For today, I thought I'd play with what at first I saw as a variation on a freaky f***ing theme.
Todays fetish takes us into the realm of uncontrolled growth, a type of size morphing.
Unlike macrophilia, another size morphing fantasy, where the man has an attraction to giants or giantesses and often fantasizes himself shrinking to become the play thing of his fantasy lover, with growth fantasies, the caller fantasizes about enhanced virility and control through the growth of his penis.
A trait typical of all size morphing fantasies a detail that is perhaps signifigant, that the men almost always seem to put themselves in the roll of the person changing. They place themselves in the role of changling as opposed to having their lust interests change in shape or size.
There may be multiple reasons for this. For one thing, size is perceived in relative terms. Whetever attracts a caller to giantesses may conceivably be enhanced whent his surroundings, as well as his lady, are all larger than normal. As he puts his lover in the role of demi-goddess, he is also literally lessening himself as opposed to turning the lover into an abnormal creature.
In the case of the man who wants his penis to grow to an unnatural size, again, perspective is everything, and a large penis against a normal size body could seem even bigger. In addition, he may want the focus to remain on the size of his penis, by shrunkinig his partner, the focus would be transferred to her small size. Shrinking his partner may also bring unwanted images of pedophilia. This man doesn't want to dominate children with his virility, he wants to be larger than life, able to leap tall blondes with a single jerk.
As an operator, the problems with this type of fantasy can be the narrow focus od it all. With a macrophilac, there us usually a whole set up and scenario leading up to his capture and torment. There is a story arc with a beginning, a middle, and an end.
With the morphing penises, it's usually just "oh, my gosh, it's getting bigger." What is normally just the beginning of the fantasy, an engorged and growing penis, is now turned into the goal and the journey all rolled into one.
In their own way, these calls become even more ridiculous than the giantess calls. You start off with a penis getting bigger, then it gets bigger, and finally, it gets bigger. If the guy as been drinking and is having a bit of trouble acheiving his *ahem* goal, the penis has to get bigger still. It's not unheard of for these calls to continue until the caller has a schlong as long as his leg and the woman is being stretched to bursting. Here I can't help but point out the contrast from the macrophilacs, in that the violent end comes not to himself but to the woman. Where the macrophiliac seems to desire become a part of all things feminine, the man with the morphing penis wants to become little more than the essence of masculine virility.
On a personal note, all I can say is, thank goodness most companie have time limits on calls so that he caller is eventually cut off, otherwise, there could be no end to the fantasy for a man who has a buzz on.
Think of it, first, he just has to walk with a limp until the schmeckle hits the floor, then he has to wear platform shoes. If it keeps groing, he has to dress it up in order to go out. He has to buy two seats at the movie theater. Left unchecked, he'll have to move in a loft apartment just to let it have room to dangle.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
For today, I thought I'd play with what at first I saw as a variation on a freaky f***ing theme.
Monday, June 27, 2005
I was seventeen, fresh out of school and still relatively innocent. He was a British photographer, too old to date jailbait, but too reckless to care. It was late and we were on the phone together, watching TV.
Star 80 was airing. If you're unfamiliar, it's about a Playboy centerfold who was killed by her estranged husband. As the film told her life story, we watched her as a young woman, about my age. Her future husband was taking the pictures which would start her career as a nude model. It was a titillating scene as the actress smiled, blushes, and began to strip.
My boyfriend and I lay in our respective beds, watching with nearly silent phones pressed to our ears. The parallel between the film couple and ourselves seemed evident, and I couldn't help but imagine myself being seduced into baring my young body for his camera. No doubt, he was thinking the same.
His voice was soft and husky when he spoke. "Are you randy?"
I blinked. "Um... no, I'm Dani." We'd been dating for three weeks! How could he not know my name?
"No, no, no. I know your name. I mean... Well, are you.. excited?"
"Excited?" I repeated dumbly.
"The movie," he explained, clearly reconsidering the likelihood of my seduction, "is the movie making you feel sexy."
There was the faint sound of a penny dropping.
"Ooooooh, I get it. You want to know if I'm horny!"
"Horny? What an awful word for it! Horny. What kind of word is that to describe it?"
"Don't ask me, I didn't make it up. But at least you can see where it might have come from. Who was Randy and why the hell did he get a state of being named after him?"
"Oh, never mind."
We fell back into silence as the movie continued. Sometime before the distinctly un-sexy murder/suicide ending, things turned steamy again. And again, my boyfriend tried to initiate a pointed conversation.
