Tasting Caterpillars

I've been trying to learn Spanish since it's so much like Italian. And I miss learning. Here are some words I learned after a brief tryst with a Spanish speaking fellow.

bonita..........pretty
guapo...........handsome
me gusta........I like
película........movie
divertido.......funny
vampiro.........vampire
sonreír.........to smile
contigo.........with you
risa............laugh
besos...........kisses
te quiero.......I love/want you in a sexual manner, rawr
hacer el amor...to make love
te extraño......I miss you
confiar.........to trust
mentir..........to lie
mentiroso.......liar
pinche
mentiroso....fucking liar
dolor...........hurt
enojada.........angry
llorar..........to cry
puñetazo........punch
terminar........to break up/end

On a Saturday, I went to a show. At this show, I met a beautiful black hippie. He was tall and thin. Dark skin and a beard. He wore one of those giant reggae hats that I hoped held oodles of natty dreads. Sexy little hippie!

He carried a professional looking camera with a long zoom lens. Of course he asked to take my photo. And then one in black and white. Then he asked me to take his. I took one of the ceiling. One of his neck. One of him. He told me photography was his love.

It was noisy, so he stood in close. He smelled really good! I was afraid he'd smell like patchouli. I asked him what else he liked to do, besides taking pictures of things. He looked me in the eye and said, "love god." I gave him my number anyway. Then I told him if he didn't call me, I'd punch him in the stomach next time I saw him at a show.

He called me two days later. My brother told me that was a bad sign. I told him I chose to see it as he liked me so much that he couldn't wait the arbitrarily determined number of days to call me. My brother just raised his skeptical eyebrow. Thinks he's so smart...

Talking to Mr Hippie was like listening to a Common cd. He asked me if I'd share some time with him that evening. He would be in my neighborhood dropping off some photos, anyway. That sounded lovely. We went to the hill overlooking the lake.

We sat on a bench and it was cold. We were a bit closer than I'd have liked, but I stared resolutely forward. He told me he loved love and god. I told him of everything in the world, those are the things I understand the least.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him slowly moving closer. But in a peculiar way, not as though to put his arm around me to protect me from the cold. He leaned in slightly, like a stealthy vampire. I turn quickly to face him, to ask what he's doing and he says,

"It's this thing I have...I want to smell you. May I?"

I agree, because, I can understand. He buries his nose in the crook of my neck and inhales as deeply as he can. I worked that day and hadn't showered or changed since then. I wondered how stinky garlic and sweat and random body spray was. He was overinflating his lungs sniffing me, as if he was attempting to pull my soul free through his nostrils. I finally pulled away from him. He smiled and kissed me. I was confused.

He said we should walk, and we should go stand under a weeping willow tree. I told him I liked the tree and he told me he'd climbed it. Then he asked to smell me again. Then he said,

"Women often find it strange when I want to smell their underarms. Smell them. And kiss them."

"I can understand that," I said.

"It's nothing strange you, know. Freshly showered, shaved, but no deodorant."

"I like this tree..." I said.

"May I smell you?" He came in closer to nuzzle me again.

"I'm kind of a sweaty girl," I said, spinning away from him. And I laughed.

We talked about my love of writing, and I mentioned writing with a pen name.

"How many personalities do you have?" He asked, excited all of a sudden.

"Um...one..." I said. "Why, how many do you have?"

"I have no idea how many people are up in here," he said, pointing at his head and laughing.

He took me home. We sat in his car, talking about our schedules. He asked to see my tattoo, as it was peeking out of my sleeve. I took my arm out of my coat and showed him. He cooed and told me how he likes to kiss from the palm of a lady's hand and up her arm. He kissed the palm of my hand and bit it. Then he kissed the flower in the crook of my elbow. I felt his tongue and took my arm away. Did he just lick my arm?

He stared at my forehead, “Why do you think we met Saturday?”

“Because we were both at the show at the same time?” I said slowly, cautiously.

