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Phone-sex noise defies the laws of physics

I don't think even this will work...

I don't think even this will work...

Just another shift of phone work in another borrowed bed.

It's a mighty nice bed in a hella comfortable house, a double-wide shotgun in New Orleans with a second floor. There's an overhead fan whirring overhead, and AC, if it just gets too hot inside in the middle of the day. There are no kids here, no barky dogs. My hosts are also friends of mine, and they know exactly what I do. But none of that really eliminates the constant low-grade shame I experience while plying my trade in other people's houses.

Because the sound of phone sex travels. It just does. In fact, I think that a phone-sex conversation might actually travel further than a regular conversation at the same volume level, because explicit language and sex noise defy the laws of physics. Maybe it's the heightened level awareness the hosts have about what it means when I grab the phone and dash away; sex is going to be happening. Maybe there actually is some sound-wave warping at work. All I know is, even the quietest, most dignified conversation will somehow manage to slip through a crack in the floor or a gap between the door and frame, and it will reach the outside world.

Already billeting out on tour is a real-world Phone Whore. My hosts get to keep an eye on the curry if I suddenly have to retreat to my room. They get to have conversations interrupted when the phone rings. Add to that the curiously penetrative qualities of any conversation involving a man's dick and what I'm going to do to it, and you've got a number of interesting situations when I am out touring and still keeping phone hours in the morning.

In my first year of touring, this caused legitimate problems with my housing arrangements. The Calgary billeting coordinator had put me with a lady out on the edge of town, in a trailer park. She was very nice, totally liberal in the middle of a very conservative living space, and loved the eavesdropping that she got to do by hosting the Phone Whore. This copacetic space was shattered two days in, when she received a letter from the park management, a cease-and-desist letter about the phone sex noise: Stop it, or get out. She was livid, not with me, but with her uptight neighbors. I meekly packed up and left, to a hastily arranged plan B. I was in no position to argue on my own behalf. Plus, I knew that it was true. Those thin trailer walls were no container for the force and volume of my raw passion.

Since then, I have gotten increasingly blunt and explicit with potential hosts about the noise issue. I warn them about some of the more extreme content; even the carefully low and ritualistic tone I use with my baby-snuff guy, that will seep out. I specify "no impressionable youths", I don't care if the kids' bedrooms are totally on the other side of the house, they will totally hear. And I do take a lot of steps to minimize the noise as much as possible. I carefully close all doors at the onset of the call, check for open windows. I will sometimes stifle my own noises in the pillow, if it makes sense for whatever scene we've laid out. Worst case, with guys I know want it loud, I will either tell them up front that I can't ("I'm in a hotel" or whatever) OR I tell the dispatcher I can't take the call, it's just too noisy.

This is where the intersection of touring and phone-sexing just sucks. I'd like to give the callers the full benefit of my vocal abilities. I'd like to not bother hosts, who say they're totally chill with sex noise, but THEY DON'T KNOW THE MEANING OF SEX NOISE. And I'd like to not have to censor myself, to just present as loud and filthy and shrieking and giggling as I need to be.

But the noise gets out.

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