"So, what do you think of the movie so far?"
"Well, it's not exactly Casablanca, but it's ok,"
"Perhaps not, but Casablanca didn't have sex scenes."
"No, a great kiss though."
"So do you like them?"
"The sex scenes."
"Aren't they getting to you at all?"
As dense as I'd been to this point, I understood by his tone that there were distinctly right and wrong answers to this question. I answered weakly, but correctly.
"What are you going to do about it?"
TA-DAH!!! Danielle, welcome to your first phone sex call!
The next twenty minutes were spent with me talking as little as possible, not knowing what to say. I listened, not quite believing my dignified, mature boyfriend was actually doing all the things he described in such explicit detail. But as his breath became harder and his creaky bedsprings became audible, I began to believe. I listened in a fascinated state of arousal and discomfort.
Suddenly, and seemingly without warning, there was a loud, sharp gasp. Then a snort and grunt followed by a sort of squeak and another snort. At last, there was complete and frightening stillness.
I waited a few seconds, desperate to hear breathing.
'Oh my G-d,' I thought, 'he's had a heart attack!' My mind raced with panic. 'I have to call the police! I have to call an ambulance! Oh shit, I DON'T KNOW HIS ADDRESS!'
I quickly formulated a plan. I would have to put the phone down without hanging it up and race to the nearest pay phone. If I called the police, they could trace the call to his address.
My eyes widened as I pictured the police breaking down his door hours later only to find him in his bedroom, dead and already stiffening, one hand on the phone, the other on his penis.
I held the phone tight to my ear, gaping in horror. My mother was gonna know what I'd been talking about!
I looked at the phone’s cradle, weighing my options. If I hung up, there was always the possibility his roommate would get home in time to revive him.
'Oh, G-d' I thought, 'I'm going to Hell.' I'm Jewish, we don't even believe in Hell, but I was willing to bet I was on my way anyway.
Finally, after seemingly endless seconds wavering between humiliation and damnation, my redemption came in the form of a weak and happy voice floating up from the receiver.
"Dan? Did you cum?”
Friday, June 24, 2005
You might be surprised to hear (or, you might be if you weren't so worldly and experienced, you dashing young sophisticate you) that some of the most common calls I get are from men who have pilfered their girlfriend's underpants and are ready to play.
Some men and women just love em. Mostly men. They love to see them, they love to feel them, they love to smell them and on occasion, the love to wear them. From Butch-boys to Nancy-men, the panties hold special fascination.
I used to know some guys in Special Forces who would cut out the crotch of their girlfriends' or wives' panties and tuck them into the hem of their caps for use on those long lonely nights out in the field. Every time they came home and left again, they'd take with them a freshly soiled panty crotch in their hats.
I've quizzed countless men on what attracts them to ladies' delicates. After all, women don't exactly hold men's dirty underpants in the same regard do they? I could be wrong, I do tend to talk more often with men so my survey is no doubt as skewed as Kinsey's original data. (Have I mentioned, I think Kinsey was an ass?) But I do believe the idea of inhaling a little "Eau de Tighty-whitey" is more likely to evoke a gag than a flush of lust from a woman.
Most of the time, the response to my questioning is little more than incoherent moaning. But on occasion, I've been enlightened. One of the more eloquent answers went something along the lines of "I love women. I worship them. I want to envelope myself in all things feminine." Bravo, Mr. Pany-Man! Bravo!
I found a fascinating Blog by a guy who is less inclined to wear women's underwear himself, but is obsessed with them on their owners. His "Panty Story"seems at times to be just that, a story. But whether the story is a fantasy, a true recollection, or a little of both, it certainly lends some insight into what goes through the mind of a man who wants nothing more than to see a girl flash her briefs.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
I love the internet. How else could a virtual hermit in Oregon not only work from home, but meet and network with a self-described smut-aholic, a Canadian porn director, and a chubbychaser from the midwest.
I've been to the midwest, that's a good place to find 'em.
I love my job!
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Those there are some wise words from the label of my Mike's Hard Lemonade bottle.
I like Mike's Hard Lemonade. It's not quite a Shandy but it can be bought by the six pack in American grocery stores. Can't say that about shandy. I suppose I could mix my own beer and lemonade, but that's a little too close to cooking for my tastes.
Anyway, let's see, where was I? Oh yeah, being copied.
