I tapped out his number on my phone with one of my broken, jagged fingernails and waited for him to answer.
“Hello, Dickhead?”... “How’s it hanging?” I said this so cheerfully, I surprised myself.
“Oh yeah,” he began, and then continued without a pause, as if he were in the middle of a conversation already in progress.
“I’m hanging just fine, thanks!” he bragged, “And hanging OUT of these pants right now! They have no zipper in them because of this wild woman I was with today! She was SO HOT for me; she just couldn’t WAIT to get into them to pull my Johnson out! She just ripped them right apart! I couldn’t keep her hands off me!”
As he entertained himself voicing his delusions out loud, I was now staring at the receiver as if I had accidentally reached the insane asylum – on Jupiter. The pain from the last jaw bunji jump returned and snapped me back to consciousness. As I placed the receiver to my ear again, I could hear he was still rambling on...and on... and on.
He is sooo pathetic.
“It’s ME” I finally interrupted, “your ‘wild woman’ from today.” My eyeballs were
now rolling around in their sockets like two roulette wheels in Vegas. “Yes, that’s right! I hate to break in on your faithful account of my uncontrolled passions and unrestrained advances toward you, but your imaginary little friend is going to have to wait to hear the rest of the distorted crap until later. I’m returning your call – although for the life of me, I don’t know why. You left me a message. ”
I could feel it already - this chat tonight was going to be much like how our second date went earlier – to hell - and then downhill from there.
“Oh...oh...oh, yeah, sure!” He stammered. “I knew it was you calling just now! I was only messin’ with ya about the ‘wild woman’ story! Uh... uhh...uhmm... I’m sorry... what was your name again?”
“Yeah, that’s another thing!” I brought up. “The least you should be able to do is get my name straight. After all we’ve been through today, we could have ended up in the same jail cell, you know, and it would only be fair if YOU, the responsible party for that fucking fiasco, would remember to call me by my correct name – you haven’t even come CLOSE yet!”
“Your name is ‘Me’, right? Uh... short for Mia?” he queried.
He is sooo beyond pathetic.
I took it v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y. “My name is ‘Kay’. Like the eleventh letter in the alphabet.”
After hearing myself say this, and knowing full well there was a better than total chance he may not know how to count to eleven without taking one of his shoes and argyle knee socks off, I thought it better to take another approach to aid the clam cumsucking clairvoyant in remembering it.
"Just say to yourself: “H”, “I”, “J”, “K”... “Kay!” my voice was dripping with sarcasm, but judging from his no response; it had gone right over his little pointed head anyway - the ultimate ‘Ground control to Dickhead - come in Dickhead’ fly by. I know I made a bad judgment call in not hiring a linguistic expert right from the start to interpret and guide him with the enunciation of my tongue twisting name. But since the faux pas was over and done with, I decided to pony up, and deal with the consequences of my oversight. And, apparently, giddy up time was now.
I took in a deep breath; counted to three to myself just to delay the agony; then asked him why he called me.
“I called you for a very important reason” he announced to me, “VERY important! It was... It was... ahhh...Now; let me see... hmmm...oh! ... No, that wasn’t it... It was...ahhhhh...uhmmmm... Maybe it was...”
I watched my fingernails grow back in the time it took Recall Suave` to retrieve the vital information from his memory banks.
“Ohhhhh yeaaaaah – now I remember!” he proudly announced “I wanted to see if you would like to go to a hockey game with me next Thursday night! I need to know right away so I can get a sitter for the evening.”
“A sitter?!? A SITTER?!? You have a BABY?!?!?” I screamed into the phone. I couldn’t imagine anyone even fractionally lucid actually willing to breed with the acrid amoeba - not even someone under a voodoo spell, heavy sedation, and/or in a straight jacket. And someone deliberately planning to create a being even REMOTELY like him was perhaps the scariest thing that had ever terrorized my mind.
“What baby?” He shot back. “You’re having a baby?!? Wait a minute! I know we never did the grown up together! Uh...did we? Look, I wasn’t born tomorrow! You go right ahead and drag me into a paternity suit! Go for it! And I’ll make you have an XYZ test! That’s right! And then we’ll see who the parents REALLY are! BOTH of them!”
It’s sad to realize if Dickhead’s brain had a twin, it would still be very lonesome.
