Description
In Too Dirty to Clean, I wrote about a payphone on Beverly Boulevard. God, I can still see it. I didn't have a cell phone then. Because hardly anyone had cell phones yet. But I will always appreciate just how guilty you can feel when you have to pull over to call your lover from an anonymous box on the street. This story originally appeared in "His."
Excerpt:
I’m really not supposed to be calling you. I’m supposed to be on my way to the corner grocery store, to pick up something I forgot today when I did the rest of the week’s shopping. That was the excuse I gave, anyway. Lame though it may sound, it was all I could come up with through the hazy, horny fog of my X-rated thoughts. Need tomato paste for the sauce. It won’t taste as good without. So be right back, honey. But “right back” isn’t supposed to include a stop at a graffiti-tagged pay phone around the corner, where I slide in a silvery quarter, dial your number from memory, and tell you how much I miss you.
And how much I miss your cock.
“Say that again,” you prompt.
“Cock,” I repeat automatically. “I miss your cock—”
“Tell me more. What do you miss the most.”
“I miss bending over, parting my thighs, and taking it.”
“Taking what—”
“Your cock,” I say again, and I hear the low chuckle caught at the back of my throat as some sane part of my inner critique witnesses me having this unbelievable conversation. I manage to shock myself with the words that come automatically to my lips when you and I are on the phone.
photo by Riendo
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