Rating: NC17
Wordcount: 1375
Characters: Kitty Collins/"Roger from Houston"
Notes: Submitted for
mmom, Day 5. Chapter 2 of my unsold novel "Hooray For West Hollywood." This is the first original fic I've posted in over two years, so concrit is definitely welcome. The story takes place in 1997. Summary: Kitty wants to be an actress, but this is the only gig she can get.
The toe-freak was breathing heavy when my pager went off.
I always kept my pager on in the work room, even though it was against the rules. I still hadn’t given up on the acting dream and my agent might have a job for me. Until he did, I was on duty at Fantasy Interactive, the only steady acting work I could get.
At first, I didn’t peg Roger for that type. Foot fetish callers usually came in on an 800 line and gave very detailed requests such as “size 6, with strawberry polish and an ankle bracelet saying ‘Do me, daddy.’” After providing a credit card, they waited in heavy-breathing anticipation until the ring-back came from a girl who, lo and behold, met their every specification.
Roger, by contrast, had called on a 900 line advertised in such illustrious publications as “Penthouse” and “Hustler.” The ad promised to connect the caller to “Sexy, Stunning She-males Steaming for YOU!”.
As soon as Roger managed to stammer out the word “she-male,” I went into character. Fantasy Interactive provided challenges that Stanislavski had never imagined. At least I knew my motivation. I wanted to keep Roger on the phone for twenty minutes at $2.98 per minute.
I’d been working phones long enough to know that most direct-line callers were close to the brink as they dialed. The first order of business was to slow them down without making it obvious.
Making them focus on a detail spells the difference between base salary of $8.50 per hour and the raises and bonuses awarded to fantasy actresses with hold time averages of 5 minutes or more. Someday I wouldn’t have to deal with the Rogers of this world, but as long as I did, I was going to be the best phone “ho” in town.
“Are you, you know, the one in the picture?” Roger asked haltingly.
The one in the picture was a coffee colored beauty, with large boobs, dangling earrings and the head of a penis showing through her lingerie. I’m very white and prone to freckles. I had to check a lock of hair to verify the color. It was red. Chris had told me the color was called “Sunset”, but it looked more like a supernova.
“That’s me honey.”
I added a bit of drawl. Everybody is born with a natural talent. I’ve got a voice.
"Husky" is the polite word. It’s a perfectly good voice for singing “Old Man River;” it just doesn’t match my face and Hollywood casting directors can’t handle the discrepancy. One of them told me that I looked perfect for the roll of the ditzy secretary in a new sit-com, but I sounded like a forty-year-old hooker.
I managed to keep my SAG card by doing voice-over work, but my vocal chords were clearly preventing me from attaining the stardom I so richly deserved. That and my damn toes.
“So, Roger. What are you in the mood for?”
“Uh. Well. I saw the ad, and I, I just wanted to find out what it would be like to talk to you.”
“And what’s it like?”
“I don’t know. I mean, we haven’t...”
"Haven’t what?”
I wasn’t dragging out the conversation just to keep him on the phone. Legally, a fantasy actress can never initiate “hard talk”. The customer has to use one of those words first. We wouldn’t want to provide a client with a service that he didn’t ask for, especially if he turned out to be a cop.
“I want you to tell me about it.”
“About what?”
This was the tricky part. If Roger got too frustrated with my evasiveness, he’d hang up. I had to lure him into initiating “hard-core”.
“What were you doing when you saw the ad, Roger?”
I caressed his name with my voice.
“I was playing with myself.”
Still not enough.
“What part of yourself?”
“I was stroking my cock.”
Bingo.
“Ooh, I like the sound of that. Why don’t you tell me about that big cock of yours.”
He burned up two minutes describing the usual hot, throbbing, etc. etc. In the phone sex universe all breasts were firm and all male organs were behemoth. Roger claimed 8 1/2 inches. I’d heard that before.
“Now you tell me about yours,” he demanded.
This was the crucial moment. Roger had been on the phone for seven minutes. Seven was good, but twenty would be better. He wanted a chick with a dick. If he didn’t get one he’d hang up. If he got too much, too soon, he’d finish what he was doing with his alleged 8 1/2 inches awfully fast. Talk about an acting dilemma.
“Oh honey, I got me a fine piece here.”
I was a wearing a black baby-doll dress from Diesel. My legs looked even paler than usual. Late nights were keeping me out of the sun and I hadn’t been able to afford the tanning salon. I looked down and envisioned those same legs looking like Tina Turner’s. I imagined myself in a corset and fishnets. I could see a hard, black cock. It was standing straight up.
“Are you touching it right now?” Roger panted.
“I got one hand on it because I like the sound of your voice so much that I just couldn’t resist. Nothing I like more than a sexy white boy. You make me so hot, honey. I ain’t got a rod as big as yours, but it’s awfully thick around. I can’t even get my pretty little hand all the way around it.”
“You sound so beautiful.”
“I am fine from head to toe.”
The clock was up to twelve minutes. I wanted to make sure the client was happy enough to be a possible callback request, so I was ready to move the scene into harder action.
“You’ve got nice toes?”
The unexpected question nearly threw me out of character.
“Uh, you bet I do.” I said, recovering quickly.
“Tell me about your toes.”
Thank god for improv classes.
“Well, my feet are size 6 and I’ve got real nice toes. Kind of long.”
My real life toes are tightly curled, especially the baby toes, which seem to be hiding under the toes next door. I’ve lived to pay the price for wearing spike heels in the 80’s. I almost had a featured spot on a “Baywatch” episode until they saw my toes and said I didn’t measure up.
“Are they painted?”
Details are the key.
“Uh huh. Right now it’s a color called Burgundy Frost by May-bel-line.”
I elongated “Maybelline” into the most suggestive word in the English language and
Roger was a goner.
Fifteen minutes.
“Are you ready to come, Roger?”
“Oh god, oh yes!”
“Do you want to come on my toes?”
“Can I?”
“Say please!” I added a little dominatrix to the mix.
“Please. Please let me come on your toes!”
That’s when I felt the buzzing against my hip. I let it go on until I brought Roger’s scene to its dramatic climax. At nineteen minutes, I reminded him to call back the next time he was feeling horny. I promised to wear three inch heels for him.
The digital display on the clock showed twenty minutes.
“Good bye Roger,” I crooned.
Then the phone clicked and he was gone.
I took a deep breath and wrote a few comments about Roger in my notebook.
One of the two Siamese cats who had run of the office came over to demand some attention.
“Hi Chachi,” I said, stroking his back and feeling the purr vibrate under my fingers.
The poor bastard (Roger, not Chachi) had a foot fetish and was so conflicted about it that he’d rather tell himself he was trying out a she-male call for kicks. He was probably short, ugly and hung like a mouse. On the job orgasms were not unknown, but never with the Rogers of the world.
The pager was still vibrating. I picked it up looked at the message.
MM BB KY CS
“Oh shit.”
CS stood for Chris Spencer, my best friend, roommate, and business partner.
Chris was telling me the following:
Meet me at the Blue Bus. Bring the KY Jelly. We’re getting screwed.