I was staring out of my front window now at the terrestrial formations in the sky; hoping I would get a logical explanation for that last outburst. You know, like from the institute he escaped from on his Mother planet, Jupiter. All I got in return were the stars twinkling – or winking - as if he were a celestial joke. Well, the solar system joke is on me, I guess. And with my luck, his planet isn’t searching for him anymore, either; She’s sticking ME with him. Its one giant step backward for mankind – One giant step forward into a black hole for Kay.
I walked back to my sofa and plopped down to get comfortable for what I knew was going to be a long, long, L-O-N-G discussion with the dickhead dweeb.
“Let’s take these questions one at a time, shall we, Stud Dud? First: I’m not pregnant - by you or any other subterranean life form. Two: YOU were the one that brought up the subject of needing a sitter, and Three: Where do you find the unmitigated gall to think I would, in the remainder of my dismal lifetime, ever go out with you again?”
He didn’t answer. I thought at first I had hurt his feelings, but upon second thought, he probably would think the name “Stud Dud” was a new candy for male strippers. Still – silence. I knew he hadn’t hung up; I could hear him breathing. It was... heavy breathing. Heavy breathing that became... short, gaspy breathing. Something I vaguely remember hearing some where else... somewhere ... where?... from the last movie I saw maybe?... with him?...Something... something like... Oh!... the porno movie! Something like...no, EXACTLY like!... the porno stars AND the self indulgent, meat grinding, pecker playing pervs in that theatre! AND... Dickhead himself!!!
THE LITTLE FUCK WAS WANKING OFF!!!
While I was on the phone with him; no fucking less!!! We hadn’t been into this polluted conversation for more than five minutes, and the Dickhead was already in a third party chat with his distorted dick! The jock itchy, shriveled up, soggy, deli barrel pickle dick! ULCH!!!
I started to count in my head again, but reaching a number so great as to stave off my disgust was going to take me well into the next century, so I decided to give him the benefit of the desperate-to-be- dead- wrong- doubt. Maybe the reason for his quickened breathing was that he was having a panic attack and was breathing into a paper bag. Or that he was a Lamaze instructor and was practicing his career at home. Or that maybe he was pumping iron with the phone on speaker mode. Or???? I knew all these alternatives were far fetched, but this is Dickhead we’re talking about here – far fetched is the lewd dude’s middle name. And it’s fast becoming mine, too. Unfortunately, desperate and far fetched thoughts were being beaten out by the “smut-by-phone” reality, so I sucked in one more deep breath for what I knew was the real deal on the other end of the line, and threw out my newest approach.
I played stupid.
I cleared my throat, and with the sweetest; most innocent voice I could muster up; so sweet it would put a diabetic into a coma; I naively asked,
“Watcha doin’?”
I thought the question would take him completely off guard, but he never faltered in his rapid breathing reply.
“I’m talking to you, Fay, and I’m SURE doin’! Ohhh YEAH! Am I EVER doin’, Renee!” A devilish little chuckle emitted from the drooling lips of The Groin Master. Then he said it. The #1 most common and crass lead into sex- by- phone that ever was spoken:
“What are you wearing right now?”
I almost went off on him again about the multiple wrong {again!} names and would have hung up the phone on the wanking worm, but I suddenly got an overwhelming feeling of pity for the slimy soul. Here he was; all hot and horny and turned on by just the sound of my voice on the other end of Ma Bell’s little boy Al’s invention. And that, in this day and age, the phone was not solely meant for idle chit-chat - it was meant for - in Dickhead’s case at least - unbridled tit chat. And knowing he really couldn’t do anything else in his jock cock- shock condition, and that this was the only way he could release the Kracken and get off, I decided at that moment to be a good, sultry Samaritan and...
HAVE PHONE SEX WITH THE DICKHEAD!
I felt I could really do this; provided I distanced myself from picturing in my mind what abusive things he was doing to his sick dick as I turned him on with my words. Oh! That’s right! I would have to use words, wouldn’t I? Well, that should be relatively easy – Dickhead didn’t need much verbal prompting; that’s for sure! Actually, he didn’t need much prompting at all! Hell, this should be a piece of cake - pretending to be giving him a piece of me! Bring him on! Turn him on! YOU GO, KAY!!!
Now, the stark reality of it all drove home the fact that I was sitting on the sofa in sweats and slipper socks; my hair up in a pony tail and my make-up all removed {with the help of his dog earlier on in the day}, but I couldn’t burst his proverbial perverted bubble, so I cleared my throat once again, and this time, I heard my new, “come-fuck-me” voice say...
“I’m wearing my birthday suit – and very little else.”
