It had been shaping up to be a really nice weekday brunch: bacon, toast, omelet made with Parmesan cheese and garlicky sautéed veggies left over from last night's pasta Alfredo. Definitely the first nice, truly home-cooked meal I had attempted at my new billet, so I should not have been surprised when the phone rang right as I was folding over the finished omelet. (Murphy's Law and Cameryn's Phone-Sex Corollaries.) "Divvy all of that up," I directed my brunch buddy with a sigh, "and then can you take it out to the balcony?" And then I rushed off to the bedroom and my notebook.
It was a 15-minute call, a regular whose calls I don't really like because he only pretends to let me choose scenarios (I know all the ones he likes, in the limited sphere of mommy-daughter ass play), and then after 30 seconds he is back on the steering wheel and veering a hard right, back to whichever scenario he actually wanted that day. He's very nice about it, but still. Grmph.
What is worse—and what I forgot until the first time it happened today—is that he has SHITTY cell phone reception, and it inevitably cuts out two or three times during a 15-minute call. Either that, or he is in an insecure work environment, and totally delusional about exactly how much uninterrupted wanking he can get away with during work hours in an unlockable work space, and so he has to hang up and act nonchalant a few times per call. Either way, it's profoundly irritating and very, very challenging to work with, right? Every time he stops the call, we lose momentum.
So his call interrupts the plating of the brunch, I'm like, okay, fine, I''m fine, and the food might still be fine. But his service drops, sudden silence on the phone after four minutes. I call in per the protocol of my company, let them know his call ran short and why. I don't know when he's going to try to call back, but I take the phone on the balcony, where the plate is still pretty warm. A bite of bacon, that's all, just a little nibble of salted pork product, and the phone rings again. He's back. I tell my friend to go ahead and start eating, and stalk back to the bedroom.
My caller is apologetic in an unspecified way, so that I remain unclear about why his call dropped so abruptly. Okay, we have 10.5 minutes left, I can teach my nubile teenage daughter how to properly rim my ass in that time, oh, yeah, that's right, honey, you're going to learn to get excited ONLY by mommy's asshole, yes, baby, ye..... wait a minute. The silence is back. He's gone again. FUCK.
I call back in to let the dispatcher know that the caller dropped off again. He has 3.5 minutes left. That is NOT enough time to do a good ass-play scene. "We'll see if he calls back," she says. I don't think he will, but of course I keep the phone with me and go out onto the balcony again. My friend has Hoovered up his brunch—he jokingly calls himself Vlad the Inhaler—while my share remains there, pristine, untouched... congealing.
Phone sex is fuckin' HELL on domesticity, man.