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Recently in Salon Health & Body

Debunking depression
Many people who claim they are clinically depressed may only be disgruntled
By Robert Burton, M.D.
[08/23/99]

Urge
Crossed love lines
Nancy's double standard leads to double trouble.
By Tracy Quan
[08/23/99]

Sexpert Opinion
For more information...
Here's where you can find out more about herpes simplex virus (HSV) and human papillomavirus (HPV)
By Susie Bright
[08/21/99]

Sexpert Opinion
Herpes nation
Readers praise and blast me for saying the virus is no big deal. Let's clear up a few things.
By Susie Bright
[08/21/99]

My first biopsy
Medical tests revealed a most insidious disease: Fear.
By Eleanor Stacy Parker
[08/19/99]

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I perused the back of the paper and called a chat line that welcomed "Ladies Free." A cheesy woman's voice, full of italics and innuendo, guided me through the touch-tone machinations. You record your introduction, then browse the introductions of everyone else on the line, pressing 3 to request an audience with the ones who sound good. Meanwhile, a beep announces the gentleman callers who have pressed 3 in response to your introduction. Hitting 7 during someone's introduction, explained our prerecorded madam, blocks that person from contacting you.

I entered the arena as Val -- younger, thinner, taller and bigger-breasted than I am. Then I listened to the messages of everyone else -- almost all men -- and hit 7 on about two-thirds of them. Among those I deep-sevened were the "daddy looking for a girl who needs spanking," the fellow seeking "horny bitches to get with," and all the guys who talked about their hobbies and wanted a girlfriend. The latter gave the chat line a deeper texture than I'd expected, more of the real-life mess of lust and loneliness and hope.

I pushed 3 for make-contact-now with Danny, aka caller 24, who had a pleasant, deep voice and sounded enthusiastic but nonspecific. (Nobody was too filthy -- the rules forbade last names, phone numbers and vulgar language.) When Mistress Cheesy told me to "get ready for a live connection with caller 24," I took my shorts and underwear off, lay down on the floor and pushed my shirt up over my breasts. I said "Hi Danny," and he said, "Hi Val, how's it going?" I told him truthfully that I hadn't done this before and asked him to take the lead. I was ready for "What are you wearing?" or "What do you look like?" but his first question was "Do you have a boyfriend?"

Virginia Vitzthum Virginia Vitzthum's column appears every other Tuesday in the Urge edition of Health & Body + Archives

I said no, no boyfriend. He asked if I'd be interested in meeting him. I said no, I want to have phone sex. He asked why. I thought about telling him I was writing about it, but then decided that would make him self-conscious. I steered the conversation back to sex. He got going, asked where I was touching, and then we chatted about my nipple and its hardness. He ran his phone tongue down my phone body, and I mirrored what he said with my hand. We spent a lot of time eating me out.

It was easier to come up with the words than I'd expected, in part because it is so collaborative. It just won't work if you lie back and wait for him to do it to you. I did have some trouble imagining the events we were describing because I kept picturing what was actually happening: a guy masturbating while he talked on the phone. I was surprised at how that image together with our voices did enhance my enjoyment, even if they didn't go together. I worried that it was rude to interrupt his scenario, but went ahead and asked him what he was doing, partly because it went with what I was visualizing and partly to find out what word he used for his, you know. I was glad he went with "cock," which is a little more pretentious than "dick" but better captures the noncontemplative beauty of an erection.

I wondered what physical laws I could break in a fantasy. Could my arm suddenly be 6 feet long so I could reach down and grab his cock while he went down on me? Why couldn't we be as elastic as people in "Alice in Wonderland" in our own fantasy? And he could be the man I'd dreamed of for years, the one with the second mouth nestled in his pubic hair who could eat me and fuck me at the same time. These thoughts made me happy, but I decided not to lay them on Danny. I suspected that he had some visual template, one that varied a little according to my self-description, but did not include a boa-constrictor right arm. Turning him into a Salvador Dali painting with that second mouth seemed even more presumptuous; just because I liked the shape-shifting didn't mean he would.

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