my friend asked me to go to a party he's DJing. Okay. So I went. He wasn't there when I got there (and I thought I went fashionably late), so I'm hanging out and realize...this is pretty much a nearly-all-lesbian party. Not that it matters, but it's surprising. Anyway, in that context, as I'm hanging out by myself (I don't know anyone but my friend) this woman comes up to me and starts talking, with a corny sort of lead-in "Having fun yet?" as I'm standing by myself. So I chat, no big deal, after all, she must be a lesbian. She's extremely well built and, ahem, healthy I must say...
Then a bit later, as I'm hanging out with my friend who has shown up, she comes up to me and starts talking again. Then out of nowhere she asks my sexual orientation, and I respond, but ask why she's asking. She says bluntly, "Because I want a penis, not p***y".
Ahem!
Well, I had no idea what to say. I think I said something like "Oh." I also think I looked around dumbly. But just seconds later some friend of hers come by and scoops her up.
Later on, just before I'm about to leave, she stops by as I'm hanging out near the DJ's table and says "Well, here we are again." I have no idea what may have come next, but I said I was headed out and being married and all, well, it didn't seem like a good idea. we did a friendly half-hug and I left.
That was odd, but ego-gratifying. I wish I were at least a little smoother with women, though, just so I could come up with some witty repartee. Perhaps I at least have a naive charm...
Oh, here's the really odd thing - she has the EXACT same name as a woman I knew in school who was sexually quite active very early on (like 6th grade) and who later in life was renowned for an emergency room visit for an unfortunate incident with a frozen hot dog.
(Yes, I will tell my wife about this, it's no secret or anything)
(the caps are from the site I got this from) - Tonight i' listening to music more than I have been for a time. I'm really into Pretenders' "Talk of the Town", Maggie Estep "Hey Baby", Damned "I Feel Alright", Police "Message in a Bottle", and Missy E "Get Ur Freak On" - been thinking of these earlier tonight, glad to play them all.
SUCH A DRAG TO WANT SOMETHING SOMETIME
ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER I KNOW
WAS A TIME WANTED YOU FOR MINE
NOBODY KNEW
YOU ARRIVED LIKE A DAY
AND PASSED LIKE A CLOUD
I MADE A WISH, I SAID IT OUT LOUD
OUT LOUD IN A CROWD
EVERYBODY HEARD
'TWAS THE TALK OF THE TOWN
IT'S NOT MY PLACE TO KNOW WHAT YOU FEEL
I'D LIKE TO KNOW BUT WHY SHOULD I?
WHO WERE YOU THEN, WHO ARE YOU NOW?
COMMON LABOURER BY NIGHT, BY DAY HIGHBROW
BACK IN MY ROOM I WONDER, THEN I
SIT ON THE BED, LOOK AT THE SKY
UP IN THE SKY
CLOUDS REARRANGE
LIKE THE TALK OF THE TOWN
MAYBE TOMORROW, MAYBE SOMEDAY
MAYBE TOMORROW, MAYBE SOMEDAY
YOU'VE CHANGED YOUR PLACE IN THIS WORLD
YOU'VE CHANGED YOUR PLACE IN THIS WORLD
OH BUT IT'S HARD TO LIVE BY THE RULES
I NEVER COULD AND STILL NEVER DO
THE RULES AND SUCH NEVER BOTHERED YOU
YOU CALL THE SHOTS AND THEY FOLLOW
I WATCH YOU STILL FROM A DISTANCE THEN GO
BACK TO MY ROOM, YOU NEVER KNOW
I WANT YOU, I WANT YOU BUT NOW
WHO'S THE TALK OF THE TOWN?
Re: from little plot seeds, mighty games do grow: Share you ideas!
Grond is one of my favorite bricks! Add this to your scenarios involving Grond (a previous GM of mine did): Grond will stop fighting for Ho-Ho's. He'll even hug you if you give him Twinkies. After the heroes discover this, so eventually does Foxbat. The next time the heroes face Grond, Foxbat is rewarding him with snack after snack.
