don't fucking hang up

He called my hotel room at almost 11:30. I was sleepy, already in bed, watching some stupid movie with Tom Hanks, which, I realize is redundant.

I thought maybe he had gotten nervous. I think he was used to more run-of-the-mill phone encounters. Girls with breathy voices that called him baby. When I picked up the phone and said hello, he laughed and said, wow.

[fast forward]

Take off everything. I'll wait. Now put whichever hand is not holding the phone on your stomach and do not move it until I tell you to.

Have you ever read Vox?, I said. By Nicholson Baker. My favor...

Mmmm, I heard him say, obviously distracted. I decided to be quiet.

After about ten seconds, I heard him sigh, and then he asked, how...

In my thirties, cute, thin, fit, 5'5", 34B, artsy, smart and verbal, can pick up a non-loser guy in a bar in under fifteen minutes and I am not wearing anything.

Right, he said. You better not be.

[fast forward]

Do it again, he told me. A bit more sternly this time. So I obeyed. Not like I could argue. It was his money. The second time, he obviously liked it better. His voice began to dissolve, his orders were gutteral, urgent. I loved his orders! I could hear the his breath catch at the end of each stroke, so I knew exactly how to time things.

I positioned the camera so he could see everything.

[fast forward]

I read in the New York Times that no real woman ever feels like having sex enough for her partner - that is what people like me are for.

He was still breathing hard, and I waited a moment, listening.

Look, he said finally. Don't hang up. Don't fucking hang up. I want you to think about me cumming on your face while you are walking down the street or on the subway or in a meeting or something. Don't fucking hang up.

I'm not going to hang up! I am walking towards the bathroom mirror now. There is my flushed face, hair everywhere, hands wet. I catch my eye and don't let it go.

Fuck, he said. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.