PSG0 6
Thursday, November 20, 1SCC
Dally Nebraskan
Aural Sex:
'T&A
&AT&T
By
Scott
Harrah
I
H
i stud, " squealed
the young voice on
the other line.
"Welcome to the wonderful
world of the Cherry Prep Girls.
I'm Natasha and I just turned
1 6 today. If you 'd like to take a
ride with me in the back of
Daddy's '65 Chevy, press num
ber one on your touch-tone
phone. C'mon, big boy, take a
ride with me in Daddy's
car . . .it's older than I am. "
A new girl came on the line.
"Hi, "she said. "I'm Susie and
I'm bisexual. I'm also a cheer
leader, and I like to wear
sweaters so tight that my girl
friends have to grease me up
with massage oil to get me out
of all that wool. Dial number
two on your phone if you
wanna help my girlfriend get
me out of my tight cheerleader
sweater. "
Then yet another girl came
on the phone. "Greetings, sir,"
she said meekly. "I'm Brenda
it) . .
Dave BentiDiversions
and I've been a baaad little girl
I need a spanking. Press num
ber three if you want to punish
me. "
I pressed number two and
listened as Suzie and her girl
friend tried to remove the tight
sweater.
"OOh," cooed her friend.
"You 're so big that pulling off
this sweater will be such a
chore. "
"Like, shut up, Didi . . . that
kind of talk makes me horny, "
Susie snapped.
"Let's go over to the boys'
lockerroom and see if the coach
can help us get this stubborn
old sweater off" Didi an
swered. Suddenly, the scene ended
and o usie earnestly said, ' 'Now
that we've got you all hot, get
your credit card ready and
talk to us live. "
She started rattling off a
phone number as I hung up
the phone.
The scene I've just described was
my first encounter with phone sex, a
multi-million-dollar form of legalized
prostitution that has been growing
for years.
When my friend Janel and I work
ed at a local telemarketing firm, a
co-worker supplied us with a list of
phone-sex numbers she had acquir
ed after looking through her boy
friend's stack of skin magazines. At
the end of every shift, we would
grow tired of trying to sell insurance
to housewives coast-to-coast, so we
would secretly call these phone-sex
numbers and pretend that we
actually doing ourjobs and trying to"
1 sell customers supplemental in
surance programs.
"That's right, Mrs. Jones," we
would say as our supervisors waltzed
. by. "And you can even charge your
premiums to Mastercard,"
Little did our supervisors know
that on the other line a woman was
moaning and calling us "stud,"
"sir," "Daddy" and "master."
These phone-sex services have
just about every fantasy imaginable.
You can call and listen to a "Harley
Davidson biker bimbo" a "lovely
medieval maiden," a "trampy teach
er," a sadistic dominatrix or a
"buxom, former Miss Iceland who
will tell you erotic Scandinavian
stories."
Our favorite phone-sex service
was called "69 Fantasy Palace,"
which featured girls who were into
bondage, domination, sado-masochism
and torture. Now I know this
sounds terrible, but the scenes
these girls would describe were so
hilarious that only a true pervert
could find them erotic. The girls at
"69 Fantasy Palace" actually had
electronic sound effects that they
would use in their scenes.
One girl, "Mistress Mona," would
say that you were a pig who needed
discipline, so she would describe a
dungeon she was taking you to.
Once she got you in the dungeon,
she said she was going to shock you
with her electric "sword" if you
tried to touch her luscious measure
ments. "Pig, you touched Mistress Mona's
lusty legs, and you shall be punished
for doing such a nasty thing," she
would snarl, proceeding to zap you
with her "sword."
"Take that, slave," she'd hiss,
turning on a cheap sound-effect
that went . . . ZAPP.
All right, call it exploitation if
you must, but phone sex is one of
the most hysterical forms of eroticism
to invade the world of smut. It is
prostitution in its most harmless,
vicarious form. And it's also disease
free. If a pervert wants some action,
he no longer has to drive down to
some seedy street corner and risk
being seen or getting arrested. He
can just pick up the phone, dial
some decadence, then reach out
and let someone touch him . . . with
an electric "sword" that goes . . .
ZAPP. All for a reasonable price
that he can charge to his Visa or
Mastercard.
Janel and I never bothered to
waste money and call the number to
talk to the girls live because the
recorded teasers were funny enough.
Yes, raucous, raunchy and rip-roar-ingly
funny, but never, never erotic
or sexually stimulating.
Phone sex is "T&A" courtesy of
AT&T. It's an innocuous form of
porn-peddling that is becoming the
fast-food, high-tech version of the
obsolete brothel. The entire concept
of it is ridiculous, but clever and
lucrative. If some poor, old, rain
coated soul gets his jollies calling
up phone-line Lolitas to have aural
sex, why should we complain? Peter
the Pervert gets satisfaction and
Mistress Mona gets $50 bucks.
If you think phone sex is unique
to America, think again, potential
perverts. In Europe, phone sex is
also ubiquitous. In London last
summer, I noticed that the phone
booths had phone sex-service graffiti
and ads plastered all over them.
"Lovely Princess Di look-alike
wants ready American blokes to
ring her up for a nominal fee," one
scribbled message proclaimed in a
phone booth in Soho.
Phone sex even abounds in Lin
coln. Once, I was over at some
friends' house drinking and party
ing. My friends, a young married
couple, had recently gotten over a
temporary separation. The husband
had indulged in a short fling with
another woman but had called it off
and gone back to his wife. The
husband's former lover was so per
turbed about the reconciliation that
she went to the local porn shop and
wrote his wife's name on the wall.
"Trampy sleazebag needs fat, old
men to call her," his mistress wrote.
"Call and ask for Susan. My husband
won't mind."
Disgusting old men started to
call Susan day and night. On the
night I was over at their place,
another pervert called. Susan got on
the phone and started to explain
nervously that she wasn't a sleazy
phone tramp, but I insisted that she
stay on the line. I kept telling her
perverted things to say that I had
memorized from all the Xaviera
Hollander books I read in high
school.
"You talk to him," she finally
said.
She handed me the phone and a
whiny, breathy voice that contained
shades of Les Nessman and Truman
Capote said, "And who are you?"
"I'm Felisha," I said in raspy
tones. "I have cascading blond hair,
cherry lips and ice-blue eyes ... I
love yogurt, hot tubs and reading Dr.
Seuss by candlelight."
"But your voice is so deep," he
replied. "You sound like a guy."
"That's because I like to chain
smoke cigarettes while I stand in
front of my mirror and admire my
luscious measurements," I said.
I stayed on the phone for half an
hour, reciting every bad phone-sex
fantasy I had ever heard as I took
random swigs of vodka and tried to
keep from laughing. Eventually I
told him that I was really a man and
my name was Leroy, Susan's pimp.
"You'll be dead meat if you ever
come near my woman without deliver
in' the cash first," I wailed.
The sicko hung up and I fell to
the floor in laughter, trembling with
hilarity as I thought about all the
disgusting things I had said.
And so my short-lived career as a
phone-sex siren ended and is now
nothing but a tawdry memory.