Ok at the FLGS, I found a couple of CDs by Midnight Sydicate, billed as "chilling sound effects, haunting melodies and pulse-pounding orchestrations to set the mood for your darkest nightmare", in other words, mood music for V:tM games. I listened to the first little bit of each track last night before bed just to see whether we had wasted our money. We didn't. It is very very cool, dark and scary music. Which is just what I've been looking for lo these many moons.
Ok, so this morning I discover just how effective the music was, as I wake up, remembering the tail-end of a dream which ended thus:
It is a bright sunny afternoon. The tour guide says now he'll show us all those dead bodies. I decide I'll wait for the rest of the group to return from the underground, in fact under water, bunker, set under a pond in the middle of a deserted field/meadow, without venturing to view "all those dead bodies". My sister opts to go see them, even though the tourguide says he'll show her the dead kitten first, saying something about "even though he knows we killed him ourselves." That comment gives me the creeps.
So I'm waiting above ground when the surivors emerge soggily from the tomb and climb up beside me onto the square stone building in an attempt to avoid the ghouls that emerge from the tomb directly behind the survivors -- I never did see my sister after her visit to the bunker -- and I imagine we're supposed to wait there until sunset for the vampires themselves to emerge from the tomb, but then I wake up, discover that the sky is light and it's time to get up. Kly is already out of the shower, in fact, and puttering around in the living room, so he knows nothing of my ordeal, and won't until he reads this, if he chooses to do so.
This is no way to start a morning, much less a Monday morning, when I know there's already too much work on my desk anyway. ::grousegrouchgrumblegrumble:: What a way to ruin a perfectly good weekend. Phoo.
I jerk awake this morning to the sounding of my cell-phone vibrating its way across the little wood table that sits next to my bed. The wife was already up with the kids, which is standard operating procedure around here. I swear; that woman doesn’t need to sleep. She goes to bed late, gets up early, and is in an ungodly state of chipperness at all hours. I go to bed late, I get up late, and find physicality distracting, which in of itself renders me cranky. I’m human, and this morning, as is often the case, I’m still fighting through the fugue and discomfort of encroaching consciousness.
It will take a scalding shower and a pot of acrid tasting hot stimulant to render me fit for human consumption, but sometimes the world proves less than sympathetic to my cause. I realize, as the phone drops from the bedside table to the carpet, that the vibrations are the long ones – the one’s that tell you someone is calling and its not just your voicemail – and make a Pavlovian and completely unnecessary lunge for the phone, flipping from my back to my stomach with such impressive gymnastic prowess that I manage to pop every disc in my spine and end up with my legs still in the bed and my forehead and one shoulder on the floor.
I hit the green “ok†button as the third vibration starts, silently cursing the universe as I realize I haven’t said “modeh ani†– a blessing to the almighty said immediately upon waking in thanks for another day of life – and manage to croak out, without moving from my inglorious position and muttering “dam nit,†a disjointed and confused “yeah?â€
I’m not really listening for the response, though, because I’ve started thinking whoever is calling at this godforsaken hour – I wonder what time it is and pull the phone away from my ear to check the time on– okay, its 9:45, so its arguably not godforsaken, but still, I’m whoever has woken me had better have a sound reason for calling. A major terrorist attack, preferably somewhere I care about; a second great Seattle fire; an assassination of someone relevant; world war three; a sudden obscene influx of funds into my bank account; the coming of the messiah…
I realize there is a woman yapping at me on the other end of the phone. I don’t recognize her voice, but she sounds youngish – maybe in her twenties – is probably white from her tenor and inflection, and passably educated. She’s not half bad to listen to, either. Not sexed up, but mildly breathy and a touch personal. Then she stops and asks: “Hello?â€
“Yeah,†I repeat with stunning eloquence – a trait I’m known for. It occurs to me my forehead is still pressed into the carpet so I decide to roll onto my back, letting my butt fall from the bed to the floor with a thump. Now the blood is rushing from my legs to my head. Taking calls in the morning is proving to be a workout. I get back to the woman†“Come again?â€
“My name is Sharon. I’m calling to see if you’re still looking for girls?â€
My toddlers, having heard the massive crash of my buttocks upon the carpet, have realized I’m awake. There is a stampeding of little feet, a loud thump as someone’s head, probably Bat-Sheva, the younger of the two, hits the door, and then a cacophony of banging that would make the defenders of caste perilous cringe in fear. There are little voices demanding I show myself “Abba! Abba!â€
Girls? What is this woman talking about? I have plenty of women in my life. I’m outnumbered 3-1 in my house. I’d actually like a boy if we decide to go for number three, which we probably will. I’m struck with another spasm of linguistic mightiness: “Girls?â€
“Yes,†she said. “Girls. I saw your ad in the Seattle Weekly.â€
The banging of little fists and insistence of little voices dims as my brain suddenly brings this into focus: Advertisement... The Seattle Weekly… Girls. Son of a Motherless Goat! I start holding back a stream of expletives in a number of languages that are spring to mind. The Seattle Weekly, along with the Stranger, are the well-known bulletin boards of the area’s sex workers. The Village Voice owns The Weekly, incidentally.
