CALL OF THE DAY: the case of the Stalker Cuckold, or, I need to NOT believe

facebook-stalkingI’m going to start calling him the Stalker Cuckold, at least until I come up with something better. He delights in hashing over the details of his wife’s potential lust for old mutual friends with larger cocks than his, and I mean the really boring details, like, “She posted something on his Facebook wall for his birthday.”  This is what my caller was obsessing about on our most recent call.

This is the sort of thing that makes me think certain calls are real, you know? They all have these details that aren’t sexy either in general or as a fetish in the caller’s unique sexual universe. They’re just… details. My thinking is, if you know exactly what gets you off and it’s a fantasy, we can just cut straight to the meaty bits, right? Drop us in the middle of the scene and let’s go! I know how to add enough details to allow the customer to believe that what I’m saying is true, but that’s because I’m an actress and I’ve been doing this for a while. I don’t think most of my callers would be able to fake that kind of detail convincingly.

In the case of the Stalker Cuckold, I can see someone getting worked up about his wife ogling another man and his big dick. That’s the point for cuckolds; there’s often something in that whole seething mix of cock envy or cock desire, about the emotional vulnerability or humiliation or betrayal or imminent abandonment. But he is combing through Facebook posts and old incidents and her exact wording when she talks about guys, he is analyzing them like an eighth-grade girl trying to decipher a boy’s sideways look in science class. I did this in middle school! It wasn’t attractive then, even on a teenage girl, so it’s certainly not attractive in a middle-aged man. His turn-on is other men’s larger dicks, and his wife leaving him for them, that’s fine, that’s cool. His process for getting at them is what vexes me.

You know what also vexes me? The fact that this guy, and a couple of other guys, are starting to get under my skin and scratch away at my previously pretty sturdy platform of detachment. I am vexed by my being vexed.

The underlying premise for any phone sex operator needs to be that stories told over phone sex lines are just that: stories. Yes, we have protocol in place for when things go legally pear-shaped, but outside the realm of potential crimes, all stories are not true. Even though we have to act like they’re true, inside the scene.

But this guy’s story feels true, and now I’m starting to act like it is, as if I’m a counselor, an impartial outside observer to his life, which I can never really know. I’m not wondering about the part where he wants me to play the role of his wife Wendy, so I can be interrogated by him in non-angry ways about the size of the neighbor boy’s dick (surprisingly large for a 15-year-old). It’s the parts where he is watching what his wife does on Facebook and thinking about confronting her; “don’t ask her about it,” I told him, “you are just going to look like an obsessive stalker.” Or there is this thing he comes back to again and again, like scratching at an old scar, the fact that the next day after Wendy slept with him in college, the very next day she went off and hooked up with this good friend. “What do you think that means?” he says about an incident that happened more than 20 years ago. “Why would she do that?”

I don’t know, I think to myself. Maybe she needed to wash the taste of obsessive stalker dick out of her mouth.

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