There are a number of words I find unpleasant. There are the standards, the words most everyone hates–moist, panties–but there are others; ‘pussy,’ ‘suckle,’ and ‘juicy’ being the worst offenders. Phone sex meant hearing all of those words (except ‘moist’) on a regular basis. It’s hard to say what the worst part of the job was, but the words were certainly the most grating.
I had a caller, Jim, who loved the word ‘suckle.’ He was, in some ways, the best kind of caller. He directed the whole thing, I hardly had to speak at all, I could sit back, watch a movie (the sound turned down to a murmur) and give an occasional moan while Jim went on and on. In other ways, in suckling ways, Jim was the worst kind of caller. He would go into great detail about how he wanted to suckle everything. He wanted to suckle my lips, down my neck, my nipples, my clit. He would repeat the word over and over again, suckle, suckle, suckle. It’s a wet word, ‘suckle’, a sloppy word.
How could anyone find such a word sexy? It’s the auditory equivalent of being attacked with a bucket of pond scum, but Jim loved it. Perhaps he thought it sounded romantic, chivalrous. While he may have just been a control freak, there was something about the way Jim said everything in this contrived Barry White voice that made me think he actually thought I was gleaning some pleasure from the encounter. Maybe by using the word ‘suckle’ Jim thought he would make me feel as if I had been transported into some awful bodice ripper. It did not work. I would sit on my couch in disgust, hoping he would finish soon, cringing slightly at every ‘suckle’.
My one consolation was that Jim called my Russian line. The persona I called Sonia was very popular, I have mentioned before that she was beautiful, but it cannot be overstated. She looked like some exquisitely tattooed pre-Raphaelite painting. It might have just been the soft focus of the camera, but she glowed. She was my favorite. There was something wonderful about pretending, if just for a moment, to be this absurdly beautiful person. In addition to this, I could have fun with my screams of make-believe ecstasy. My friend Jenni had recently started learning Russian and had obligingly provided me with a series of entirely nonsexual phrases to scream out in the throes of my orgasmic performances.
I had to be careful. If I detected the slightest hint of an Eastern European accent, I would keep it at moans and go no further. But everyone else was treated to moaned exclamations about how there was a map on the wall, how I respected their point of view but was forced to disagree with them, how the jug was sitting on the table, etc. Jim assaulted me with his suckling; I mocked him with my ordinary events described in Russian.