He laughed, stared out the window, then back at my forehead. I put my hand over it, and told him I know I have a giant forehead. He corrected me. I have a high forehead and it's wonderful. He asked if anyone had ever kissed it. Confused, I say yes.

He pointed in between my eyebrows. “There. I want to kiss you right here. May I?”

I laughed and said, “You wanna kiss my third eye?” This made me laugh a lot.

With utmost sincerity he said, “Yes. I want to kiss your third eye.”

Without really thinking, I leaned forward. He took my face in his hands and gently kissed between my eyebrows. Then again, his lips lingering longer, then again and I definitely felt his tongue. Before I knew what was happening, he was tongue kissing my forehead. Sloppy, slurpy, tongue kiss in between my eyes.

The worst part of all of this is, he didn't call me. What the hell is wrong with me that the dude who frenches foreheads won't call?

I found a length of blue plastic something at work the other day. My manager, Gary, told me it was a spare squeegee handle and I could throw it away. It was maybe 3 inches long, and I decided I could use it as a portable bludgeoner for my walks home.

I was showing my coworker how I imagined bashing some poor mugger in the dome as he tried to take my purse. I've since learned it won't work, much to my dismay.

Gary gets his "ohmygod I'm gonna tell you an awesome story face," and I prepare myself.

Gary's a good guy, if a little awkward. He's new to the management business and he alternates between wanting to regale you with his stories of drunken debauchery or reminding you he's the boss. He strikes me as the sort of kid who never felt like he fit in, so he tries a little too hard. He'd be fine if he'd just chill, but alas.

In any event, his buddy also has a portable bludgeoner he keeps in his car. His decision to do so evidently came from having been beaten up by a gang of Hmong kids.

The friend lives in Wausau, which boasts a population approaching 85,000. In recent years, many Hmong refugees from Laos have moved there . Wisconsin, Minnesota and California have some of the largest Hmong populations, in fact.

Turns out, group of Hmong thugs surrounded Gary's friend's car and punched him in the face through the window. Thereafter, he started carrying his portable bludgeoner.

Gary starts giggling, looks around, and lowers his voice to a whisper. I look at Chandre, who is Native American. We both know that the story is not going to end well.

"He calls it his 'g**k beater."

I cover my ears and yell, "Oh no! That's not cool, Gary!"

"Wait, but, they're in gangs!"

"I'm sure they are, but I don't want to hear that stuff, words like that. There are gangs of all sorts of colors all over the place."

"Yea, but Wausau used to be such a nice place until they moved in."

Here we go...

"That's how it always is, though, whenever you have a minority, or immigrant population move into an area, that sort of thing happens. Especially if they're poor and discriminated against..." I argue, of course.

"Wausau is not like that, there aren't racist people....well..." here he trails off. Exactly.

(Read this fun article: http://www.theatlantic.com/politics/immigrat/beckf.htm)

But I digress. I'm sure it's pretty obvious I'm a liberal, and all are welcome. It's sad that when there are problems in society, rather than looking for ways to fix it, we turn toward hate and antagonism.

That's not the point of this little rant, though.

Rather, my point is that there are certain things that you should keep to yourself and your like-minded friends. What would make anyone who knows anything about me think they could fire off some racial epithet and I'll be cool with it? Why would you say something like that unless you know for a fact they won't be offended?

Not to minimize what happened to Gary's guy, I'm sure it was traumatic. I do wonder how he came to be surrounded by people on foot whilst in a vehicle. One would think he'd roll up the window, press the accelerator and shout peace out to the Hmong mob run amok. Or maybe it's just me.

Maybe it's also just me to think it common sense that if you have too look around and whisper during the course of a conversation about people of a different color you should keep that shit to yourself. You and your buddy can sit in a bar in Wausau and talk that trash, but leave me the hell out of it.