I DO NOT need this: “What ad?!â€
“For the escorts,†she says, sounding a little perplexed. “I’ve been working for /name of agency/ for a while, but I’ve heard such good things about /name of agency/…†Her voice trails off. She’s starting to realize something is amiss.
“I didn’t place an ad.†I tell her.
“Your not painfully gender neutral name, are you?â€
I wonder if she can hear my kids banging and screaming away at the gate – demanding their father’s presence.
“No,†I tell her. “David.â€
There is a poignant pause. I can hear her breathing. There is a rustle of someone fussing with a paper. “This isn’t 206-XXX-XXXX.â€
I want to scream. The number IS my number, and she got it from an ad in the Seattle Weekly, and that means... OH NO NO NO NO NO NO NO! I am not a happy man. I have calls I have to take later week. Important calls dealing with embassies and agencies and people who don’t want me to find them people who will pay them for sex. Changing the number at this juncture is not an option. Sending everything to voicemail and screening it is not convenient. I grunt at her with more vehemence than she probably deserves: “That’s my number, alright.â€
I’m about to ask if it was a general business line, or just one for “applicants†when the line goes dead. She hung up. Crap!
I tell myself that the Weekly comes out on Fridays. It can’t be a general number. It just can’t, can it? My phone would have been ringing off the hook, wouldn’t it? Right. I really want to believe. Really, I do. But then, I always turn the phone off for Shabbat, and my wife didn’t turn it back on until before we went to bed last night (sometimes we forget about it)… Crap!
I give up and go take that shower, boiling dead skin off in the process
II. The Voice Mail
I’m almost tolerable after my first cup of coffee. I’m dressed, sitting at the table, looking at a bowl of white rice in steaming turkey broth, salted and peppered to taste. My children are done jumping up and down and dancing around in circles because I have emerged from my cave and given them the ritual grumpy greeting, which consists of an affectionate series of grunts and a mussing of their hair. I’m musing on whether it would pay to have my voicemail message include instructions for all the would-be-up-and-coming-sex-workers who now have a direct line to my home.
I decide that would constitute aiding and abetting. Not in a legal sense so much, but in a moral one. I tend to reserve judgment on what consenting adults do – that’s between them and G-d – but I don’t have to participate or render cheerful assistance.
My wife brings me the phone and refills my coffee saying there are messages. For some reason I’m the one who checks the messages. It is, inexplicably, MY JOB. I don’t think she’s ever checked them since we got married. She never checked them before we got married, either. I’ve asked her about it. The answers are always noncommittal enough to do a politician proud. It’s just her phone policy. She also pampers the hell out of me. I’m not going to complain about a few idiosyncratic behaviors. Lord knows I’m full of them.
I look at the display on the phone. I have messages. Normally, even after several days, I’d only have one or two. I’m feeling perky today, I mean, I didn’t even make it out of the shower until 10:30 and I’m now onto my second cup of coffee. There’s a real sense of urgency in my life these days, hug? Oh well, I might as well get it over with. I hit the speed dial for my voicemail and enter my pin.
