It's Tuesday, and you know what that means, don't you? Well, actually, nothing. I'm guessing that Tuesday isn't really a big deal for most people. But I thought I'd put a little fanfare out there this morning. A little glitter in the air. To that end, I decided to share a bit of one of the projects I'm working on.
I've had phonebooths on my mind lately. And I've been watching old movies and TV shows where cells don't exist. If it's 1980, and you want to make a call while you're out and about, a pay phone is the only way to go. For some reason, I find this beyond charming. I find it calming.
The Last Telephone Booth
“I want to fuck you in a phone booth.”
I knew Van was the one for me when I didn’t see a bulge in his pocket.
The boys in the city—they all have a well-worn rectangle on the back of their jeans from where their smartphones sit. Not Van. At first, I thought maybe he carried his cell in his coat—better than allowing his family jewels to be irradiated. But when he handed me his coat to hang up, there was no telltale weight. Sometimes a coat is just a coat.
“I want to press you up against the glass and lift up your little skirt.”
You get looks when you reveal that you’re not a techie. You win strange expressions when you confess to not having a Facebook account, for spelling the word “tumbler” with an “e” and pouring whiskey into one. Especially, if you live in San Francisco.
“I want truckers to drive by and see your feet on the doors and honk their air horns at us.”
But I’m low-tech, and so is Van. When we go to coffee shops, we’re often the only customers who don’t have devices with us. Once, we were seated next to a couple who I thought was saying grace before their meal—turned out that they were simply both looking down at their phones at the same time, heads bowed, faces awash in the alien glow of their cells.
When Van confessed his number one fantasy to me I decided right then I would make his dreams come true.
He wanted to fuck me in a telephone booth. That shouldn’t have been much of a problem, right? Except when was the last time you saw a telephone booth? Not a kiosk, open to the public. But a good, old-fashioned, honest-to-goodness, Superman-could-change-in-one phone booth.
Neither of us had spied one in eons.
I began to pay attention when I drove around the city. On my different journeys, I found several booths that had been turned into what could only be described as artistic installations, the phones removed and the booths transformed. I found booths overgrown by ivy, curling leaves twining in and out of the broken doors. Some booths were demolished by fires.
“You have to really work for it in a phone booth,” Van said, and then I started to wonder what his history was.
“So you’ve done this before?” I asked curiously.
“The phone booths are bigger in England,” he said.
Even if we did find a working phone booth in the city, how likely would we be able to pull off a public tryst? Van and I had a superlative sex life in doors. But still—he talked about his fantasies.
So I went online. I started searching for phone booths, and I was intrigued when I found a phone booth on a rural road a few hours from us. Van thought we were headed to the hills for a little R&R.
He packed his hiking boots and fiddled with his outdoor gear. On the drive, we listened to music and discussed where we might dine…and then I pulled over.
“Is everything okay?”
“I just wanted to make a call,” I said.
He looked startled. He knew I didn’t have a cell. That was one of the very things that had brought us together. Siri didn’t live in my pocket. Then he saw the booth.
“Oh, fuck,” he said, and he was getting out of the car before I could say another word. My panties were instantly wet.
Now my outfit made sense to him—the short sultry skirt, the thigh highs. He had me up in his big hands, pressed against the side of the phone booth. He pushed against me and I could feel how hard he was, and I closed my eyes, so pleased I had found this for him, so pleased I had given this to him.
“It’s difficult to tell now,” he said, “with all the newfangled gizmos. Hard to tell which ones are the good girls and which ones are the bad girls.”
“What do you mean?” I panted as he pulled the gusset of my panties to the side and ran his thumb between my pussy lips.
He brought his mouth to my ear and he said, “Only a bad girl would let herself get fucked in a phone booth...”
*****
If you want to read one of my vintage stories set in a phone booth, check out Alison After Dark, which features "Too Dirty to Clean." This story was written before everyone had cells. What I'm saying is: it wasn't retro when I wrote it.
Please visit tomorrow for my next dirty etymology lesson. I'm totally excited about what I have planned. Because I say it all the time.
Missed one? Here are the three I've done so far:
• History of the Douchebag
• History of the Dick
• Dirty Etymology: Round-Heeled
XXX,
Alison
P.S. Don't forget to answer my Monday question!