I've recently become aware, that among the many men and women who are out there trolling away online, through websites and chat rooms, there are a few unsavory and unscrupulous operators who will steal website content from other operators. Sometimes, they steal not only the content, but bandwidth as well by simply hyperlinking to another operator's pictures instead of actually hosting the images on their own site. Sometimes they copy the entire site, in an attempt to impersonate a successful operator and steal their regular callers.
It's a hard job those women do, going out and promoting themselves, flirting endlessly with guys who only tell them "how about you call me directly?" They put money and time into buying pictures and thinking up content for their sites. And they work hard to build a client base. It's pretty ugly for other operators, who know the deal, to hone in on someone else's action.
I drunkenly blow a razzberry at all who stoop to such pilfering. Pfffffft :p
Sorry about the spit.
I'm celebrating the 200th hit to my blog. Woo hoo! (It takes so little to make me happy.)
I'm especially excited, cause 200 page views can't all be from me.
Friday, June 17, 2005
That's right. Smoking is this Friday's Fetish of the Week. Cigarette smoking, cigar smoking, pipe smoking, even bong smoking. If you smoke it, they will come.
After years of being told about cancer and bad breath, smokers are finding their place in the hazy sun. Sites like Kandy's Smoking Fetish are popping up all over the place to celebrate sexy smokers.
What would cause a person to take pleasure from the sight of someone inhaling carcinogens like a cowardly suicide? Probably the same things that lure people into smoking to begin with. The impression that smokers are cool and popular. The youthful idea that people seem more mature with a cigarette dangling from the fingertips or lips. A notion that a cigar adds an element of masculinity or a that pipe lends sophistication to it's smoker.
True, the reality would be laughable in it's irony if the consequences weren't so serious. There's nothing mature about trading your health for an image, there's nothing masculine about a man with a constant wheeze, and there's no sophistication in nicotine stained hair and teeth.
Please don't misunderstand. I don't mean to bash smokers. I still consider myself to be one, though I haven't lit up in seven years. Even now I am known to occasionally stand downwind of another smoker, breathing deeply the tainted air as if to enjoy the nicotine without the cancer. So no, I'm not implying smokers are inherently foolish. But let's face it. It wasn't the smartest thing we did when we took that first drag.
In our defense, and by way of further explanation, we did have some powerful early images directing our perceptions. Our first heroes and heroines of cool have often been associated with cigarettes, from Humphrey Boggart to James Dean and from Bette Davis to Madonna, the cigarette has been an important prop to convey a worldly persona. In Grease, sweet, virginal Sandy's transformation into the hot little vixen who "would" is made complete with the flick of a cigarette. How better could I emphasize the correlation between sex and cigarettes.
It can hardly be surprising to find some men and women might have been hardwired to associate smoke and sex appeal. And let's not forget, we have a very phallic symbol being brought to the lips in mock fellatio. It wouldn't take Freud to figure this one out.
So to those of you who still light up after dinner (at home), or skip the coffee for a smoke break (outside the building), enjoy it while you can and take pictures while you're still young and beautiful enough to sell them. There's a market out there for you baby!
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Well, OK, maybe I do a little bit.
I can drink coffee until the cows come home and bedtime becomes a nonproductive, eight hour, twitch-fest. I can knit all day to finish a three scarf ruana that should have taken another week to do, knitting and purling until my wrist aches and still continuing after that. I can shop until my savings are a distant memory and my house is full of crap I don't need and will never use.
I know, I know, this isn't necessarily addiction, it's just stupidly overdoing things. I'd agree with you (um.. me actually, since really, I'm the one who posed the argument. Does that make me schizophrenic as well as addictive?) but I do these things regularly. I don't learn from my mistakes and I'm not deterred by the caffeine headaches, aching wrists, and days of eating naught but pasta as I stare at my vast collection of shiny crap like a jealous magpie. Isn't that slightly addictive?
Hmmm, I'm going to have to rethink the title of this post.
Anyway, I've now found a new obsession. It could seem I can sit in front of a computer for the whole of my day off, eating in front of the monitor, knitting in front of the monitor, drinking coffee in front of the monitor. "Porn?" you ask. (well, I think you ask). No, that would be too easy. It's Blogs I've discovered, Darling. Blogs!
Ironic as it is to post in a Blog, I only recently began reading them. I had no clue how to find the ones I'd be interested in and no patience to sift through all the discarded, forgotten, and plain old boring Blogs out there in the hopes of finding a gem.
