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Sunday - January 13, 2002
DON'T BOGART THAT PHONE SLUT

When I started this diary, I decided I wouldn't turn it into the rambling and bitching that so many other diaries seem to degenerate into. It occurs to me, though, that the temptation to bemoan here is strong because I don't have to worry about anyone telling me to buck up or stop my whining.

So, this entry will NOT be about how much I`d like to have my landlord drug out onto a football field and forced to perform humiliating acts with chocolate syrup and a cocker spaniel.  

Instead, I'll share one of the other abnormalities of the biz that continually amuses me.

Drug fantasies. 

There are different kinds of guys who like to talk about drug fantasies - from hardline heroin to simple lush binges and they range from posers to questionable whacko fucks. 

Growing up an Xer in Miami (personal information alert), I had my share of drug exposure. Club scenes and ranging parties and stoner friends. I saw some fucked up people do some fucked up stuff and I participated in my share, but the guys who call up phone sluts for drug fantasies come up with scenarios that make Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas look like preschool romper room antics. 

Prior to becoming a phone slut, the only sexual perversion / drug cross I'd ever been privy to was watching Kevin Spacy's character on Wiseguy get off on having his sister inject heroin into his feet. (Anyone else remember that?)

These guys who call are, really, too much fun for color TV. Drug fantasies are never a "hot" call - mostly because they are so ridiculous in nature. You have to listen to guys talk about stuffing your orifices full of coke, about licking stamps off your belly, and then there's all the unintelligible muttering about turning your tits into a bong. 

And they can yammer on and on for hours, hopping from one fantasy genre to the other - a blur of multiple partners, livestock, and hallucinogenic substances. Cross-dressing, anal rape and humiliation.

Apparently, a side effect of drug use is the inability to focus. Who knew?

At first, I thought that maybe letting these guys blather on and on and spend megabucks oh phone sex was exploitation of some kind of pathetic sickness. But, then the selfish part of me realized you can't buy this kind of entertainment anywhere. And, if they're going to go out there and blow (no pun intended) their money, they might as well send some of it my way. At least if they're talking to me, they're not getting knifed in the back room of some crack house.

Yeah, maybe it sounds like justification, but no one makes them call. And I deserve the laugh...and the cash.

It helps me deal with my landlady.





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2002 The Phone Slut. All rights reserved. Distribution of content prohibited. 
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