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CALL OF THE DAY: the unexpected, escalating pig

If there’s one weakness in the way my company keeps records—there may be more than one, but let’s start with this—it’s that we have no good way of sharing records, between operators. In the perfect utopian vision of this company, the one that the owner encourages, this is fine. It means that we keep good notes for our own regulars, we know exactly how to take care of them, we are able to track any shifts in their fantasy trajectory, or indeed sudden wrenches onto different tracks entirely.

Except that approach doesn’t account for fickleness and forgetfulness, and operator absences, and some guys always wanting fresh meat and calling so many times that they really don’t remember which girls they’ve talked to before, anyway. This inevitably leads to getting calls like today’s, where I have a card for this guy and the last time we talked was a year and a half ago. What’s on the card is exactly this:

hairy, BBW, redhead

rimming
pig

But it’s been a year and a half, so I write it down when the dispatcher says, “He wants a she-male. I didn’t say you were one, but that’s what he wants.” Uh-huh. I am not surprised when she adds, “And you’ve never talked to him before.” Of course not. When what the dispatcher says a caller wants is totally unconnected from what I already have written down on his card, I might as well have never talked to him before, but it’s good to have the warning. This is a cold call; I have a few possible parameters, but I actually have no idea about what is going to come out of his mouth.

A few fact-finding gambits—are you watching any porn right now? any toys that I need to know about?—yield the info that yes, he’s got a vibrator with anal beads, which I think makes it one of those scorpion-shaped prostate stimulators, and he is watching some girl-on-girl “she-male” action. Good lord, do I hate that term. She-male. I hardly use it; I prefer to just step up and start talking about my dick. I bet you’d like if you were in that room with me and one of my girlfriends, I’d make you tongue-bathe me from the tip of my 8-inch dick to my asshole. Oh, and don’t be afraid to dig in deep, I took a shower today, it’s clean.

Dammit. That was a mistake. The card says “pig”; that usually means shit, and the messier the better. But I never know whether that involves eating it. The caller quickly corrects me: “Oh, that’s too bad, that you cleaned out.”

Ah! A chance to regroup! Well, if you’re really going to miss it, we’ll just wait until I need to take a dump, and you can be my human toilet paper.

That lands well, so I push further. And you know what? If I’m going to be fucking your ass, it doesn’t matter about mine. When I pull my dick out of that little boy pussy, it’s probably going to be dirty.

“Oh, yeah?”

Really dirty. I growl it out to hide the fact that at this point, I am casting around in my mind to figure out just what visuals to lay down that will make this pig happy. Uh, how about this… When my girlfriend gets her dick inside you too, both of us at once, we are literally going to fuck the shit out of you, all over the fucking sheets. And we don’t want the hotel staff to deal with that, now, do we? You’re going to get your face down in there and snarf it all up, you shit-eating little bitch. If you do it well, I’ll drag you off into the bathroom for a piss shower. But remember, any trail you leave on the carpet, you’re gonna clean up.

And then he comes.

<click>

I catch my breath, and a few seconds later my lover dances into the bedroom wearing his bathrobe and singing one of his little songs about how amazing I am. Living with a phone sex operator is not nearly as sexy as you might imagine. You get to hear me tip-toeing around someone else’s shitty little fantasy.

This is the way with all of these cold calls: I’ve got to tip-toe, or I’ll step in it.

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