Phone Sex: What’s going on on the other end.

Written by a 25 year old me.

My promiscuous ventures with men began at age fourteen. Back in the days of Myspace and AOL chat rooms, I had found the most detestable suitors. After finding my initial attempts for a boyfriend futile, I settled for anyone who took an interest in me, provided they sent me enough pictures to prove they weren’t some wrinkly old dude.

We’d start by chatting on AIM. These men were so nice to me. They took a true interest in me and my interests and quickly fell in love with me. They needed to hear my voice. They gave me their number and the phone rarely got to complete a full ring before they picked up.

I remember my first dirty talk session with a seemingly cute seventeen year old boy. My parents were out so I locked myself in their bathroom. I really didn’t need to know what to do. He took the reins. I simply needed to describe what I was wearing and then what I was wearing underneath. I think his cock got hard just knowing that someone was listening to him.

I never got the sex talk so it came as a surprise (pun absolutely intended) when I first learned what cumming was. I must have been doing a good job because I started hearing moans on the receiver end on my phone. “Oh my god, baby. I’m cumming.” To which I responded in a seductive tone “Oh yeah? Where are you going?”

Before I knew it, I had two or three men to talk to at a time. I started getting good. I’d dial *67 before dialing the pervs so they couldn’t track me. I’d grab all the phones in the house so my parents couldn’t accidentally pick up another line. I mastered the art of moaning and their miserable little cocks went wild when I would bang the phone on my stomach fast and repetitively. (Proof that I was getting off along with them.) They’d reward me by telling me what a good little slut I was. They’d tell me I was beautiful. That was all I really wanted. All the filth was washed away the second they affirmed my appearance. I could go to bed feeling pathetic and worthless, hating my very existence but at least I someone thought I was pretty.

Looking back now, I should have been charging for my services. I can assure you I took no pleasure in these ventures. Any sex drive I had had been completely diminished by the high amount of Prozac I had been taking. More often than not, I’d be watching Friends or Gilmore Girls and listen just intently enough to know my cue to let out a “Oh baby.”

Phone sex turned to sexting as the digital age continued to evolve. I was sent countless number of dick pics in exchange for a large chunk of my dignity. The cocks varied in their repulsion but were proof that I was, in fact, doing my job correctly. These men couldn’t fake getting hard and men get hard when they’re turned on. Ergo, I must have been attractive. And so the damaging cycle continued.

Nothing was going to stop me. Not even being caught. One time, I was sexting a Marine I had been dating. I typed up a popular line with the guys “I want you to fuck me on my back” and clicked send. It couldn’t have been even a minute before I realized I had sent this text to my father. It’s amazing I didn’t burst into flames right then and there. Luckily, I was quick on my feet. I ran to my father, who at the time was eating lunch with my mother and grabbed his phone. “Give me your phone! What did YOU just send me? I think you have a virus, let me see.” I don’t know how I managed to make them believe me and I have to tell myself that I got to the text before he did in order to continue living my pitiful existence.

Looking back on that sad, scared girl makes me want to kill these men. These men who knew how old I was, who saw the lingerie pics I sent them but not the terror in my eyes. I want to slit the throats of men doing this to girls at this very moment. Knowing that my pictures are floating around in cyberspace is a difficult pill to swallow. Knowing that at this very moment some worthless prick is jerking off to my hollowness is an indescribable horror. I want to protect that little girl. I wish who I am now had been there for her then. It wasn’t enough to come from a loving family. It wasn’t enough that my mother was my best friend and ultimate confidant. I was ashamed. I still am.

I hope some of these degenerates are reading this right now. You foul, loathsome pieces of shit. I have your names in my mouth. Fuck you. The ones that could be reading this should be thanking their lucky stars I haven’t castrated them yet. How dare you. How dare you act like you cared for me. Promise you were different. Swear you wouldn’t leave me. Fuck you.

It’s a dangerous thing having no self-worth. Why am I even sharing this? Because I don’t know anyone else who is. Because it’s happening right now. Your daughters and cousins and sisters and nieces could be feeding their soul with this toxicity at this very moment. Can you even imagine what type of ineffable pain they must be in to subject themselves to this?