VOX.
I never knew her name. She told me to call her Stephanie and when I asked her if it was her real name she told me no. When she asked for mine, I told her Heather, because she had just left and it was the first thing that popped into my head. Stephanie asked me if Heather was what my parents named me and I told her yes, because if she won't tell me her name, I can lie about mine.
We were two people on telephones, maybe thousands of miles apart, maybe closer than we think. For as social as I am, she could have been my next door neighbor and I would have had no idea. I always leave the house either very early or very late, depending, and I didn't even know that there were people living next to me until the occupant(s) started getting thick, rolled-up newspapers placed at the stoop every morning. Because I could, I liked to pretend that it was someone with a secret-- an aged old queen, a boy with a coke habit, a pair of lovers that secretly murdered members of their family for bigger shares of the inheritance. It hasn't occurred to me until now that I never did meet my next door neighbors, but that's not the point of this story.
Back then, when I wasn't sure I could get laid whenever I wanted to, I regularly subscribed to Penthouse magazine. So sue me, Playboy just doesn't do it for me. It was the highlight of my month, getting that magazine in the mail. Approximately one week after receiving a new issue, it would already be dog-eared, the pages would be wrinkled on the spreads that I particularly liked. That one issue would have to do me a month and, what can I say? I'm slightly attention deficit and things that have done it for me in the past don't usually do it the second time. I like variety and although it really does boil down to the same thing every glossy page-- perky, airbrushed breasts and girls spreading themselves open with their fingers-- no girl is exactly like another. They're all different.
With every girl, I'd create some background in my head. Not just what she liked in bed, although that was usually provided for me in big text on the corners of the pages, but who she was. Honestly, I can fuck without a connection, easy, but I'm no different than anybody else; I appreciate sex more when there's history in front of it. So I'd make her up in my head. Make up our relationship. And they would all be in pictures so vivid that I sometimes had trouble differentiating reality from fantasy. Their names would always be something sweet and sunny. I like all the hippie names-- Moonbeam, Clover, Flower, Star-- so regardless of ethnicity, all these girls would usually have one. They would always be the kinds of girls that kids made fun of in school. I don't know if this is residual anger from my experience in high school or if I'm just fatally attracted to ugly ducklings that grow up into vibrant swans.
The issue to which all of this pertains included a blonde girl, busty, a little thick around the middle. Kate'll tell you that this is my favorite type of girl. I'm sorry, but I can't stand visible ribs. There's a difference between healthy and emaciated. Anyway, if I'm remembering correctly, I called this girl Sunny because she had a smile like it and I am a believer in giving people names that they earn. Personally, I like to think that I'm more of a Greta or a Caroline, but I'm fairly sure that anybody that knows me would say I'm closer to a Horny.
Sunny did me good. We met in a bar in Philadelphia and she approached me and guessed my favorite drink in one try. We spent several weeks doing nothing but jet-setting across America, stopping in small towns to visit landmarks that nobody really cares about anymore and staying in hotels with coloring straight out of the seventies and Bob Ross knock-off paintings above the twin beds. We didn't sleep together until day thirty-nine of our relationship, which, I've got to say, is something of a record for me. There was a lot of ceremony on the eve of day thirty-nine. There was cheap wine and cheaper dinner, but there were tiny lighted votive candles on the rickety table inside our Motel 6 abode. In the end, we didn't fuck that night. We were too drunk and we were too shaky to go through with it that night. We ended up curling against each other under the scratchy comforter and in the morning, she woke me up by taking down my panties and pressing her tongue to my clit.
Parting on good terms, I decide that in Sunny's absence, I required a new sort of company so, flipping to the back pages of my magazine, I selected a number out of several hundred, the advertisement that had a picture of two nude females wrapped in an embrace just above the number. This is the one for me. From the information in the box I can tell that it's not one of those lines you call for some girl moaning in your ear and talking about how wet she is for you. It's a chat line where they connect you with all the other women lonely enough to call on a buck ninety-nine a minute.
Stephanie is her name. But it's not her real name. Stephanie's got a voice like honey. It's sweet and slow enough I can tell she's from the South, maybe Georgia, and I imagine she tastes like peaches. The trace of the drawl is all I ever learn about her origin, but everything else we tell each other. I'm in love with a girl, she tells me, and I'm like yeah, who the fuck isn't? And she tells me exactly how she'd like to fuck her and Stephanie from one of the Southern states, I know just how you feel. But this isn't about Stephanie.
I'm in love with a girl, I tell her, and the worst possible thing in the world has happened. Expecting cancer, expecting her to have another lover, Stephanie gasps when I finish, the problem is that this girl loves me back. I tell her about Sunny. And I tell her about Storm and Swan and Heart and Flower. I pick my women because they're unavailable. In pictures, they're mine and I can make them whatever the hell I want them to be. I don't have to ask them to stay and they never need to be told when to leave. They fuck me just the way I like it and if I'm too tired to move, they won't complain about me not being in the mood. I pick women because they're unavailable and I fixate because it feels good when people don't want anything out of me, I tell her. And I think she gets it.
Stephanie's got to go. We've been on the phone five hours and she's got to be at work in three and shouldn't we come now? Yes, yes, yes, it's time to come, because this is a new kind of satiety. Stephanie knows my secrets. Stephanie knows my lies. Thinking that after we hang up our phones, she'll still walk around with my secrets and I'll still walk around with hers, it makes me wet. I've been thumbing my finger over my clit throughout the entire duration of our dialogue. I had worked off my shirt during an ear switch and I rolled my nipples between my thumb and forefinger, wondering if Stephanie is as wet as I am. I don't come until she says my name. Not my name. Heather. I like the lie because lying's what I do and nobody ever knows about it but me.
