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the death of imagination

His voice was dull and colorless as he asked me about how old I was when I first had sex and had I ever had a gang bang. I spun out my best teen-slut stories, trying to find his hook, but his voice never changed and he just kept asking questions. At seven minutes into his 10-minute call, I said to him sweetly, “So, we have about three minutes left. I just want to make sure that you’re happy before we have to go.”

“Well, it’s all right,” he said, almost apologetically. “I have a hard time getting hard these days. Maybe tonight I’ll think about some of the stuff you told me and try again. I’m 56 and you know, when the imagination goes, it’s just… that’s the end of it.”

When he said that, my heart fell a little. Not because it was really outside of any scene and I knew that we weren’t going to get him there on that call—I knew that already—but because a) he’s right, and b) that is a terrible place to be. Never mind his dick, he couldn’t even get his imagination up anymore, or he felt like he couldn’t, which is functionally the same thing.

I mean, cuz WHOA, imagination is what phone sex is built on. I think it is what all good sex is built on: what’s in the head. It’s one of the things that separates us from the rest of the animal kingdom. We are not constrained to rut when needed for the survival of the species, and therefore we can fuck however we want, and that includes across every virtual surface we can create in our heads. There we can play with things that are not; we can fuck anybody, real or imaginary, dead or living; we can imagine ourselves with physical traits that are not sustainable in the real world. We can flip through other people’s teen-slut stories, for example, like we would click through a View-Master and pause, enjoying our favorite scenes.

This is one of the awesome things about phone sex, but it takes two people to get there, and both have to be using their imaginations at least a little bit. I can be reveling in the glorious porno that I’m weaving in my head, giving my best sound effects and throwing together the most powerful teen-slut narrative ever, but if he’s not playing along, if he has no room in his mind to play, hell, if that’s not even his fantasy but he brought it up because THAT’S WHAT SOCIETY TELLS HIM HE SHOULD WANT… then no, there will be no orgasms with that.

I’m sure I told him something like “it’s not dead, you just have to dig a little deeper for it.” How else could I have said it? “We can revive it, you’re just going to have to come out and play more often.” That sounds like fishing, like a really obvious ploy to get him to call the service more regularly, and that’s not what I’m talking about. I don’t care who he does it with: with another PSO, with a wife or girlfriend, by himself with his virtual View Master.

This is an emergency, man. Your imagination is dying. Get in there, pull everything out, and PLAY.

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