Well, as I imagine *you* already know, there are search engines just for Blogs. I've been cruising Blogarama, Popdex, Bloggernity and Blog Search Engine and finding all sorts of relevant posts. So, my ass was stuck in an office chair for my entire day off. I excused it by telling myself it was raining and I couldn't go out anyway. But I'm having trouble justifying the laundry which first began to grow musty in the washing machine, and then, got wrinkled while waiting for me in the dryer.
I hear you asking, "what the hell does this have to do with phone sex, fool? You promised the real world of phone sex." (That was you asking wasn't it? I'd be worried if it was those voices again.)
Well, here's what it has to do with phone sex. You see, I've been reading Blogs and chatting with other Phone Sex Operators. It's a pleasant and unusual circumstance for people who work from home as I do, to be able to network and share the challenges and rewards of their job. Your beloved Operator15 has been making friends in the industry, Dear. Aren't you glad?
I've been introduced to the virtual water cooler and I'm loving it.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
And I'm all like "dude, you got an extra ball."
And he's all like "yeah, I know."
And I'm like "seriously?"
And he's all "do people often lie to you about the number of testicles they have?"
And so I'm like "well, I'm pretty sure a lot of them add inches to the the length."
And he's like "I think that's a little different."
And he was right. It is.
Monday, June 13, 2005
Friday, June 10, 2005
Psychology Today writes " Psychoanalysts theorize that an individual with a paraphilia is repeating or reverting to a sexual habit that arose early in life. " Perhaps that explains this Friday's fetish.
Virophilia: A sexual attraction to Super-heroes.
OK, so, to the best of my knowledge, it wasn't really a word before now. I just made it up. But it should have been a word. It's a good word. It has flair.
Super-hero attraction is an actual fetish though, and it falls under the psychological heading of Paraphilias Not Otherwise Specified.
Some people have debated whether generally harmless fetishes deserve to be considered paraphilias. The argument is that people with innocuous fetishes, such as an attraction to foreigners (xenophilia), shouldn't be lumped into the same category as rapists (biastophilia).
The problem is, it's impossible to altogether avoid being categorized in a way which associates you with someone or something you don't like. For instance, I don't wish to be categorized with my ex-husband. So instead of calling him human, shall I re-categorize him as homo-assholian? I'd like to, but then we'd both still be primates anyway. Words by themselves are neutral things. It's only how you use them that make them good or bad. Kind of like The Force. Though admittedly, some words are mighty difficult to use in a pleasant context. The word ex-husband, for instance.
So, breaking the word down to it's purest form: para, meaning "other" and philia meaning "love," paraphilia refers simply to the love of something other. Other than what? Well, the inference is, other than the norm. And when it all comes down to it, a fetish for a man in a cape may be harmless and even understandable when we're talking Christopher Reeve, but it's not exactly the norm. And in a society that prides itself on it's sense of freedom and individuality, that is a blessed, blessed thing.
So here's to all you lovers of capes, spandex, enormous breasts, and the American Way. I hope you have a really lovely Saturday morning stroke-fest tomorrow.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Salary.com has released the results of a poll they did to determine the sexiest job. Firefighter won with 16% of the 5,000 votes, followed by Flight Attendant with 13%.
The results for the top ten sexiest jobs were as follows:
2. Flight attendant
5. Interior designer
6. Event planner
Write in votes included "parcel deliverers, CPAs, electrical line workers, radiological technologists...and of course, the proverbial 'milkman.'"
OK, that's it, next time a guy asks me what I do for a day job, I'm telling him I'm a milkman.
Posted by Operator15 at 1:08 PM
Friday, June 03, 2005
Macrophilia: sexual attraction to giants or giantesses.
Many men with macrophiliac tendencies develop surprisingly similar fantasies to explain how they come to be in the presence of a giantess. Despite what you might think, I've yet to come across a Jack and the Beanstalk type scenario.
Almost without fail, men will set out the fantasy to play as such:
They are on a date. The woman brings them back to her home for a nightcap. As they chat and flirt, she speaks seductively, with a knowing gleam in her eye. At this point, she either slips a potion or drug in his drink, or she speaks soothingly to him, hypnotizing him. He begins to notice he's shrinking.
As he shrinks, his voice gets smaller and higher. The woman laughs and begins to play with him like a cat with a mouse. She lets him run for a bit, only to catch him easily in her giant, manicured hands. She may put him in a cage, or she may just pick him up, letting him dangle helplessly from her fingertips. He is powerless to fight her.
