Sex, Lies and Closed Captiona

by Quin

It took a multitude of dates, of fumbled gropings in her bed or theirs, of that uncomfortable dash for a taxi whose driver would glance at you knowingly before she realized she was happier with faux sex. She became an artiste, the phonefuck her canvas, something as unreal as the pleather that covered her furniture. The pleather soothed her vegetarian sensibilities because the material allowed her the look of leather without the guilt and the phonefuck allowed her to have sex under her control. It was on that pleather sofa that she reclined, a veritable Scheherazade, dressed not in silks, but in her sensible cotton pajamas, headset in place, weaving her tales of girls in school uniforms and dominatrix mistresses and women in rubber girdles for her select clientele who passed the rigorous selection process necessary to receive a call. She used her honey coated throaty voice to bring them to their moaning end, swearing they were with her in person, grateful to pay the exorbitant prices she charged, not knowing she watched her television with the sound off, cheating on occasion by stealing ideas from the multitude of porn channels there for one's viewing pleasure, allowing her to remain distanced from what she did or said. It was only when she was met by silence after passionately uttering the words "Fick me in my cubt!" that she realized spelling and accuracy in typing weren't necessary job requirements for the person who worked the closed caption desk.

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Quin isn't the real name. But, it'll do. Born and raised in New Orleans; that place will always be home. Time spent in Denver and Utah, where theater became a passion. Children are loved always; a terrier travels New York City with her; life is still to be discovered in many ways. She is the author of The Golden Child.