I’m on a public bus
in a hostel common room
in a café
when my phone rings; he’s video calling me. My heart rate increases, the beat staccato in my chest. I hastily slide my thumb up the screen, eager to see his massive hand wrapped around his cock, stroking it for my viewing pleasure. Sometimes I get wet at the thought of someone else catching a glimpse.
He puts a finger to his lips to demand silence before placing his phone against a wall and resuming his wank. He’s
at a friend’s house
in a locker room
in a department store changing room
and he’s achingly close. His long eyelashes flutter and his lips part. His body rumbles and quakes as semen charges, then oozes out of him. I ache to lick it off him.
I know this isn’t phone sex in the traditional sense, but technically we’re using our phones? Then how about this:
Two weeks ago, his mates were staying over at his for a night; they’d all gotten blasted, and he was walking home from the chippy when he gave me a ring. I started telling him all the things I couldn’t wait to do to him when I arrived in the UK. He kicked a friend out of his bed when he got home so he could have the room to himself. Lying in the dark, he whispered all the things I wanted to hear: He’d turn my cheeks to apples, pin my arms with his knees so he could stuff my mouth with his cock, continue licking me no matter how many times I urged him to stop so he could fuck me. It was a hot summer evening on my end; I, too, isolated myself in the cave of my room, hoping I was quiet enough when my body shuddered and I came all over my hands, the phone pressed tight between my shoulder and my ear, listening to his heavy breathing and whimpers.
We need this.
I’ve been with The Engineer for fifteen months – all of them long-distance. Phone sex, along with other lusty activities like sharing blog posts and sending dirty pictures, keeps us erotically charged and connected over the 4,000 miles that separate us. We keep our hearts linked as well – but as we’re both people whose hearts are tethered to our genitals, a transfer of sexual energy is a must.
When I hear his deep voice telling me that he’s touching himself, I often have to excuse myself so that I can do the same… or at least to whisper threats and promises.