Is it just because you're not talking about my people that you think I'd agree? Please, stop it now. I don't, nor will I ever. Mainly, it's because I can't help but imagine what you do say about my people when I'm not around. I find it hard to imagine an individual who hates g**ks but not n****s. (and I'm not suggesting Gary hates anyone, he is not the only person with whom I've had this sort of conversation, either...he just gets to be my example.)

So, I say again: if ever you're in mixed company, and find yourself compelled to say something racist, save it for your friends. The rest of us do not want to hear it.

Originally posted on my Myspace July 28, 2008

I took another job at a restaurant, to supplement my supplemental income.

This afternoon, three guys came in for lunch. Two of them were bigger guys, tall a little on the burly side. The third one, who stood in the middle, was about two heads shorter than the others, wearing a big, silly grin. They all were smiling at me, standing in a row, shoulder to shoulder.

The two on the ends did the talking, "3 for lunch," and so forth. I missed much of what they were saying because the middle one, the little one, was wearing a blue shirt with the outline of the Superman logo across the front. Emblazoned in the middle of the outline was the word "sub."

I was impressed.

Holy shit, what a good sub! Seriously, I work in a "family restaurant," and here's this guy, proudly proclaiming himself sub to these burly Doms.

One of the Doms approaches me to ask if they could have a booth, and I notice that on his chest, is a tiny replica of the same logo. The other "Dom" has the same thing on his shirt. Underneath were three longer words that also didn't register. I realize it's an abbreviation for whatever the fuck their company is.

Now I'm just shocked at how stupid they are for making that their logo.

I told this story to a friend. He didn't make the connection. I, on the other hand, leapt to extreme D/s games. Fuck! This job is ruining me! Ruin, I say!

Originally posted July 21, 2008

I got hung up on today because the guy didn't believe I was black. I'm not sure if you're keeping score, but I am black. Well, biracial, but same difference.

While he questions me, I become defensive, "We don't all talk ghetto, you know!"

Because all Asian girls say "me love you long time," and all grandmothers are secret sluts.

So, now I'm mad at this guy and he's mad at me, because he keeps saying, "I don't care what you sound like as long as you're really black."

"Well, I am really black."

"Oh, ok then. Because I called this other service and they didn't have any black girls, but this service seems like it's got a lot of black girls," he says all distracted with his Afrocentric fetish having ass.

"Yup, we do!"

"It's just, you know, when you answered, and you didn't sound...not like it matters how you sound, but..."

"You wanted a girl who sounded ghetto?" I say, in my best Ebonics accent, heavy with sarcasm. Why am I so angry? I don't know, but fuck this guy.

"Well, yea, I kinda did, I just...well, it doesn't matter how you sound as long as you're really black..."

"I am really black!"

"What color did you say your skin was?"

I know they want me to be black as the back of Whoopi Goldberg's neck, but like I said, fuck him. Instead, I say, "A nice caramel complexion," which also is the truth. I think.

"Um, can you hold please?"

"Sure," I say, brightly.

"Click."

This is pretty much the same as giving my tranny a teeny weenie. And I realize this, but I couldn't stop myself. Rather, in this instance, Charlotte lost her control over the phone and I took over.

I participated in race fantasies, and I tried to squeeze my ears past the "n" word. I tried not to take it personally, since it doesn't have anything to do with me, really. Then, I took the most heartbreaking call ever.

His name is Rufus and he's a black man from somewhere in the South, in his 30s, I think. He wanted a black woman to dominate him. He fantasy being raped by a bunch of white guys. So, I started with some frat boys, and he stopped me. He wanted to be in a field, with older white men, being punished and humiliated. He says young white men aren't like the older generation. They don't have that hatred of black men and wouldn't degrade him racially the way men from even just the generation prior would.

So, we switch, to him in a field with three white men in their 50s circling him menacingly. Even though I don't want to, I see the scene in my head. Bright hot blue sky. Fields of some sort of hazy yellow vegetation and a black man on all fours, muscled and slick. The white men are straight out of the worst images of Mississippi, white undershirts and black suspenders with dirty blue work pants, foul grins twisting their faces.