Sometimes, but by no means always, he is used as a sex toy. Forced to burrow into her womanly cavern like a hamster through a well known actor's rectum.
As unorthodox as this all is, the disturbing part of these scenarios is the often violent end. Whether the man is lost forever, suffocating as a human benwa ball, or swallowed, or whether he is stomped beneath a story tall stiletto heel, it's disturbing to know someone might envision their own death as part of a sexual fantasy.
Once again, I find myself wondering what circumstances led to this type of fantasy. Did The Attack Of The Fifty Foot Woman really spark their starters? Was their first crush very tall? Did they want to be Stuaat Little when they were kids?
The prevailing aspects of the fantasies are the man's diminutive size and relative helplessness. Could this be somehow reminiscent of childhood? If so, you might expect to find an element of nurturing and protection coming from the character of the giantess. While the protection can certainly be illustrated by his utter dependence on her for his very life, the murderous end would seem to cancel that theory out.
With the fantasies of being swallowed, or otherwise being taken internally, there could be a desire to of become a literal part of the woman.
He's clearly turning his entire body into a Phallus, maybe he's just been equated to one so many times he's taken it to heart? Or maybe he's just trying to imagine his whole body feeling as good as his penis does during orgasm.
I have to admit, I'm completely stumped on this one. Any armchair therapists want to try explaining this one? I'd love to read your comments.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
The phone rings.
Before I'm connected to the caller, a recording tells me he called for a transsexual. He wants a walk on the wild side, the best of both words, a he-she, a chick with a di... uh, ahem . Well, you know what I'm talking about right? That special body part only guys have? It tends to stick out on men, where women are smooth? That's right, an Adam's apple.
Anyway, I raise my voice a bit to say "Hello." You might think I'd lower it to sound masculine, but no. If I did that, I'd just end up sounding like a woman with a faux-masculine voice. Conversely though, most men who try to sound like women don't usually pull it off completely either. They often sound a bit too high pitched or too feminine. Even transsexuals, who generally take hormones to feminize their features, including their voices, may speak with an idealized version of a female voice. So, to portray a transvestite or a transsexual, I become more feminine. I raise my voice and soften it. I sound just slightly unreal, just enough to make the caller think, 'she sounds too good to be true. She *must* be a man.'
Back to our story.
I'm connected to the pleasant voice of a man in mid to late twenties. The personality behind the voice however, seems to have never left it's teens.
"Hi, my name's Chrissy. Who’s this?"
"Uh, (giggle) Hi Chrissy, my name's Mike. Wow, are you really a dude?"
"Hi there Mike. To answer your question, I'm a lady, Mike. I'm just a lady with a little more to offer then your average gal. About six and a half inches more."
The giggling continues.
"I take it you've never spoken to a girl like me before. Is that right Mike? Am I your first, darling?"
"Yeah, so far as I know. Man, you sound great. Really? You're a dude?"
"Mike, if you keep asking me that, I'm afraid we're going to miss out on some much more interesting conversation. Why don't you tell me what you're up to today."
"Well, I'm just hanging out here at my friend's shop. You sound pretty hot for a dude. I'm already sportin wood."
"I'm flattered, Mike. But you didn't call me from your friend's phone without his permission did you? That wouldn’t be very nice."
"No, nothing like that, I'm on my cell. But listen, I want you to say 'hi' to him ok? Only don't tell him you're a dude. Ok?"
"I assure you Mike, I never tell anyone I'm a dude."
Mike hesitates and seems unsure of my promise. He guesses I'm teasing him about his repeated use of the word dude, and he's right. He also wonders if I'm going to spell out his little prank to his friend. Here he's wrong. I'm being paid to play a part. I knew my mission and I accepted it. I am now honor bound to lie.
Mike, like the dear friend that he is, passes the phone over to Ike, saying there's someone on the line he'd like him to meet. Within moments, I'm on the phone with Ike, making small talk and getting to know him.
"No, I haven't known Mike long," I tell him truthfully. " He seemed eager for us to meet though," I continue, inwardly applauding myself for finding a way to be candid while simultaneously perpetuating a bald faced lie. Somewhere in the background, I hear Mike tell Ike that I am, in fact, a phone sex operator. He neglects to mention that he called for an transsexual operator. I pretend not to hear his 'wink, wink, nudge, nudge' comments in the background
"So, Mike says he's at your store. What do you sell?"
"I own a comic shop."
