If You Can’t Be With The One You Love, Honey…FONE BONE The One You’re With…

Tell me this has NEVER happened to you, and I'll have to call you a lie-yah...



Picture it: It’s a rainy night in your ville. You’re home alone, and maybe just a little lonely. You’re reclining in your favorite chair, or perhaps on the sofa or futon, contemplating your navel or somesuch ish.

The phone rings. You answer it. Instantly, you recognize the voice. It sounds a bit like you… a little lonely, a little weary, a little mean, a little sex-starved-woozy, too. You can telegraph the message of their breaths. Lately, you've become this keen student of breaths.

The two of you speak for a few, indulging in the usual ‘Whachu doin? Nothing. Well what you UP to? Nothin...’ B.S.

It’s waaaaaay past midnight… on a Sunday/early Monday morning. What could they possibly be UP to at this hour?

Gradually comes the revelation (aha!) They are feeling lonely for some company, and thought of you. They tell you how much they wish YOU were there with them, showering them with kisess, doing those all erotic, freaky things you do. But distance precludes you even considering the prospects of a Booty Call.

But the breathing… yes… the Breathing continues.

You know by instinct, just what they are doing on the other end. 'You so nasty!' You can TELL. It’s in their silence. It’s in the shortness of their breath. It’s in the slight mooooooaning, progressively grrrrroaning sounds they make in the back of their throat.

Ah yes. Phone sex. I’m sure many of us have performed this intimate, if long-distance private act.

Phone Sex. Ummm... yes, I have, on occasion indulged. I’ve been told that I can be pretty damn good at it.

But you don’t want to become SO GOOD at it that you get calls in the middle of the freaking night from someone asking you to soothe the horny beast that dwells within their Hanes, their Vicky’s Secrets, their Calvins, their Fruit of the…whatevers.

Still, if you know this person well enough… if they intrigue you, if you’ve been intimate with them before, you have that keen advantage of knowing just what they like, how they like it, where to touch stroke, probe, lick, suck, kiss. You know the secret of just what to say, what to do to those most deepest most intimate of or areas to please them.

The sounds they make are like your tour guide to their private bliss. The sound they make become like arias sang from the nudity of their souls.


Ah yes. Oh, yeaaaah. Phone sex. It can be as hot or vague or as mad vivid as the act of getting laid.

So you whisper into the receiver the things you want to do… and you tell them to close their eyes, to imagine you are there:

“Get Naked!” you demand.

“I am,” they say.

“No, you’re not! Get all the way naked for me, baby…” you whisper.

You tell them that their hand is no longer their hand, but YOURS touching them, stroking them, teasing them, pleasing them.

You become the aggressor, the mad lover/vagabond traveling along the terrain of their private contours.

You are the conductor of their electricity… and the forecaster of their body heat.

You are the private dancer between their sheets, between their legs, trashing inside that invisble heat.

If they want it romantic… you become the slow and probing body poet. You recite, you wax in poetic odes to a nipple.

If they want it raw and nasty, you become the cock-strong pornstar. You have the power. They’ve given it to you. And you use it to your slyest advantage.

The climax is in their breath. The yearning, turning, churning desire to erupt comes in the sigh, in the whisper, in the quiet groan… in the oh so scatological HOLLA!

Yes! Shit! Yes! Oh! You motherf... Ahhhh... Arrrrrrggggghhhhh!

*Click.*


Ah yes. People, well we all can be so trashy in those late night hours. And phone sex... well, sometimes it’s the next best thing to being there.



One.