YOU HAVE 12 NEW MESSAGES, TO LISTEN TO YOUR UNHEARD MESSAGES PRESS 1, TO…
Beep!
FIRST MESSAGE
“Hey painfully gender neutral name, its me, desiree, I wanted to ask about working for you. Could you call me back, 425-XXX-XXXX.â€
END
I wonder – as I delete erase button – what this person with the painfully gender neutral name, is looking for in her prospective candidates I mean, what does a resume for people in this line of work look like? Is it like a parachute instructors gig, where each jump and potential variation is tallied? Do you put your age, height-weight, and measurements, in the cover letter? I’m not too impressed with the woman who’s message I just erased, however. She had a scratchy smokers voice and sounded like she was gifted with considerable mass.
NEXT MESSAGE
"Uh, whoa, can you call me back right away. 206-XXX-XXXX."
END
No, I cannot call you back right away. I do not know who you are, why you have called, or who you are calling for. I do not recognize your voice and I am not inclined to call anyone back who sounds utterly and completely stoned out of their mind. What's more, I suspect based on a vast array of factors, that you are calling for painfully gender neutral name, anyways. I suspect painfully gender neutral name isn't going to be terribly interested in returning your call, either. Don't ask me why. Is just the verve I'm getting. I delete the message.
NEXT MESSAGE
"You fucking sexy whooooore! Yeah, bitch, I want to lick you..."
It drones on and on and on.
END
Its times like this I wish my voicemail would let me skip to the end of a message, or erase it, while its still playing. QWest must die a painful and horrible death. Oh, well. I'm only going to have this phone for another month. I wonder if painfully gender neutral name gets a lot of this. I'm thinking deep thoughts today, aren't I? I delete the message.
NEXT MESSAGE
"Shalom. This message is for Yael. It’s Boaz from the Jewish Agency. I'm calling to confirm our meeting in downtown Seattle at the JC tomorrow. I'll be flying up tonight. My number is 415-XXX-XXXX. I hope you had a good Shabbat. Shalom, shalom."
END
Man that guy's accent is thick. And he mutters. I tell my wife the sheliach from the Jewish Agency called to confirm our meeting. I would to, he's flying up from San Fran just to finish our immigration paperwork. She wants the phone now. I tell her to wait till I'm done. She already has the number, but I save the message. I get a nostril flare. She’s impatient. What am I thinking? Of course she’s impatient. She’s Israeli.
NEXT MESSAGE
"Hello painfully gender neutral name, my name is James, and I'd like to tell you about our exciting new adult advertising website, "www.somewebsit.... Text advertising rates start at $50 for..."
James has quite a shpiel.
END
I'm really wanting to find a suitcase nuke and smuggle it into QWest's call center at this point. And I'm sad. Even sexual workers get telemarketing calls? It must make it hard to take a walk on the wild side when sales people are calling you in the middle of your escapades. I wonder if the heads of the five families get interrupted at dinner by these bozos? I delete the message.
NEXT MESSAGE
"Oh, hi, like, I'm calling painfully gender neutral name. I have the right number, right? So, anyways, my name is Elizabeth /last name/, and I've been thinking about going pro for a couple of years, but you know, I'm pretty nervous about it, because I don't have a lot of experience, and my family is catholic, and I was wondering about a couple of things. See, I've been interested in wild sex since I was like a junior in high school. You see, I had this student teacher in my gym class who was really good looking, and anyways, we started making out at his apartment after school, and he had all of these crazy toys and lotions and restraints and things, and he'd bring his friends over. I was a bit intimidated at first and it freaked me out, but now, looking back on it, I can see that I really liked it, and I used to wonder about looking him up, but I wouldn't want him to think I was stalking him, and maybe he has another girlfriend now, and I was wondering how many guys your girls see in a day, and - " Beep!
