The Lying Game
When you work as a phone sex operator, you are often essentially being paid to pretend you believe bullshit.
Yes, of course your penis is the exact dimensions of a foot-long meatball sub.
You’re talking to me while a Victoria’s Secret model is sucking your cock? Wow, Mister. That is really something!
So let me get this straight: You have interacted with real, actual people before? In public? Unsupervised? Oh, baby, that’s so hot.
I was uniquely suited to this task because I am naturally straight-off-the-bus gullible. When I was younger I somehow didn’t grasp the concept of lying to impress people. I loved to invent stories with fictional people, and I’d lied for self-preservation before, but it had never in my life occurred to me to prop myself up with false claims, and somehow that left me blind to it when others did it.
This led me to marvel at how that nice Mormon girl I knew in eighth grade had managed to join a gang of drug dealers. It also left me wondering how Reginald Sleeth, my first boyfriend, had managed to ghostwrite so many songs for indie bands without ever getting paid for it!
I have since learned to be a bit less credulous, but it’s still embarrassingly easy to lie to me sometimes. And this serves me well when people are lying to impress me and I’m supposed to seem duly impressed.
But this one guy took the cake.
I think one customer was single-handedly keeping the struggling phone sex company I worked for afloat. He called in almost every night I worked, and the dispatch ladies told me it was far more often than that.
As far as I could tell, he really did just want to talk.
I never heard any panting, quickened breathing, or sloppy slapping sounds. He never wanted to talk through his fantasies, he never wanted to talk dirty. He just wanted to talk.
Sure, it was usually about sex. He liked it best when I was playing a naive, innocent character and he could explain things to me. He’d tell me about his countless sexual exploits, and his preferences in women, and almost shyly describe his prowess. He loved to make a woman come over and over.
And I might have believed him, too, if it weren’t for the train story.
He’d traveled extensively, he said, in the days when that was as likely to mean great trains gliding across the country as airports and flying machines. And he had found women everywhere he went. This is a potentially true thing, since women are indeed just about everywhere. I have heard that scientists recently found a woman in Antarctica.
Once he was on a train and made his way through the observation car to the very back, where he could cling to the rear railing and get some fresh air.
As he took in the scenery of the tracks unraveling behind his mount, he smelled an unknown but intoxicating ladies’ perfume, and felt someone approach behind him, close, closer, pressing lightly against his back. He felt warm breath play at his freshly barbered neck, and then a soft kiss: a flutter, really. Lips on him, and then a gloved hand covering his eyes.
He felt his meatball sub of manhood stir, as the mystery woman’s hands reached around to unbuckle his belt and undo his pants.
And then they had sex, he told me. He never saw her face.
“Wow, that must’ve been really hot for… wait, you couldn’t see her face through the whole thing?” Trying to keep my voice giggly and shrill.
“She was behind me the entire time,” he told me, wistfully.
“But you had sex? Like, penis-in-vagina intercourse?” Completely breaking character now.
“Oh, yes. It was,” my customer concluded, “the most erotic experience of my life. She was the most beautiful woman I never saw…”
Oh god. Anatomy. Mechanics. Just… impossible. Hand over mouthpiece. Cackling. Gasping for air. Deep breath. Smile. Now. Give him what he’s paying for. Give him buoyant.
“Wow. That is really, really hot. You have had such an exciting life!” Give him brainless.