And then he started talking in the slave voice. "Oh yessir massah," and all that shit. I can't describe how awful it was to hear that. I get that it's all about debasement and being made to feel the lowest of low. I have a really hard time saying mean things to these guys. I feel bad and think they all need hugs. I try my best, but I know it sounds half-hearted. I've still mustered the audacity to laugh at some guy's cock and call it his baby dick. Even though I felt bad, Rufus took me to another level.

He fed me my lines. He told me what he liked to hear. Pretty much the most vile things you can think to say to a black man, he wanted me to say to him. So, I squeezed my eyes shut and said them. And he loved it. With every piece of filth I spewed, he screamed, "Oh yes massa!" And I hated myself.

When he finished, he started talking to me, at ease. I didn't know what to say to him. I wanted to apologize. He asked if it was difficult for me, and I admitted that it was.

He told me that he makes his living that way, being abused, degraded and raped by white men. He told me they have reenactments of auctions. If they pay extra, they can beat him up. He'll even let you "hang" him. I didn't ask how much he charged. I mostly just sat there dumbfounded.

Laughing, he told me about laying in bed for a week to recuperate from a beating. He said the money was good, and he liked it.

Then he made me do it again. He fed me some more lines. I searched my brain for every horrible thing I've heard said about black people. I tried to use my anthropology mind tricks and see it from his perspective rather than my own. He was enjoying himself, and was it really any different than the guy who wants me to put him in panties and call him my little cumfaggot or the guy who wants me to tie him up and fuck his piss-slot with a metal rod?

I tried to be accepting, he's a grown man, after all. If he gets off hearing these things, who am I to deny him that? Who am I to question it? With Rufus, I couldn't reconcile it. He was intelligent and witty, very pragmatic about his fetish. He got off. They got off. He made money, supposedly. He was happy, apparently.

When we hung up, he seemed happy as could be. I cried my face off. I felt sick to my stomach. Sad for him that he can be OK on his knees with a noose around his neck and a white man's boot on his face. Disgusted in myself that I took him there for 25 fucking cents a minute.

So, I'm sorry to all you black fetishists on the phone lines, but I'm not doing it. Serena's not having it, goddamnit. Find a white girl with a ghetto accent on the phone who'll let you call her nigger, cause we ain't doin it.

"Phew, sorry," I say to my friend, Amy, after our conversation was interrupted by the WhorePhone, "that was a request!"

"Yay," she says.

"Yea, I've talked to him a few times. This is the first time I didn't die!"

"Wait, what?!"

This is one of those moments where I realize the things I talk about at work aren't exactly normal. Besides the time I broke heads for the mob, I've had to participate in erotic deaths with a couple of other people.

This guy, Mervin, has called me several times. He's the type of caller who tells the story. These are my second favorite, close behind the random conversations. Not simply because I get to be lazy -- which is nice -- but because I learn a lot. I'll be armed with new material for the next guy with the fetish.

I can't be terribly lazy though, I still have to be an active participant, especially if it's a detailed fantasy. How lame would it be if you spent 15 minutes laying down your beautiful orgasmic story and you gave your partner a command or a question, wait expectantly and she says, "Excuse me, what did you say?"

I still have to be there.

Mervin is in his 30s. He has a soft and friendly voice. He sounds like he'd be your high school Chemistry teacher. He doesn't sound creepy at all. Engaging, but just a little odd.

He begins to weave his fantasy for me.

"You're a college student, not really much money. That's why you do the phone thing. You're still not making quite enough to survive so you start browsing websites looking for part time jobs. You come across one that says, 'Actresses needed! Earn $1500 in a weekend.'

You decide it can't hurt to try it out, you know they're filming a movie in the next town over, so you figure they need extras. You know there's a good chance it'll be some skeezy porn flick, but you don't care at this point.

