Thursday, August 6, 2020

Misdial, Post #126

Courtesy of
Last week, I was trying to provoke old memories. This week’s story never happened to me, but let’s see if it strikes a chord with any of you.

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I sprawled on the bed Saturday morning, half asleep, half-awake, and half tumescent when the phone rang. I slung my arm over to pick up the cordless receiver and grunted.
           “Dammit, wake up, Chuck!” demanded an unfamiliar voice. “We had a date. Get your pretty ass over here right now!”
           “D-date?” I asked. “Who is this?”
          Dead silence for a second. “Chuck? That you? You playing tricks on me again?”
          “I’m not Chuck, and I’m not playing games. Go take your—”
          “Hold on! Don’t hang up. This really isn’t Chuck?”
          The voice was gravelly, conveying the image of a husky athlete. “No, my name’s not Chuck. It’s Dane.” Crap. Probably shouldn’t have volunteered that.
          “Hi, Dane. My name’s Harley. You sound interesting. How old are you?”
          “Nineteen. You?”
          “Twenty-one. You go to the college?”
          “How’d you know?”
          “Assuming I didn’t misdial the prefix, it’s the one around the school. You’re nineteen, so it’s a good guess. What are you wearing?”
          “None of your business, but not a damned thing! I’m still in bed.”
          “Oh, jeez! I’d like to see that. Describe yourself.”
          “Fuck man, what you wanta know? I’m five ten, hundred and sixty. What else is there?”
          “Hair? Eyes?”
          “Yeah, I’ve got those.” Why in the hell didn’t I just hang up?
          He laughed appreciatively. “Color, smart-ass?”
          “Blond hair, blue eyes.”
          “What color is the hair on your chest?”
          “Don’t have any. And that’s getting kinda personal.”
          He ignored me. “What color are your pubes. Gold or red?”
          “Neither. Sorta light brown,” I snapped. Why did I answer that?
          “How big are you? Cut or uncut? Rocket ship or spade?” He spoke rapidly into my stunned silence.  “Just describe it to me.”
          “Why should I?”
          “Because you want to,” he said simply.
          “Big enough to do the job.”
          “Fantastic! Man, tell me where you live, and I’ll be over there to help you out so fast you won’t believe it.”
           “Fast is good, huh?”
          “Go on, describe it to me."
          So I did and answered his questions about a couple of details, still not understanding why I was going along with this guy. “What the hell’s going on?” That question was meant for me, but he answered.
          “Phone sex. Good old phone sex. You spread out on the bed holding it in your hand?”
          “Maybe,” I admitted, giving him his answer.
          “How’s that feel”
          “Oh, man,” I moaned.
          “It’d feel better if I was there. You ever had a blow?”
          “N…no,” I said jerkily. My heavy breathing probably told the joker what I was doing as clearly as if I’d said it aloud.
          He laughed. “Ain’t it a blast?”
          “Oh, man,” I repeated, reduced to primal grunts and single syllable exclamations.
          “Pump it, man. You’re getting close! I can hear you panting, you good-looking fucker!”
          “Go for it, Dane! Go for it!”
          “Oh, shit! Gotta stop this or….”
          “Don’t stop, Dane,” the voice dripped with authority.
          My legs spasmed, and I groaned my way through the keen edge of an orgasm, whimpering as it slowly died away.
          “Man, that must have been something,” came the voice from the telephone. “Wish I’d been there to make it even better.”
          “Couldn’t,” I gasped. “Best ever!”
          “Go back to sleep, Dane, and I’ll call you next Saturday. Unless, you want me to come over in person.”
          “Think about it,” I groaned, halfway into slumber.
          “Great! Until Saturday.”
          I drifted toward sleep and then snapped wide awake. Saturday? He was going to call again Saturday? How could he if he had misdialed?
           Son of a bitch! It wasn’t any misdial; it was somebody I knew! And I had until Saturday to figure out who’d gotten into my pants. Over the telephone, for crying out loud!

* * * * *
Anyone remember anything like this happening to them? Anything similar? Let me know.

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And now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

Until next time.


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