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She called me randomly one night in a Texas hotel room, and she wanted to have phone sex. In retrospect, maybe not the best move Late one cold, wet November night a couple of years ago, maybe 3 a.m., I was sitting on my bed in a Motel 6 just south of Austin, Texas, brushing my teeth and watching the closing moments of a college basketball game on ESPN2 that had been played earlier that night but was being rebroadcast and whose outcome was still a mystery to me, when the phone on the night table besides me jangled to life. Nobody knew I was there; I'd arrived only an hour earlier.
A year later, Nicole and I decided to meet face-to-face.
For the most part, I stopped answering Nicole's calls.
I was busy, and I was dating real girls—real in that they were in the flesh in front of me, and real in that they were unquestionably biological girls.
Nicole would be talking dirty, telling me how she wanted to squeeze my dick with her pussy, and I'd just start riffing on some goofy shit: There was NASCAR-themed pillow talk ("Straddle my throttle, Nicole. "), and then sometimes I'd do it up in a stiff, upper-crust British accent ("Oh, God save the queen.
I'm coming, I'm coming, tea and crumpets for all!
"I've got on gray mesh basketball shorts with, let's see, three thin white stripes down each side, and a Bell's Pizza T-shirt." I was quiet for a second, then rushed to fill the silence. I guess it had always seemed sort of strange and silly to me. And in times when that was hard to come by, well, that's what the stack of Victoria's Secret catalogs crammed behind the books on my bookshelf was for, along with a 1988 Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition with Elle Macpherson on the cover and battered VHS copies of 9 ½ Weeks and Basic Instinct (my good stash had been lost in a move). "Finally, I grew less bashful and got into it for real, and in a few minutes there was a happy ending. The basketball game on the TV had ended long before, and I had no idea who'd won. Mostly, we crashed on sofas and floors at friends' houses or stayed with folks we'd met that night at our show, though sometimes we'd take turns driving through till dawn while the other slept in the backseat, which folded down into a bed. She said her roommates were sleeping in the next room.
Nicole was a great listener, willing to indulge each tangent of every story she was told.
She was as curious about my life as I was about hers.
It had to be the old Pakistani guy down in the motel office, I figured, or else my little brother, Peter, whom I was traveling with; he'd gone out walking down the service road, looking for better reception on his cellie so he could call his girlfriend. "There was a stirring in my gray mesh basketball shorts with the three thin white stripes down each side. "A few months earlier, in May 2004, I'd published a book called Found and hit the road with Peter for an eight-month, 136-city tour.
After the third ring, I picked up."I'm Nicole." I could hear the push of her breath on the other end of the line, as though her mouth was pressed close to the receiver. Nicole explained that she'd hit the bars all night with her friends, and that now they were drunk and passed out and she was bored. "I want to tell you what we would do."I'd never had phone sex before. " I was about to hang up, but then, remembering our little moment a few hours before, I softened. At each event, I read from my book and Peter played guitar and sang.
Nicole's dirty talk was both ridiculous and oddly arousing. It was actually so comfortable, a lot of nights I chose to sleep out in the van rather than on a stranger's sagging couch. We chatted for a few minutes, then got into the phone sex again. This time I went Shakespeare: "Oh baby, wherefore art thy labia? Now that we'd had sex a couple of times, I wanted to know what she was all about—I wanted to know where she worked; I wanted to know what she was into (besides having phone sex with strangers); I wanted to know what kind of person calls hotel rooms to have phone sex with strangers.