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I want fone sax chat to girl or femel on mobile

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.

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I knew she might be 400 pounds or my grandma's age, or a guy, but there was also a possibility that she was, well, hot. Nicole knew what I looked like—I'd directed her to my picture on the Found Web site—but I had no idea whom to be looking for other than somebody sitting alone. ""Actually, I'm looking for a friend." I walked past her into the restaurant. "At another table, sitting by himself and halfheartedly watching the game, was a skinny Eminem-looking kid in a white Spurs hoodie who couldn't have been out of high school. Then I saw her, perched on a red stool at the bar, toying with her cell phone—a curvy Latina maybe 24 years old. But now, in each frame, I had to replace Fiona Apple with this—HOLY FUCK! What kind of deranged motherfucker pulls stunts like this?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.In a fucked-up way, this was the closest I'd had to a real girlfriend in years.And the more we got to know each other, the more the sex improved. She started calling me every day, a half hour before my reading, when she knew I'd be out in the van getting my notes ready.Every few nights, I'd be out in the van after a show, making my bed in the backseat, when Nicole would call, and we'd get hot and heavy.

I was still wary that this was all some crazy prank by my friends and that our calls were being recorded, so during phone sex I kept things tongue-in-check, as though hamming it up for an audience.

She refused, and for the next week I wouldn't answer her calls. One time I even asked a girl I met at one of the Found readings for details of what happens on the visit to the gynecologist, then asked Nicole the same thing. "They come at you with that speculum—it's like a medieval torture device." I pressed her to continue, but she wasn't going to pay these games with me. Ten out of ten male friends I polled had no idea what that was. Sometimes we'd talk for half an hour before phone sex.

Out in my van after a long night in Phoenix or Des Moines, I'd be lonely, drunk, and depressed, and tell her about my problems.

"), and then other times, I performed in the voice of a black comedian making fun of the way white people talk, over-pronouncing each word ("Oh yes, baby, golly gee, keep licking my penis, that just feels absolutely stupendous! Only irony could distance me from the sad truth of what I was really doing: jacking off in the back of my van in a Taco Bell parking lot in Jefferson City, Missouri, while talking on my headset to someone who was possibly a man.

Over the phone, Nicole definitely had the resigned spirit of a woman who'd had a lot of attention from guys in high school but then, knocked around by life, had slid hopelessly overweight.

That night Nicole found me, Peter and I had been on the road for six months; we were about a hundred cities into the tour. If the fantasy is that we're having sex, I don't want to just zip up my pants the second we're done and leave. She also told me that her mother had passed away recently and that she'd been having a tough time with it—they'd been especially close.