You go to the address, and it's a nondescript house in a subdivision. The neighborhood is lower middle class. Well kept lawns and driveways cluttered with brightly colorful children's toys.

The woman who answers the doorbell is a pretty, older woman. Blonde and curvy. She's wearing a long, terrycloth robe and smoking a cigarette. She introduces herself as Claire. She sits you down on the couch and explains that they are in fact, filming a porn film. She asks if that's OK. You tell her that you'd been filmed before. You thought it was fun and it turned you on a little.

She asks if you're into bondage. She explains they're doing a film that features strangulation. She asks you what sorts of bondage play you've done in your personal life. You tell her you enjoy being tied up. Being choked makes you wet, so you're starting to get turned on at the prospect of this movie. She tells you that you'll be choked with a noose. That you'll be flimed hanging from the ceiling by your neck. She asks you if that is OK. You're a little afraid, but you tell her yes.

She leads you into a basement where there are 4 other girls in long white terrycloth robes. You notice they have marks around their wrists from being bound, they have the same marks around their necks. Claire instructs you to take all of your clothes off and follow them into a little room.

There are 5 stools set up and each of the four girls stands on one. You notice a camera on a tripod in front of the girls. Above each stool, is a noose hanging from the ceiling. They each take their robes off and pull the nooses around their necks. Claire tells you to take the empty one. As you climb up on your stool, you notice that there's a number 3 painted on it. You place the noose around your neck.

Claire tells you that each stool has a number placed on it. She will draw a number, and that girl will hang until she dies. She looks you in the eye and asks you if this is OK.

You notice the other girls are masturbating as the camera rolls. You're turned on, too, and you begin to touch yourself. You tell Claire that it is OK.

She reaches into a hat, and what number does she grab, Sarah?"

"Three," I say with a sticky gasp. That's why you have to pay attention!

"That's right. And you know what that means?" He's closing in on the finish line now.

"It means I'm going to die," I say, afraid and aroused at once.

"It means you're going to hang from your neck until you die. Do you want that, Sarah?"

"Oh yes!" I gasp.

"Say it..."

"I want to hang from my neck until I die," I whisper as he groans.

"Do you want to die for me today?"

"I do. I want to die for you today. I want to hang by my neck until I die..."

After taking a moment to regain his composure, Mervin thanks me. He reminds me that these are just fantasies, and he doesn't really want to watch girls hang until they die. I tell him I understand, and that it was a hot fantasy. And it was fun, in that disturbingly interesting way. As I said, he's called me several times since then, once with the same fantasy, once where I didn't die, and once today.

I told my friend, Jeremy, about this caller yesterday. I've known Jeremy for many years and he wants to be a mortician. Thus we joke about horrible things. He asked me if I had a good death rattle for Mervin. Only he would think such a thing! It hadn't even occurred to me. I had to admit it was a good idea.

I helped another guy hang his girlfriend. Then there was the guy I had to beat to death with a rock while I rode him. For whatever reason, these calls didn't really make huge waves in my mind's perversion ocean. That should bother me! How was your day? Oh the usual: pregnant trannies, sexy grandmas and snuff porn.

When Mervin called today, he had a pretty creepy scenario. I was a prostitute who went with a john to this cellar. Same bare white room with a bright light and a video camera. There was a drainpipe with a noose waiting for me. He was so excited describing the room, and it was so vivid. I always try to match my breathing and the tone of my voice with the caller's. I was there. I could see the room with the milk-crate for me to stand on. Hear the drip off the drain pipe and its echo in the cold room. I wondered if he'd ever had a girlfriend who liked to be choked and if he "accidentally" strangled her too hard one night and got off at the thought of making her die. I wondered if he'd ever actually killed anyone.

