Dig Thomas Roche’s awesome post OTAKU MAnKO: Unlimited Minutes:
For the last few years I’ve had a day job where I write oodles and oodles of articles about porn, fetish and adults-only events. I almost never see the sun; I drink more coffee than the nation of Turkey and when I get home after a 10 or 11 hour day, I often respond to my significant other’s “How was your day?” with a crazed owl-like stare for a few minutes until I remember that this language I type in can, occasionally, also be spoken.
Since I pretty rarely talk on the phone, I’ve spent some years now as a mobile-impaired American — that is to say, I’ve had one of those cheap pay-per-minute cell phone plans for which “Unlimited minutes” means “Limited only by your rapidly-dwindling bank balance.”
I’m switching jobs, though, and there will be a lot of phone calls in my immediate future. Soon I’ll be one of those schmoes you see walking down the street with a Borg headset saying things like “You tell Antonio we’ll need documentation on PX4 migration and a twenty RSV, maybe a CTTA with vio markers and a TS4 or, more probably, “Let’s run it up the flagpole and see if anyone salutes.” “Unlimited minutes” for me is pretty soon going to mean “Limited only by the hours in the day and the number of people you can keep on hold at one time.”
What does this have to do with my sex life? Plenty. Because, you see, pay-per-minute plans are a really crappy way to have phone sex.
(…) No, no, I’m talking about free phone sex, the kind you have with a boyfriend, girlfriend, otherfriend, fuckbuddy or distant acquaintance, or whatever. It’s hot, it’s taboo, it’s sleazy and it’s wrong, which makes it overridingly awesome, especially if you have it while rollerblading in the park, sitting in traffic or pretending to take an important sales call in the hallway in the corridor outside the corporate boardroom while your boss laserpoints a flow chart and says things like “Maximize the supply chain lead conversion ratio through product development interdynamics” and “Focus on center-specific IT protocols while codifying network goals” — and you stand outside saying, “Sure, we can get you those documents by EOB Tuesday” (then whispering) “Yeah, slut, work that fuckin’ egg beater, you sick little spank monkey!”
I mean, what could be dirtier? The unlimited-minute cell phone plan, like the white collar job, carries with it as a God(dess)-given fringe benefit the right to a conversational reacharound in the most inappropriate possible situations. How the hell else is a self-respecting secret pervert supposed to make it through the day, let alone anything resembling a commute?
Problem is, in many ways I’m shy as all fuck, a fact lamented in these hallowed pages just last week. My own phone sex experiences are few and far between, and tend to be rather famously unsuccessful. Which is why despite my ability to disgorge 75,000 words of profligate sexual debauchery in what amounts to a weeklong almost unbroken cafe-table fuckfest of Yergacheffe-fueled delirium, when faced with the possibility of phone sex with a steamy goddess of love, stern bitch in combat boots, college girl in a bunny suit or other willing participant, I tend to tremble uncontrollably and burble things like “Stick your finger up my butt!” and “Boobs!!”
Hot image via Omegadead.
