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It was weird that she was always whispering, though. Ultimately, this is what I told myself: Phone sex was really about the power of the imagination, and in that case I could imagine her to be whomever I wanted.
A couple of times, I told Nicole it was over unless she talked out loud so I could be sure she was a girl. It wasn't hard to imagine her as Fiona Apple's double. My phone had a special ring for Private Caller, and since Nicole was the only one who rang like that, I could tell when she was calling. I dropped the funny guises and just talked to her genuinely.
That night Nicole found me, Peter and I had been on the road for six months; we were about a hundred cities into the tour. If the fantasy is that we're having sex, I don't want to just zip up my pants the second we're done and leave. She also told me that her mother had passed away recently and that she'd been having a tough time with it—they'd been especially close.
Three nights later, in Oklahoma City, I was getting ready for bed out in the van when my cell phone rang. The next few times we talked, she was still whispering, which was starting to seem a little suspicious.
I went to the window, peered through the curtains—the parking lot was dark and still. Maybe so, but I was just that bored and lonely enough to play along."Well," I said. We made these shirts for our rec-league basketball team. Not that I was opposed to it—it was just one of those things that never came up. I'm pumping in and out of you, like, well…well, like an oil derrick! I'm the sword, baby, and you're the scabbard! We burned from one city to the next in a 1999 Dodge van we'd bought on e Bay.
"I've got on gray mesh basketball shorts with, let's see, three thin white stripes down each side, and a Bell's Pizza T-shirt." I was quiet for a second, then rushed to fill the silence. I guess it had always seemed sort of strange and silly to me. And in times when that was hard to come by, well, that's what the stack of Victoria's Secret catalogs crammed behind the books on my bookshelf was for, along with a 1988 Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition with Elle Macpherson on the cover and battered VHS copies of 9 ½ Weeks and Basic Instinct (my good stash had been lost in a move). "Finally, I grew less bashful and got into it for real, and in a few minutes there was a happy ending. The basketball game on the TV had ended long before, and I had no idea who'd won. Mostly, we crashed on sofas and floors at friends' houses or stayed with folks we'd met that night at our show, though sometimes we'd take turns driving through till dawn while the other slept in the backseat, which folded down into a bed. She said her roommates were sleeping in the next room.
Nicole would be talking dirty, telling me how she wanted to squeeze my dick with her pussy, and I'd just start riffing on some goofy shit: There was NASCAR-themed pillow talk ("Straddle my throttle, Nicole. "), and then sometimes I'd do it up in a stiff, upper-crust British accent ("Oh, God save the queen.
I'm coming, I'm coming, tea and crumpets for all!
We were like those couples who break up but still end up sleeping together every once in a while.She refused, and for the next week I wouldn't answer her calls. One time I even asked a girl I met at one of the Found readings for details of what happens on the visit to the gynecologist, then asked Nicole the same thing. "They come at you with that speculum—it's like a medieval torture device." I pressed her to continue, but she wasn't going to pay these games with me. Ten out of ten male friends I polled had no idea what that was. Sometimes we'd talk for half an hour before phone sex.Out in my van after a long night in Phoenix or Des Moines, I'd be lonely, drunk, and depressed, and tell her about my problems.Nicole was a great listener, willing to indulge each tangent of every story she was told.She was as curious about my life as I was about hers.