I understand that these are just fantasies; it's just difficult to keep in mind when you hear that tone of voice. I tried to put that out of my mind and play along with Mervin though. Aside from the strangling teenagers thing, he seemed like a nice guy. I was a little nervous when I made my first attempt at the death rattle today. I didn't want it to be hokey. I heard the catch in his voice and the groan so I did it again. And then once more, the grand finale. I'm giving up last breath. . .for you. He absolutely loved it! I'd like to thank Jeremy for helping me creep myself out and ensuring Mervin's place as a regular. I'll take him over Mr. Fantastic any any day. I look forward to the many ways I'll be strangled.

Originally posted June 23, 2008

I'm having an interesting night of calls. It's one of those occasions that I'm actually enjoying being on and having fun with my customers. And it shows, they've all stayed to talk to me for their entire alloted time. It's amazing what simply deciding to change your outlook can do.

I talk to a disabled Vietnam vet. He was feeling depressed about being stuck at home, in a wheelchair with no company, no one to talk to. This depresses me, too. We shift topics to nicer things, since he just wants to talk, no sex. I'm saddened when he gives me his address and asks if we can be pen pals. As much as I'd like to, I can't. But, over the next few days, I think more and more, “why can't I?” If it would brighten this poor guy's day, why not? I could send them with no return addresses, even though that's not really in the spirit of pen pal-dom...

I get a request from my new favorite caller, Sam. He's quickly becoming a regular. He's very nice and easy to talk to. It helps that his fantasies aren't so far out there that I can't relate. It is interesting that his fantasies all revolve around phone sex, though. So, in one case, I was his cleaning lady and he'd realized I'd been looking through his drawers, and he called me to confront me. The conversation came around to me having a crush on him and what would happen when I came back to his place for my punishment. Another was I was his wife, and he called me on his lunch break, interrupting my masturbating to the pool boy. I told him what I was doing, it turned him on, and we talked about possibly inviting the pool boy to join us that evening. They are simple, and sort of sexy, so it's nice to talk to Sam.

The next hour is spent with another regular. He wants to call me back when our time is up, but decides he'll wait a little bit. He waits an hour and calls me back for another hour-long request. We don't really have conversation, we “listen to each other masturbate.” So, I fake orgasms at semi-regular interviews while he shouts, “That's the real thing baby! You're really getting off, I can tell!” Indeed. He sometimes asks me to do bewildering things, like shove my panties up my ass or pussy. I'm not sure how or why he figures this would feel good for me, but I try to make the appropriate sounds. Once, he told me to shove three vibrators in me, end to end...all in all, though, he's a nice guy, so I don't mind him. He spends a lot of money with us, because he calls several times a week and he also talks to this other girl a lot.

The best comes just before I sign off. Mindy tells me he's a brand new caller named George, and he wants to talk to a sweet and sexy, black, 20 year-old.

We introduce ourselves. George is an older gentleman from the South. He tells me he has a rather strange fetish, and wants to know how comfortable I am role-playing. I am always a little wary when they tell me their fetishes are strange, but I tell him we can talk about anything as long as all participants are 18.

He clears his throat and hesitates. I assure him that he can tell me anything, that's what I'm here for.

“Well, see...it's like this,” he begins, “The other day, this telemarketer called me, and I agreed to buy something for her, but I had to give her all of my personal information...”

“OK,” I say encouragingly, still with no clue where this will end up.

“Well, that just turned me on so much!” he announces, still a little hesitantly.

“...talking to the telemarketer?”

“Yes! Just, something about giving out my personal information turns me on so much. I'd like to be able to do that, but I think it would be even better if the person on the other end of the line knew I had my dick in my hand while she was getting this information.”

OH! Really?! Wow...

“Oh, so it's just telling someone your confidential information gets you excited?” I ask, just to be sure.

“Yes, it really does. I'm not sure why, but, oh do I get worked up!”

I chuckle a little, relieved. That's nothing!

“We can roleplay that, George, no problem.”

“Are you sure, that won't make you uncomfortable?” He asks. It's sweet when they're really concerned about me being comfortable with their fantasy. Obviously, George is unaware that the company he called is dominated by men with strange fetishes, usually gross ones.

