True lies and the smell of belonging
I know that my callers are possibly/probably/definitely lying, depending on what we’re talking about. The more illegal or messy or “extreme” their fantasy is, the less likely it is that they are doing it in real life. I have to behave as if I believed my callers, just for better phone acting—I don’t want to sound skeptical or second-guess them, obviously—but that’s never really a problem. Some guys make it extra easy for me to think they’re lying.
Like the Sniffer. From the first call I took with him, I never believed in the existence of Wanda’s, his favorite brothel. I do think brothels exist. I just don’t believe that some brothel in the nearly rural South is just coincidentally staffed by a lot of the types of women that the Sniffer happens to like—older, very hirsute, chubby-to-fat, willing to stay “stinky”—types that are not commonly sought after out in the rest of the world. I doubt that he could walk in on a slow Sunday, as he says he normally does, and just pick out two or three stinky, hairy ladies who are willing to give him a free pass to eat out their well-fucked pussies and have them piss on him. There’s too much “that’s not the way the world works” in there.
So I’m used to having to stretch my mind to accommodate the Sniffer’s universe in it. I didn’t think he could lie any harder. He didn’t need to. Just stop there, sir. The tissue of untruth is getting might see-through. But no. He went ahead and put down another layer of bullshit.
He claimed, with all sincerity, that a work-from-home fraud protection representative called to check on some charges on his bank card, specifically the charges that my phone-sex company had processed, and when the Sniffer told the lady what those charges were for, and what he talked about during the phone sex sessions, he said that she not only did not hang up on him, but asked him questions about his fetishes and listened to him jack off toward the end of the call.
He said she sounded fascinated. I said, I bet. He said, “She kept asking me for details and so I gave them to her.” I said, Of course it sounds interesting. I bet she hasn’t really run across anything like this before. Meanwhile, my mind drifted to all of the non-sex phone workers I’ve heard being angry—and rightfully so—about dudes being sleazy at them during a work call. All of them would shut that shit down; none of them would consent to sit there and listen to a man jerking off. They don’t get paid enough for that. Hell, I barely get paid enough for that. Another lie.
But as I agreed and nodded and encouraged him to talk about this phone encounter that almost certainly does not exist, I realized that it’s not just his kinks that he wants indulged; he’s also got a fairly detailed fantasy about how other people feel about these kinks.
That is, by talking about the abundance of stinky, hairy, and charitable sex workers at the local brothel, or pretending that some random older lady checking on his credit card activity would be so interested in his kinks as to give him free phone sex, the Sniffer is creating a fantasy world where his kinks are common. He’s mixing up the bits where he’s special and unique with a world where he is welcomed as a sort of sexual connoisseur, where he could have his choice of lovely (by his standard) ladies with which to frolic, where he could randomly run into women who share his thing, who celebrate it.
Some people thrive on being an outsider, but most want to belong. Apparently even the Sniffer.
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