The Most Dangerous Room in Your Home

Originally posted February 11, 2008

"Hi, this is Charlotte, who's this?"

"My name is William," he sounds distracted, I figure he's already stroking so this call should be over pretty quickly.

"Hi, William. How are you tonight?"

"I am fine. How are you?" He talks very slowly, I'm pretty sure he's mildly mentally handicapped. He sounds like a less retarded Cuba Gooding, Jr. That's how I picture him in my mind, sitting on the edge of his car-bed, whispering into his Garfield phone.

"I'm doing great!" I realize I'm speaking baby talk to him, and I stop myself before I ask "what's him doin'?!"

"Where do you live?" He asks abruptly.

"I live in Minnesota!" Again with the baby talk.

I love the troubles I have with my job. I feel bad making fun of tiny penises. I don't get nearly enough calls where I get to be a tranny. I suck at being a dominatrix (I am improving, though). I often forget to bring out a pussy simulator when I start my shift and have to squish my fingers in canned food in my cats' dish. And I cannot stop myself from babytalking to retards.

"Oh. . ." he hesitates, "Do you live in an apartment? Or like a house or a dorm?"

"I live in an apartment," I can feel he's just going to ask more questions. The way he fires them at me is more job interview than conversation style.

"How long have you lived in your apartment in Minnesota?"

For some reason, he's starting to creep me out. Maybe it's the deep monotone of his voice coupled with his thick-tongued slow speech. He looks less like Radio in my mind now and more like John Coffey.

"A couple of years," the baby talk is gone while I remind myself there's no way this dude knows where I live so he can't come kill me. I hope.

I'm worrying more and more now about my callers finding out who I am. I'm not so sure where this new fear comes from, even. At my last company, I had a guy who called several times a week, Thomas, and we'd talk for hours. It was annoying, because he wanted me to cum over and over and over. For hours! I had a pretty clear picture of him in my head and his voice was very distinctive. Before I wised up and started lying about where I was from, I told him what city I live in. Lo and behold, he lives there, too.

One day I was running down the stairs of a friend's building and I heard his voice coming up the stairs. I flipped the fuck out! I froze in place, listening to him talk on his cell phone, wondering what to do. Sweaty, heart pounding in my chest, I realized he had no idea what I looked like. Thomas thinks I'm a blonde, slightly overweight housewife in her 40s. I laughed at myself and continued on down the stairs, but I still couldn't make eye contact. Even though I don't even know what he really looks like. What a mess!


"What does your bathroom look like?" William asks me after a long pause. I'm so taken aback, it takes me a moment to reply. I've never been asked what my bathroom looks like, so I'm not even sure if I heard him correctly.

"My bathroom?"

"Yes, your bathroom. How is it decorated? Is it big or small?"

It seems like he's breathing faster now, so I figure the bathroom better be crystal clear in its description. I'm too confused by this strange turn of events, so I describe it to him in my regular phone whore voice. I'm not sure where this bathroom comes from, but it's certainly not mine:

"It's pretty big, lots of room in there. It has a nice sized window over the toilet. It has black tile, you know, it looks like fake marble? And I have those poofy rugs in there. The kind that are like shag carpeting, they're red. And my sink is a tall pedestal sink, with a big oval mirror surrounded by lightbulbs, like an old vanity. The walls are plain white, but I decorated with some black and white paintings. And my shower curtain is one of those clear ones, but it has black dice over it in certain spots."

Wow, ok. I can see the bathroom so clearly in my head. Sometimes it feels like "Charlotte" has begun her own life in some section of my mind. When I first started, I'd feel bad for callers if they seemed to like me too much. My friend Daniel had to remind me that these men aren't talking to me, and I needed to separate me from her. I worked on sectioning her off. There are moments like this, where I come up with these random scenes on the fly, and I wonder if I've done too good a job sectioning her off.

But I digress.

"How long have you had those red poofy carpets?" He asks me.

"Oh, I bought them a year ago or so," I'm not afraid anymore. Usually, anytime a guy is all about my bathroom, he wants someone to get licked clean after they poo. I'm guessing he wants to lick me clean. Or perhaps lick my bathroom floor for me. We'll see.

"What color is your toilet?"

Do they sell colorful toilets? Should my toilet be colorful? Nah.

"It's just plain old white porcelain."

"OK. And, what does your toilet paper look like?"

"My toilet paper?" I said it out loud before I could stop myself, what the fuck? "It's the white quilted stuff, it's got pink flowers on it." Do they still make toilet paper with stuff printed on? Yikes.

"Where do you buy your toilet paper?"

"From the grocery store. . ."

"Do you always buy your toilet paper from that store?"

Now I'm creeped out again, up till now, he's sounded remotely aroused, but now he sounds like he's acutely paying attention. His breath is sharp in my ear.

"Yes. . .usually."

"Have you been buying that same kind of toilet paper the whole time you've lived in your apartment in Minnesota?"

"Um. Yes."

"I have a fantasy, do you know what it is?" He asks me, quietly.

"I'm guessing whatever it is, you want to do it in the bathroom. . ."

"I want to be your toilet paper," he said, voice husky and thick.

I fucking knew it!

"Oh, you want to be on your hands and knees in my bathroom? You'll clean me up after I go?" I'm using my teasing phone sex voice now, since I feel like now I can just describe using the toilet and make him clean me up. Simple.

"No. I want to be actual toilet paper," he clarifies, only confusing me anew, "You know, be changed into toilet paper somehow and be in your bathroom."

Wow! Ok. . .

"You want to be rolled up," gone is phone whore voice, gone is mama voice. All I am is confused Charlotte, "You're like on the roll, and the holder? Attached to my wall?"

"Yes ma'am, that's what I would like."

"And I can tear sheets off of you when I poo?"

"Yes, what would I look like on your toilet paper roll?" He's all wound up, and I try my best to play along.

Since he's black in my head, I figure he'd be black as toilet paper, too. Well, brown anyway, "You'd be a light brown roll. Very thick and very soft."

"Oh yes, and would I unroll over or under?"

"You'd unroll under, along the wall."

"After you wiped with me, would you flush me?"

"Oh yes, I'd flush you."

He moans.

The rest of the call was a barrage of questions, which included:

What's in the garbage can in your bathroom?
Do you fold or wad the toilet paper?
How many times do you wipe after you poo?
What does it look like in your toilet after you poo and wipe?
What does your poo look like?
What kind of stuff do you flush?
What else do you flush?
Do you flush anything else?
Do you flush it after you blow your nose?
Do you like to flush stuff?
Would you flush me?
Do you ever have to flush twice?
How does it look when you flush?

After the third time he asks me to talk about what I flushed, I remember there is scoopable cat litter you can flush. We talk about the cat box and their poo for a while. Then I remember you flush used tampons. We talk about that for a good long time, too.

Eventually, there is silence. I really didn't know what I was supposed to say to him at this point. I search for something I flushed, or a toilet paper related story. I can hear him beating furiously away, panting wetly in my ear, and I draw a blank. Eventually he hangs up.

I hope he enjoyed it. I'm just confused.