Alone in my office, I smile, knowing I've just found the path to Ike’s heart. With five little words, I win him over.
"What titles do you read?"
The next half hour is spent discussing the merits of Marvel vs DC, the politics of comic distribution, and reliving the details of a lovely afternoon I once spent with Stan Lee, the creator of Spider-man. We talk about my ex, who managed a comic shop and his ex, who hated comics.
The call automatically disconnects in mid-conversation. Ike calls back from his own phone.
During the conversation I learn that Mike has slipped out of Ike's office to allow us some privacy, no doubt assuming the conversation will be getting steamy but Ike remains a perfect gentleman. He will not be pressured into objectifying a woman he's taken an interest in. Pretty impressive for a guy who surrounds himself with images of unnaturally proportioned super-women in skin tight spandex.
Ike digs me. Ike digs me a lot.
Contrary to the stereotype of a comics reading geek, Ike seems pretty down to earth. He is charming and intelligent. In spite of my truly moderate interest in comics, I find him witty and observant enough to be interesting. Every once in a while, I flirt more pointedly, offering an opportunity to take advantage of the mature possibilities for the call, but I get the distinct impression that Ike prefers simply talking to a woman about all things comic related. He says as much more than once.
"I can't believe there's actually a woman out there who's into comics like this. Of course you'd have to be halfway across the country. How can I tempt you to visit me?"
"I'm enjoying your company as well, Ike. But I'm sure you know I can't agree to meet you. There must be *some* women in your area who like comics. Don't they come into your shop?"
"Yeah, but they all come in with their husbands or boyfriends. I know we can't meet, but I thought I'd at least try. It figures I'd meet a hot girl who likes comics and there's no way I can meet you."
"Now Ike, for all you know, I could be a hideous specimen. I could be acne scarred, morbidly obese, smelly and with one very buck tooth. I could be a man for all you know."
"If you were a man or had one tooth, I don't believe you'd sound as hot as you do. Beyond that, I can handle anything but smelly. Are you smelly?"
"Ok then, we're good to go."
By now, another half hour had past and we're about to be disconnected again. There's no mistaking the sound of Mike re-entering the room.
"Dude! You've been talking to a dude!" He sounds enormously pleased with his deception. "You're getting into a man, Ike!"
Mike doesn't seem to believe him. "You're so full of it. Now go away, I’m trying to talk to Chrissy."
I can almost hear the penny drop as Ike realizes the unisex nature of the name I've given myself. I can hear him thinking about the part of the conversation where I pointed out I could be a man. At the same time, Mike is trying to convince him of my true identity. He explains that he'd called a number to speak to a transsexual and makes disparaging comments about Ike's virility. He seems to think it’s all good natured fun, but I'm sure the last thing I hear him say before being cut off are the words 'closet case'.
I feel rather sorry when the dial tone sounds in my ear.
The phone rings again and it isn't Ike. Same thing with the next call. I resign myself to talking with men who aren't as charming as Ike, nor seemingly, as intelligent. Not that I normally see men at their best when I take these calls.
Two hours later, I'm about to quit working for the night when the phone rings one last time. Following the formula of only the best Harlequin Romances, it had to be Ike.
"Mike's gone. I had to call back. I could be naive, but I don't believe you're a transsexual."
"I won't try to convince you. I will say this though. Whatever my gender, it wouldn't affect my tastes or my sensibilities. And I genuinely like you. I'm glad you called back. Though I'm sorry you took such a ribbing from Mike."
"Yeah, well, thanks. I'm sorry too. You didn't need to hear that. Sometimes that's just the way he is, but he doesn't mean to be so...."
"Well, yeah. I suppose. I'm sorry if he offended you."
"He truly didn't. But I'll tell you one thing. Next time he calls you a closet case, remind him how he told me he was sportin wood, even though he believes I'm a man."
"He said that?"
"Verbatim. And I'll tell you something else. I don't know where he got the number from, but I *do* know where we advertise. Ask him if he's ever heard of a magazine call Hot Tranny."
I spoke to Ike for the duration of one more call and when our time was up, we said goodbye properly. I never heard from him again.
That was years ago. He’s not the only guy who just wanted to talk or the only one who was ever charming and intelligent. He’s not even the only one I liked or who stood apart from the others in my mind. He’s just one of my favorites.
The moral to this story is simple. You can never judge a book by it's cover. What at first may seem a humorous and titillating anecdote, may turn out to be, nothing more than a rambling and boring blogger’s reminiscence.