I assure him that it doesn't make me uncomfortable in the least and it actually sounds like fun. He breathes a sigh of relief and tells me that he wants me to ask him for everything. He says if I want to write it all down, too, that would be even better. So, I grab my notebook and click my pen, making sure it's noisy enough for him to hear.

“So, George, your phone rings, and I'm a telemarketer calling to offer you phone service,” I begin.

“OK,” he clears his throat, “Hello?”

“Hello, sir. My name is Serena, and I am calling from PhoneWhore Communications. I have an offer for a new telephone service for your area. Are you interested?”

“Oh, yes, I am!”

I can feel him relaxing, and that makes me smile. Funny how something so silly to me can be so stressful to him. I suppose it is a little strange.

“Well, sir, I'll need your first and last name to get this set up.”

“George Thompson, miss.”

“All right, Mr. Thompson, and what is your address?”

He gives me his address, and in this manner I get his Social Security number and driver's license number as well. I tell him we can keep his existing phone number, so he gives this to me, as well as his cell phone number, just in case.

I tell him that I want to make sure I have the information recorded accurately, and I read it back to him.

At this point he groans, “Oh, Serena, I'm playing with my dick right now, and it feels so good!”

“Well, I'm glad Mr. Thompson! Ok, now, we can set you up for monthly payments to be deducted directly from your checking account. Are you interested in that?”

“I am interested in that, let me grab my checkbook...”

“Thank you Mr. Thompson. And when you're ready, please read me your routing number, followed by your checking account number.”

He does. He also tells me the balances in his checking and savings accounts.

I explain he can use his credit card as a backup payment method if he'd like. Of course he would like.

“But, just so you know, you can't open up new accounts, I have it set up that way,” he says. This is the first time he's sounded a little concerned. It is probably occurring to him that I could be shady and take all of this information and run.

“That's ok, Mr. Thompson,” I reassure him, “We don't need to open up new accounts. All that matters is that funds can be deducted from these existing accounts.”

“That's fine, then. You can make purchases from the accounts, no problem,” he says happily, then groans a little and tells me how good he feels.

“Do you have notifications activated on these accounts? So, if an amount above a certain level is charged, the company will call to warn you?”

“Yes, if you spend a lot in one place, or if you make many small purchases that add up to a lot in one day, they'll call and ask me if I authorized them.”

“I see. But, if I make small purchases, spaced out over time. Say, weekly, or monthly, then no red flags will pop up?”

He groans louder this time, “No, not at all.”

I take advantage of the thickness in his voice and repeat all the information he's given me so far once more.

“Oh, Serena, my dick feels so good!”

“That makes me happy, Mr. Thompson.”

I'm not really sure what else to ask him, so he starts offering information. He tells me his email address and password. He gives me the website for his credit card company, and his user name and password. Then he gives me the 800 number for his bank and his access code for said 800 number as well as his debit card number and PIN.

He asks me if I can log into the website for his credit card and see if the password he gives me is correct. As luck would have it, my internet is out on this night, so I can't do that. I don't tell him this, instead, I open up a word document so he can hear me typing away.

I tell him I can see his account information. He asks if I can see his credit limit there. I tell him I've logged out already, but I did remember seeing it. Was it $5000? My wild stab in the dark pays off, and he says that's right, voice thickening even more. I'm far from psychic, but since his checking and savings account balances weren't terribly high, I figured he couldn't have an astronomical credit limit.

I keep typing, telling him I'm not entering his information in our database. This allows me to read all of his information back to him once again.

He tells me again how good he feels, and is silent briefly. I again tell him that I'm happy he's happy. He thanks me finally, and tells me that it was fun.

He reminds me again that his accounts are set up so that no one can open up new accounts, or get another credit card issued. I tell him I understand and that he doesn't have to worry about anything.

Sometimes I wish I had fewer scruples. I have an Amazon wishlist after all! I hang up with a bemused smile. Not a bad night at work at all.