"Uhuhuhuhuhuhuhu!"

I held my breath for what seemed like minutes, hours. I was scared, elated, slimed guilty, not guilty, numb, hateful, grateful, Who am I?

"Iím cumming. Iím cumming. Yaaa you Black Bitch uuuh." (Click).

From now on I was a California Blonde, Straight Up.


Submit your comments on this story to our MoxieTalk discussion group by clicking here!   You can also send your comments directly to the author using the form below.

You can do both by typing your response below, submitting it and then copying it, going to MoxieTalk, and pasting it into the form there for posting a message.

Please include your e-mail address if you would like the author to be able to write you back.


Copyright 2000 Moxie Magazine All Rights Reserved