Aphrodite Electric – A Phone Sex Perspective

As far as you are concerned, I have a tattoo across my groin that says, “Slippery when wet,” complete with a rendering of the Rolling Stones’ logo, huge tongue and all. As far as you’re concerned, I am 25; or maybe I am 18; certainly, I am no younger than 18, but I sure sound like it when I feel like it, or when you ask me for it.

Do you know the difference between fantasy and reality? Are you absolutely sure that you do? Do you call a phone sex line and ask to speak to “Virgin Andrea” or Tessie with 36 double-E tits, believing that’s who’s going to murmur into your ear?

Believe it if you will; suspend disbelief, and you become a part of the drama, you become as one with the stage, the props, the voices, and yes, you become my lover, if only for a few minutes, and only for a pitifully small portion of the $3.99 per minute that you are paying for me to weave you a reality that will make you cum.

I am Venus, if Venus were out on her own, down on her luck, and desperate for a job. This is the perfect job for a card-carrying Wiccan, or should I say an amulet-wearing, which I am; I pray to Aphrodite all the way to work, and when I get there, I become the goddess – young, mature, black, oriental, Hispanic or white – and the goddess, who lives through me, grants you an orgasm if you’re properly obedient, if you stay on the line long enough for me to get credit for the call.

If you don’t, well, you were already worshipping something else, prideful, complete in yourself, and weren’t calling on divine lust anyhow. Or perhaps a few seconds of my breathy, holy voice sent spasms through your groin; you may be the most ardent worshipper of all, you who do not stay for long. I do not, however, feel much like blessing you.

Dominating, aggressive, sucking, nibbling, fucking, pissing, whipping bitch-goddess, I am also the goddess of making slow, passionate love to every inch of your body or so submissive I beg and whine as you tie me up and deliciously torment me. As far as you are concerned, my divine wardrobe is boundless; Victoria’s Secret seems to stay in business solely at my whim, and many cows have been sacrificed for my leather collection.

As far as you’re concerned, I have enough vibrators and dildos to start a sex toy museum, but I could never quit using the merchandise. Fortunately, I have the natural sex drive of a goddess; sometimes you talk me into orgasm, too; sometimes I talk myself into it, as I tease you and weave you into the turbulent, horny tempest in my mind’s eye. The frenzy tangles my hair; I look up at you from your cock or pussy with wild green eyes. Sometimes they’re blue... sometimes they’re brown.

I will even walk with you through fantasies that I would never entertain on my own. I am the goddess, and sometimes the goddess has to walk through the underworld, too. I will become your mother or maybe your sister, and I will be her begging you to fuck me in the ass, and patiently trying to get you off, even though I have tried for an hour already and have guessed by now that you are afflicted, most likely with a combination of extreme guilt and too much alcohol. I am, after all, the goddess, and I have compassion for those I cannot cure on the earthly plane. I will not be able to forget you, even if I really want to, because I am the ancient goddess and you are my supplicant, whether you know it or not.

I am the lone out-bisexual working here. I alone am delighted and thrilled when a woman calls to speak to me, to stroke her clit for me. Everyone here in this run-down, drab, welfare-office of a work place, knows there are certain calls that they can just hand over to me, calls that are too weird for a non-goddess to entertain. I am also the lone out-Wiccan, although I suspect a couple of others are sisters in that family. No one says anything at all about her religion; I alone could talk about my faith without shame. I alone seem to be enjoying my work most of the time.

Middle-aged, I am not the oldest woman working here; she could be my mother, if she’d gotten pregnant by her first boyfriend, which she wisely did not. She is my Crone, my story-woman in this profession. I, in turn, seem to amuse her very much. Do I remind her of her daughter, who also happens to work here? Of herself? She does not intimate that; perhaps she thinks I’m an overly enthusiastic fool, reading too much into this job and consequently I won’t last, but she is kind to me anyway. She’s right: I’m here because I can’t find anywhere else to work. I don’t know how I will sanitize this experience on my resume. Most of the people in this large, unpleasant room don’t even know what a resume is. There is no one to advise me.

The youngest among us never stays the same; this is not a job for an 18-year-old. Unfortunately, they do not find that out until they work here. Most work one shift and never come back, but many more quit after just one or two calls. Consequently, we’re all lying when we’re on the phone...but we can pull this off to your satisfaction because we weave nubile young girls out of our high school graduation pictures and the experiences we have had, or read about, since then. Believe it, not because it is true now, but because it once was true...or nearly so.

We of the middle years, the mother-figures ripening slowly into cronehood, we congregate together, sometimes along with the women still in their 20s, and we all speak of our adventures, our hardships. The road of the goddess of the love-shrine is not exactly smooth, but it is walkable. It’s bearable, with friends.

Do you know the difference between fantasy and reality? Are you very sure? What was the last time you found yourself deceived by your own expectations? Hmmmm? And where it concerns masturbation, does it really matter? Isn’t it a thrill to carry the memory of having talked to me, whoever we both agreed I was, for 20 minutes?

Call me, if you can suspend disbelief, if you can weave an erotic web or have one woven around you, and understand that for you, my supplicant, I become who I say I am, and then morph back into my own shape between callers.

Call me if you understand what the dream-time is, if you understand that your fantasies are real, they exist, but they are not, strictly speaking, of this world.

At $3.99 per minute, I’m worth it. I might actually let you kiss my tattoo...