END
Oyveh! What a motor mouth. Could she have saved the biography up for an A&E special instead of my voicemail? I guess leaving a message about going pro and taking a walk into the vice ridden dens of iniquity that are eating away at the soft underbelly of our fine city would be enough to make anyone nervous. Maybe painfully gender neutral name gets a lot of calls from people who are nervously chatty. I've been told I have the patience of Job, but frankly, Job's patience is wearing a bit thin today. I don't like it when people I know blather at me nonstop on my voicemail or on the phone. Its nothing one of her principle duties in her would-be profession wouldn't eliminate, but for me its a mood breaker, and I think it might be for a lot of painfully gender neutral name's clients, too. I'm guessing I'll be hearing more from dear Liz. In her case less is more. I delete her message.
I wonder if painfully gender neutral name knows Karen. I hope so, otherwise, it’s a weird way to make a good impression on a prospective employer. She sounded rude. One of those my-phone-company-charges-by-the-word types. I wonder what you wear to and interview for this kind of work? Do you go casual, but sexy? A moneyed look? Summer fun clothes? Sex me up clothes? A cheerleader's outfit? Streetwalker wear? Businesswoman by Georgio? Just your skivvies? Three inch pumps? A Josephine wig? Do you bring your working gear in an oversized purse? Its more than I can handle before my third cup of coffee. I delete it.
NEXT MESSAGE
"..."
END
Moving right along. I delete it.
NEXT MESSAGE
"I want you to be my whooooore ho! I want to f--- you up the a-- you f------ puta! I..."
He drones on and on and on.
END
Its the same guy as before. I don't think he read the advert. It was looking for "whores" from the sounds of the calls I've gotten so far, not people who were looking for "whores." I haven't even read the ad and I've figured that much out. I'm sure, however, that if you are interested in the work, that painfully gender neutral name would be happy to arrange to have all those things done to you. Call it a variation on the golden rule. What an insufferable jerk. I delete his message.
NEXT MESSAGE
"Uh... painfully gender neutral name, it's Elizabeth, you know, Elizabeth /last name/ from earlier, sorry about that, I guess I talked too long on the last message, but I was, um, wondering about the job? I have some serious kink and wanted to know how many of your clients were into that sort of stuff, I mean its kind of personal, but I really like having sex with lots of guys. I mean with lots of guys at one time. Are your clients like into that - you know: 2 or 3 guys seeing me at one time. I'd be totally down with it - are there, like, group rates for that kind of thing? I'm totally into pee-scenes, too. Would that be okay with some of them, do you think? I mean, I know escorts do all kinds of crazy stuff, but I wouldn't want to gross anyone out. You're website is really cool and all, but it doesn't cover some of this stuff. I mean, if you’re not okay with the weird stuff that’s cool. I can do vanilla stuff, but I've got some way out there fantasies. I should probably give you my number before I get cut off again. 206-XXX-XXXX. I should be home all afternoon, but I may run out later, but I'd be..."
END
The only person grossed out at this point is me. have a few hard rules in this department. No animals, no men, no minors, no married women, no urine, no blood, no feces, no permanent marks. My antecedents and descendents are also out. I have no siblings. This is far more than I, and probably painfully gender neutral name, wanted to know. I wonder vaguely if Liz realizes that the men who pay escorts are paying to fulfill THEIR fantasies. Oh, well. At least the message ran out before she started giving me her battle vectors for the next 24 freaking hours. DELETE!
NEXT MESSAGE
"Hello, my name is painfully gender neutral name. I'm calling because I think I owe you an apology. Your number was placed in an ad my company ran and I'm afraid you've been getting some calls intended for me. I really am terribly sorry. I hope I haven't caused you too much inconvenience. I've already called the paper and seen to it that the ad will be correct next week. My number is 206-XXX-XXXX."
END
I hit 8 to call the caller. This woman has an incredible voice. Smooth, cultured, and intimate. In her middle thirties or early forties I'd guess. It a good voice for the job she seems to do – I assume she’s the madame/phone contact for an escort agency. I note there is a one digit variance in our numbers. Whatever, I just want to ask that question I was going to ask my morning caller.
III. Painfully Gender Neutral Name
Ring!
Ring!
"Hello, this is painfully gender neutral name. May I ask who's calling?"
I'm still impressed by that voice. I could probably let her drone on at me forever and be happy about it – unlike Liz. "My name is David. You left a message about a little mix up we seem to have had."