Tell me about your best fuck and tell me about the last lie you told.
We were two people on telephones, maybe thousands of miles apart, maybe closer than we think. For as social as I am, she could have been my next door neighbor and I would have had no idea. I always leave the house either very early or very late, depending, and I didn't even know that there were people living next to me until the occupant(s) started getting thick, rolled-up newspapers placed at the stoop every morning. Because I could, I liked to pretend that it was someone with a secret-- an aged old queen, a boy with a coke habit, a pair of lovers that secretly murdered members of their family for bigger shares of the inheritance. It hasn't occurred to me until now that I never did meet my next door neighbors, but that's not the point of this story.
Back then, when I wasn't sure I could get laid whenever I wanted to, I regularly subscribed to Penthouse magazine. So sue me, Playboy just doesn't do it for me. It was the highlight of my month, getting that magazine in the mail. Approximately one week after receiving a new issue, it would already be dog-eared, the pages would be wrinkled on the spreads that I particularly liked. That one issue would have to do me a month and, what can I say? I'm slightly attention deficit and things that have done it for me in the past don't usually do it the second time. I like variety and although it really does boil down to the same thing every glossy page-- perky, airbrushed breasts and girls spreading themselves open with their fingers-- no girl is exactly like another. They're all different.
With every girl, I'd create some background in my head. Not just what she liked in bed, although that was usually provided for me in big text on the corners of the pages, but who she was. Honestly, I can fuck without a connection, easy, but I'm no different than anybody else; I appreciate sex more when there's history in front of it. So I'd make her up in my head. Make up our relationship. And they would all be in pictures so vivid that I sometimes had trouble differentiating reality from fantasy. Their names would always be something sweet and sunny. I like all the hippie names-- Moonbeam, Clover, Flower, Star-- so regardless of ethnicity, all these girls would usually have one. They would always be the kinds of girls that kids made fun of in school. I don't know if this is residual anger from my experience in high school or if I'm just fatally attracted to ugly ducklings that grow up into vibrant swans.
The issue to which all of this pertains included a blonde girl, busty, a little thick around the middle. Kate'll tell you that this is my favorite type of girl. I'm sorry, but I can't stand visible ribs. There's a difference between healthy and emaciated. Anyway, if I'm remembering correctly, I called this girl Sunny because she had a smile like it and I am a believer in giving people names that they earn. Personally, I like to think that I'm more of a Greta or a Caroline, but I'm fairly sure that anybody that knows me would say I'm closer to a Horny.
Sunny did me good. We met in a bar in Philadelphia and she approached me and guessed my favorite drink in one try. We spent several weeks doing nothing but jet-setting across America, stopping in small towns to visit landmarks that nobody really cares about anymore and staying in hotels with coloring straight out of the seventies and Bob Ross knock-off paintings above the twin beds. We didn't sleep together until day thirty-nine of our relationship, which, I've got to say, is something of a record for me. There was a lot of ceremony on the eve of day thirty-nine. There was cheap wine and cheaper dinner, but there were tiny lighted votive candles on the rickety table inside our Motel 6 abode. In the end, we didn't fuck that night. We were too drunk and we were too shaky to go through with it that night. We ended up curling against each other under the scratchy comforter and in the morning, she woke me up by taking down my panties and pressing her tongue to my clit.
Parting on good terms, I decide that in Sunny's absence, I required a new sort of company so, flipping to the back pages of my magazine, I selected a number out of several hundred, the advertisement that had a picture of two nude females wrapped in an embrace just above the number. This is the one for me. From the information in the box I can tell that it's not one of those lines you call for some girl moaning in your ear and talking about how wet she is for you. It's a chat line where they connect you with all the other women lonely enough to call on a buck ninety-nine a minute.
Stephanie is her name. But it's not her real name. Stephanie's got a voice like honey. It's sweet and slow enough I can tell she's from the South, maybe Georgia, and I imagine she tastes like peaches. The trace of the drawl is all I ever learn about her origin, but everything else we tell each other. I'm in love with a girl, she tells me, and I'm like yeah, who the fuck isn't? And she tells me exactly how she'd like to fuck her and Stephanie from one of the Southern states, I know just how you feel. But this isn't about Stephanie.
I'm in love with a girl, I tell her, and the worst possible thing in the world has happened. Expecting cancer, expecting her to have another lover, Stephanie gasps when I finish, the problem is that this girl loves me back. I tell her about Sunny. And I tell her about Storm and Swan and Heart and Flower. I pick my women because they're unavailable. In pictures, they're mine and I can make them whatever the hell I want them to be. I don't have to ask them to stay and they never need to be told when to leave. They fuck me just the way I like it and if I'm too tired to move, they won't complain about me not being in the mood. I pick women because they're unavailable and I fixate because it feels good when people don't want anything out of me, I tell her. And I think she gets it.
Stephanie's got to go. We've been on the phone five hours and she's got to be at work in three and shouldn't we come now? Yes, yes, yes, it's time to come, because this is a new kind of satiety. Stephanie knows my secrets. Stephanie knows my lies. Thinking that after we hang up our phones, she'll still walk around with my secrets and I'll still walk around with hers, it makes me wet. I've been thumbing my finger over my clit throughout the entire duration of our dialogue. I had worked off my shirt during an ear switch and I rolled my nipples between my thumb and forefinger, wondering if Stephanie is as wet as I am. I don't come until she says my name. Not my name. Heather. I like the lie because lying's what I do and nobody ever knows about it but me.
Tell me about your best fuck and tell me about the last lie you told.