Page 18 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

“I was lucky. I got merit and low-income scholarships, along with grants, so I don’t have any undergrad loans,” I say, and omit my athletic scholarship but wonder if I’m being paranoid. I do a quick Google search for Ohio State, psychology, cross-country, and Kait, and in less than a second, there’s a link to a profile piece, complete with photos of all the women on the team my senior year in the school newspaper. I’ll keep the cross-country bit to myself.

“Smart, funny, kind, merit scholarship to college. You’re too good to be true,” Henry says.

Why aren’t the single women lining up for this guy? Must be the halitosis.

“Hardly, but I appreciate the compliment.” I’m stubborn, positively bitchy when people steal my work chair, obsessed with Indian food while simultaneously too cheap to eat in restaurants, and take pride in my ability to manipulate men. The list is endless.

“Kait, are we still doing the truth pact thing? What did you call it? The cave of confessions?”

Unless I’m mistaken, he’s taking off his tie as he speaks. The slide of fabric on fabric is distracting.

“The tent of truth,” I say with a laugh. “The vault of veracity. Oooohhh, the rectum of rectitude.”

“Ewww, Kait, ewww,” he says, hamming it up. “Can we please not call it that?”

“How about vagina of virtue? Seems kind of appropriate, considering how we met.” Is Henry too pure to say vagina? “Vagina of veracity? Vagina of verisimilitude.” And I’m adding obnoxious to the list of my faults.

He laughs at me. “Yet somehow, shockingly, not better. Could we agree on a simple yes, we’ll be honest when we’re talking and skip the creative monikers?” He’s amused by my antics. I worry I’ll offend him, which is not a concern I’ve encountered before in my line of work, but we don’t talk about sex, unless saying vagina repeatedly counts.

I’m an unfiltered word and Miracle Whip vomit type, and he’s… not. He’s… I don’t know? He’s not a prude, he can take a joke, and he makes me laugh. He’s probably more worldly than I am, but he never says a dirty word, and I use the f-bomb as an adverb, adjective, noun, pronoun, hell, I fucking well use it as a present participle, sometimes all in the same sentence.

“I want to ask you a question,” he says, trepidatious, “but I don’t want to be intrusive.”

Ahhhh. I used to bristle, but he’s not being critical. This is curiosity. “Well, Henry, when a young woman needs to make money but has to work around her class schedule, team practices, meets, and all that, the ideal job might be a little off the beaten path.” And my bestie is a bad influence.

Henry’s response has a ring of surprise. “How did you⁠—”

“‘How did a nice girl like me’ is not a new question.” I appreciate that he’s asking as respectfully as one can, but I have a tone. “I chose this. I choose this. My parents are constantly wondering what they did wrong. They’re social workers and help a lot of people, mostly kids, and make a pittance. When I leave this job and finally put good into the world, I won’t have to sacrifice like they did.”

“That’s interesting, but the question you answered isn’t exactly the one I wanted to ask. How did you choose this from the myriad options that must have been laid at your feet? How did you choose phone sex instead of med school or clinical psychology or corporate mastermind?”

Wow. Did he make the question a genuine compliment?

“The money is good, Henry. More than anything I could do with a psych degree.”

I won’t tell him I own a chunk of this place, even though I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished. That falls under the heading of “too much personal information.”

He hesitates, then asks, “Do you like it?”

Do I like it? That’s a fanfuckingtastic question. “I do. Some days more than others. It’s weird and quirky. I’m a better person for having done this job. I’m more empathetic. I’m no longer baffled by men. I have an understanding of how the other half thinks.”

“Tell me one thing about men that you’ve learned?”

“Men are pretty good about telling you what they want or need if you listen. They kind of hint about it, and sometimes they come in at it from the side, but they’ll tell you. It’s like they don’t want to have to say it aloud sometimes.” And sometimes—Ryan—I don’t want to listen.

He makes an aha! sound. “You’re like a sex therapist.”

“Nope, not a bit. They’re highly trained clinical professionals. I wear pajamas to the office and talk to interesting people like you.” Bonus: on really bad days, I get to do the mental math on how much we make per hour when there are twelve women on the phone at the same time. It soothes me.

“Thank you for sharing. For what it’s worth, you’ve dramatically improved my life. I used to worry that I would die falling asleep behind the wheel. I’m better. My life doesn’t revolve around how to function while exhausted. You don’t have to move on from phone sex to put good in the world. You already do.”

“You’re very kind.” I like him. A lot.

“You’re very good at your job, the small bit of it that I’ve experienced. I suspect our interactions are not typical.” He sounds sincere, not like he’s stroking my ego.

“You’d be surprised. People call because they can’t sleep, or they’re bored or lonely. I have this rule about not talking about sex first, so they talk to me because they don’t feel pressured into sexual conversations.” Shit, I told him about my rule. Every time I talk to him, it’s like I’ve forgotten them. Now this?

“Loneliness may be the plague of the twenty-first century,” he says. “We don’t interact like we used to. We’re more connected than ever, but somehow more distanced.”