Hey, remember me? Your friendly neighborhood Phone Strumpet has returned.
No, I didn’t die. Didn’t quit, or get fired (heavens forefend). Didn’t catch a communicable disease from unprotected Strumpeting.
Unfortunately, there was a tragedy in my family. Small in comparison to most, but still painful, and which led to no blogging for awhile.
Trauma happens in life. Every person reacts differently, but what really and truly matters is that you have someone to talk about it with. A good friend, a hairdresser, a bartender, a local priest, your cat Mrs. Fluffykins who eats at the table with you and picks out your wardrobe.
Or, if you’re so inclined, your friendly neighborhood Doctor Strumpet.
I knew before taking this job that there were gentlemen out there who called Strumpet lines solely to talk. I didn’t know what they called to talk about specifically, but I was aware that there are terribly lonely souls out there who have no one in their life to talk to. Whether they want to discuss their sexual proclivities or a hot guy they saw at the bar and needed to fantasize about. So they put up their credit card and away we go.
I am always amused by these calls. One of the first calls I ever got was a Dr. Strumpet call. I talked to Mr. John Patent for over 80 minutes, and while we did discuss his sexual history, there was no emphatic agreement involved. I enjoyed talking to him. We discussed my shoe collection in great detail, and he directed me to some sites with fabulous shoes. I only spoke to him one other time, before his girlfriend came home and he had to hang up hilariously fast. I was sad that I never got him again.
Mr. Patent could not live the lifestyle he wanted to live. He’d previously been a very open, bisexual cross dresser. A lively one, at that. Then he met a girl, fell in something or the other, and they moved in together. She knew some things, but not all, and she kept him on a tight leash. So, to compensate, he would call the Strumpets and talk about what he used to do, and wished he still did do. Not quite one of my Closet Cases, but still unfortunate.
Then we have one of my regular clients. This client has really taught me what it means to be Dr. Strumpet. The first time I got John Bob, I sat on the call, trying to figure out exactly what it was he wanted me to say. 40 minutes later, we’d hit the first time frame, and he let me off the phone. Bemused, I made notes about the call and put it out of my head.
The next time he called, the conversation was almost identical to the original, with only a few details changed. And I realized that I was not going to have to speak at all. John Bob became my favorite client.
Mr. Bob is not a Closet Case at all. Or, he thinks he is, but he’s not. What he is is a gentleman very much in love with his fantasy world, and wanting to share it. Because his fantasy involves every single man he comes across finding his ass adorable and wanting a blowjob, there don’t appear to be many people he can discuss this with.
So he calls me! And I “Mmm-hmm” and “Really?” at him, and he just keeps it going. His catch phrase is, “Do I sound like the kind of guy who would do that?” And my standard, Strumpet response (trademark pending) is, “I don’t think that kind of guy sounds like anything specific.”
This is the longest sentence I say while on the phone with him. I’ve written blog entries while on the phone with Mr. Bob. I’ve played long, drawn out games of Ranch Rush, and texted people. He just keeps it going. It doesn’t actually matter what I say.
Dr. Strumpet is not there to voice her opinion. She does not offer sympathy. She doesn’t tell you your life choices are good, or bad. She “Mmm-hmms”. She says things like, “And what did you think about that?” It’s not quite “And how does that make you feel?”, but it’s as close as she can get without sounding sarcastic.
Mr. John Bob is my favorite caller, and Dr. Strumpet is my favorite persona. It’s so easy! I can sit outside and watch my squirrels and wave at my neighbors and not rush away if someone comes within earshot.
I would make a great psychiatrist, don’t you think?
You don’t?
And how does that make you feel?
