Hey, baby.

It would appear I’m down to one blog entry a month. This isn’t intentional, I’m still Strumpeting it up. Most of the really good tidbits about the job occur on Twitter, simply because some of the things I’m experiencing are  best summed up in 140 characters or less.

Examples:

“WTF? Really dude? How many fingers?”

“Is that even biologically possible?”

“OMG SHUT UP I AM SO SICK OF YOUR VOICE.”

But anyway.

Neil Gaiman has a quote in his book Neverwhere about events being cowards. They don’t occur one at a time, but instead “run in packs and leap out at [one] all at once.” This is remarkably similar to the life of a Phone Strumpet. You can go days getting your average, run-of-the-mill “Suck it, bitch” calls. They’re so simple, I barely have to look up from my game of Ranch Rush. I could do those calls in my sleep. It’s possible I do actually do them in my sleep, considering how boring they tend to get.

Then slam. I get a call so strange my eyes go wide and I think, “This person needs help beyond Dr. Strumpet.” And I think, “There can’t possibly be more than one of you in the world.”

Oh, you sweet, naive little dirty whore.

The event that started the pile-on was a client we’ll call John B. Young. Living in the south, I know you can’t judge someone based solely on the state they live in. However, if I judged Mr. B. Young solely on the state he lived in, I’d have a pretty good idea what religion he believes in. And it would very much explain his style.

He’s been my client twice now. The first time, I just shook my head, because he really didn’t know what he was doing. The way he said “bitch” (bee-itch) told me he never curses, and his responses to my suggestions were just comical. But we got through it, and I ended the call in a pretty good mood. Humor calls always leave me smiling.

The second time was a little different. He remembered me, as most of them do (barring inebriation). We had a bit of conversation along the way. I was reminded more and more that he’s probably never had sex, nor masturbated without the aid of some heathen woman who won’t tell his brethren he touched himself in the dirty place.

My favorite example is our discussion of porn. He asked, “Do you like porn?” I get this question a lot. Of course. I love porn. Porn’s my favoritest thing ever, I own hundreds of DVDs, and spend all of my time watching it. Cock starved nympho, remember? So, I reply in the affirmative, and he said, “I watched a porn the other day.”

Of course you did. They all do. I wait for him to elaborate and tell me what kind he watched. There’s nothing forthcoming.

You know how, around the age of 5, a little boy will want a little girl to be his girlfriend? So he’ll say things such as, “Ya like bread? I have bread!” Or, to an older girl because he’s a pimp, “You like cars? My daddy has a car!”

Yeah. Poor Mr. B. Young.

So, then the kicker. We’re discussing how so very sad it is that I don’t live closer to him. I’m exactly the kind of girl he needs in his life. No one like me up there. We could have such a great life together. He’d work, I’d stay home, and when he got home, I’d attack him with kisses and blowjobs at the door. With an offer like that, how could I refuse? Where do I buy my plane ticket?

“And I could get you pregnant!”

Insert loud, cartoonesque record scratch here.

“Oh! Um. Yes. Absolutely.”

“Well, you want to get pregnant, don’t you?”

1) No.

2) Hell no.

3) Have you lost your everloving mind? I would claw out my one remaining ovary with my own fingernails before I would let you inseminate me.

We ended the call, with me clutching my stomach to coax my shriveled ovary out from somewhere behind my esophagus, and shaking my head at how strange my clients are.

And thus began the trend.

Suddenly, everyone wanted to impregnate me. I can’t say I blame them. I’ve heard the description I hand out, I’d want to breed with that version of me, too. But seriously, guys? You want to procreate with a “cumslut”? No wonder you’ve never been married.

The real kicker, though, was a gentleman I’ll refer to as John Vert. I’m hoping to never refer to him again, as by the time we were around 3/4 through the call, I was literally answering all of his sentences with clipped ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers, because I desperately wanted to kick him off the phone.

Mr. Vert asked for a pre-inseminated woman. He wanted a nice round belly on her, with at least one other child. I had anticipated this type of call already, I know there’s a kink for it. But this guy took it to a level I could not even believe. When I get clients who request that I have children, I age them. I refuse to have a child below the age of 15, just for my own mental sanity. And believe me, I have had guys test that mental sanity over and over again. I also never have daughters.

So, it started out normal enough. He’s oh so turned on by pregnant women, everywhere he goes. He just wants to ravage them where they stand. He asks how much I love being pregnant. If he was my husband, he would never let me not be pregnant. As soon as the baby came out. I’m talking, the doctors wouldn’t even have the chance to clean up the afterbirth, he’d be diving right in there.

Pleasant, right? Yeah, welcome to my work life.

Not only that! Oh, no. It wouldn’t just be him to impregnate me! What a waste! After all, I have a son who could do the job just as well! What’s a little cross-eyed derp derp baby between family members?

I was sitting in a chair with my face between my legs for most of this conversation. Going, “Mm hmm.” And “Uh uh”.

I’m hoping the one I had today will be the last for awhile. Because if ever there was a call that took every ounce of strength I have, it was this guy. We’ll call him John W. Mart. I’ve had him once before. He’s an unlimited time caller, which means if he likes me, he’ll stay on the phone for hours on end. Nice, right? First time I talked to him, that’s all it was was talk. Two hours pay for no emphatic agreement. Perfect. My dispatcher told me what he normally requests, and I regurgitated a bit.

Got to experience it about four hours ago. The strange part was that he asked for Tranny Strumpet instead of Regulation Strumpet.

I will not give you details, because while there are some things I make other people suffer through because I had to deal with it, this type of call is not one of them. I desperately hope that I’m suffering through it so that the person in question is not. It’s the Strumpet credo, so to speak. If they’re taking it out on us, they’re not doing it in real life.

But suffice to say, Tranny Strumpet was needed to impregnate a member of Mr. W. Mart’s family.

What is WITH you guys? Don’t you get your pets fixed? It’s the same thing with humans. We do not need more children running around, taking up our precious oxygen. I realize you have some sort of biological caveman instinct to spread your seed. Spread it over your hand, roll over, and go to bed.