"Oh, yes! I am so sorry, David. I'm really very embarrassed. This isn't at all acceptable. I hope you aren't offended. I assure you the next edition - it comes out on Friday - won't have your number in the ad. I called last night and was very emphatic about it. I hope you haven't gotten too many calls..."
It occurs to me she’s hoping I have information to pass on to her. "A few. Nothing too dramatic. I wanted to ask a question though."
There is a pause: "Oh?"
"Was this ad just for prospective employees or was it your regular business line?"
"Oh! I see. It was just for the help wanted ad as it were. I have another line for our customers to call. Its on our website and in our ad. If it had been our regular ad you would have had more than a few. We're the best in Seattle. That's why I'm expanding. We can't meet the demand."
Too much information for me, thanks. "It sounds like your industry didn't go into recession with the rest of us."
"Not really – some things are essential services. Some of the indies have been giving reduced rates to their regulars, but we haven't had to."
"I've just been erasing my voicemail. I hope that's okay." Its not really a question, and while I'm being polite, I think we both know I don't really care if its okay or not.
"Well," she says. You aren't an answering service."
We laugh. I don't know why. Maybe the whole situation is absurd.
"May I ask you a question, David?" She asks. She keeps putting an emphasis on my name, like it’s all spiffy to say and making her warm, or something. Somehow I doubt it.
"Sure."
"May I ask what you are going to do?"
Ah, there it is. The kicker. What am I - the unknown quantity and potentially upright-law-abiding-morally-outraged-citizen confronted with rampant sexual outlawry going to do?
"Keep erasing the messages until Friday."
"You aren't going to call the police?"
A fat lot of good that would do me, my dear - presuming I wanted to call them at all. This is Seattle of all places. One of the counter-culture centers of the universe. SPD has, get this, 12 vice detectives. 12. That's for a city of a million people. They have 18 homicide detectives - and one of the lowest homicide rates on a per capita basis in terms of metropolitan areas in the country. 12 isn’t an enforcement group. Its a management group. Call girl busts are so rare in Seattle that they actually make the worthwhile news stories in mainstream papers.
They don't want to eradicate prostitution in this town. They just want to keep it invisible. No streetwalkers, no brothels, no massage parlors. Just websites, ads in weeklies, and discreet in/outcall services. And that's the other thing. Who is the idiot who thinks the police don't know who all of the pros in town are. I mean, cops read the Seattle weekly and surf the web, too. Yeah, let me ring up Seattle vice right now - they'll just jump all over this!
I dont' say all of that, however. Instead I sound a little shocked: "In Seattle?"
"True enough," she seems to know what I'm thinking. "Normally we screen pretty carefully, but you seem nice, and I do feel really bad about this. Can we do anything by way of apology?"
A comp? I don’t think so. I've got my honey. "A generous offer, but no."
"Pity. Again I'm sorry. Caio."
"Caio."
I hang up and call my voicemail back.
LAST MESSAGE
“Yo, D. I wanted to know if you wanted to go get lunch or something. Its, uh, Ward. Call me.â€
END
At least one of the calls was for me. And yes, Ward, I recognized your voice. I've known you for fifteen years. Lunch sounds great. I hit 8.
I can see it on the Convention Horror Stories thread now:
I love going to cons dressed up! I have this chainmail bikini, it says its supposed to be a size 5, but with a few minor adjustments I find it can hold a woman 4 times that size! The only problem is when it the links grab onto my chest hairs--ouch! So anyway, I'm at the con in my chainmail bikini and my cat ears (meow!) and there's this guy following me everywhere! He won't tell me his name, only that he is "Mighty!" I mean, he's dressed like Barney Fife with a big clown nose and he's carrying this inflatable sheep. What a freak! Anyway, long story short...I wake and he's gone leaving nothing but a half deflated sheep, and I can't reach the key to the handcuffs. And the peanut butter is starting to itch! But the worst part is, he won't call me! Please, Mighty, call me! I need you...
D is 500. L is 50. You can google for any # in roman numerals, just type "1999 in roman numerals" (without the quotes) and the Almighty Google will bestow its wisdom upon you.
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