I'm Returning Your Call, Dickhead

I tapped out his number on my phone with one of my broken, jagged fingernails and waited for him to answer.

“Hello, Dickhead?”... “How’s it hanging?” I said this so cheerfully, I surprised myself.

“Oh yeah,” he began, and then continued without a pause, as if he were in the middle of a conversation already in progress.

“I’m hanging just fine, thanks!” he bragged, “And hanging OUT of these pants right now! They have no zipper in them because of this wild woman I was with today! She was SO HOT for me; she just couldn’t WAIT to get into them to pull my Johnson out! She just ripped them right apart! I couldn’t keep her hands off me!”

As he entertained himself voicing his delusions out loud, I was now staring at the receiver as if I had accidentally reached the insane asylum – on Jupiter. The pain from the last jaw bunji jump returned and snapped me back to consciousness. As I placed the receiver to my ear again, I could hear he was still rambling on...and on... and on.

He is sooo pathetic.

“It’s ME” I finally interrupted, “your ‘wild woman’ from today.” My eyeballs were

now rolling around in their sockets like two roulette wheels in Vegas. “Yes, that’s right! I hate to break in on your faithful account of my uncontrolled passions and unrestrained advances toward you, but your imaginary little friend is going to have to wait to hear the rest of the distorted crap until later. I’m returning your call – although for the life of me, I don’t know why. You left me a message. ”

I could feel it already - this chat tonight was going to be much like how our second date went earlier – to hell - and then downhill from there.

“Oh...oh...oh, yeah, sure!” He stammered. “I knew it was you calling just now! I was only messin’ with ya about the ‘wild woman’ story! Uh... uhh...uhmm... I’m sorry... what was your name again?”

“Yeah, that’s another thing!” I brought up. “The least you should be able to do is get my name straight. After all we’ve been through today, we could have ended up in the same jail cell, you know, and it would only be fair if YOU, the responsible party for that fucking fiasco, would remember to call me by my correct name – you haven’t even come CLOSE yet!”

“Your name is ‘Me’, right? Uh... short for Mia?” he queried.

He is sooo beyond pathetic.

I took it v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y. “My name is ‘Kay’. Like the eleventh letter in the alphabet.”

After hearing myself say this, and knowing full well there was a better than total chance he may not know how to count to eleven without taking one of his shoes and argyle knee socks off, I thought it better to take another approach to aid the clam cumsucking clairvoyant in remembering it.

"Just say to yourself: “H”, “I”, “J”, “K”... “Kay!” my voice was dripping with sarcasm, but judging from his no response; it had gone right over his little pointed head anyway - the ultimate ‘Ground control to Dickhead - come in Dickhead’ fly by. I know I made a bad judgment call in not hiring a linguistic expert right from the start to interpret and guide him with the enunciation of my tongue twisting name. But since the faux pas was over and done with, I decided to pony up, and deal with the consequences of my oversight. And, apparently, giddy up time was now.

I took in a deep breath; counted to three to myself just to delay the agony; then asked him why he called me.

“I called you for a very important reason” he announced to me, “VERY important! It was... It was... ahhh...Now; let me see... hmmm...oh! ... No, that wasn’t it... It was...ahhhhh...uhmmmm... Maybe it was...”

I watched my fingernails grow back in the time it took Recall Suave` to retrieve the vital information from his memory banks.

“Ohhhhh yeaaaaah – now I remember!” he proudly announced “I wanted to see if you would like to go to a hockey game with me next Thursday night! I need to know right away so I can get a sitter for the evening.”

“A sitter?!? A SITTER?!? You have a BABY?!?!?” I screamed into the phone. I couldn’t imagine anyone even fractionally lucid actually willing to breed with the acrid amoeba - not even someone under a voodoo spell, heavy sedation, and/or in a straight jacket. And someone deliberately planning to create a being even REMOTELY like him was perhaps the scariest thing that had ever terrorized my mind.

“What baby?” He shot back. “You’re having a baby?!? Wait a minute! I know we never did the grown up together! Uh...did we? Look, I wasn’t born tomorrow! You go right ahead and drag me into a paternity suit! Go for it! And I’ll make you have an XYZ test! That’s right! And then we’ll see who the parents REALLY are! BOTH of them!”

It’s sad to realize if Dickhead’s brain had a twin, it would still be very lonesome.

I was staring out of my front window now at the terrestrial formations in the sky; hoping I would get a logical explanation for that last outburst. You know, like from the institute he escaped from on his Mother planet, Jupiter. All I got in return were the stars twinkling – or winking - as if he were a celestial joke. Well, the solar system joke is on me, I guess. And with my luck, his planet isn’t searching for him anymore, either; She’s sticking ME with him. Its one giant step backward for mankind – One giant step forward into a black hole for Kay.

I walked back to my sofa and plopped down to get comfortable for what I knew was going to be a long, long, L-O-N-G discussion with the dickhead dweeb.

“Let’s take these questions one at a time, shall we, Stud Dud? First: I’m not pregnant - by you or any other subterranean life form. Two: YOU were the one that brought up the subject of needing a sitter, and Three: Where do you find the unmitigated gall to think I would, in the remainder of my dismal lifetime, ever go out with you again?”

He didn’t answer. I thought at first I had hurt his feelings, but upon second thought, he probably would think the name “Stud Dud” was a new candy for male strippers. Still – silence. I knew he hadn’t hung up; I could hear him breathing. It was... heavy breathing. Heavy breathing that became... short, gaspy breathing. Something I vaguely remember hearing some where else... somewhere ... where?... from the last movie I saw maybe?... with him?...Something... something like... Oh!... the porno movie! Something like...no, EXACTLY like!... the porno stars AND the self indulgent, meat grinding, pecker playing pervs in that theatre! AND... Dickhead himself!!!

THE LITTLE FUCK WAS WANKING OFF!!!

While I was on the phone with him; no fucking less!!! We hadn’t been into this polluted conversation for more than five minutes, and the Dickhead was already in a third party chat with his distorted dick! The jock itchy, shriveled up, soggy, deli barrel pickle dick! ULCH!!!

I started to count in my head again, but reaching a number so great as to stave off my disgust was going to take me well into the next century, so I decided to give him the benefit of the desperate-to-be- dead- wrong- doubt. Maybe the reason for his quickened breathing was that he was having a panic attack and was breathing into a paper bag. Or that he was a Lamaze instructor and was practicing his career at home. Or that maybe he was pumping iron with the phone on speaker mode. Or???? I knew all these alternatives were far fetched, but this is Dickhead we’re talking about here – far fetched is the lewd dude’s middle name. And it’s fast becoming mine, too. Unfortunately, desperate and far fetched thoughts were being beaten out by the “smut-by-phone” reality, so I sucked in one more deep breath for what I knew was the real deal on the other end of the line, and threw out my newest approach.

I played stupid.

I cleared my throat, and with the sweetest; most innocent voice I could muster up; so sweet it would put a diabetic into a coma; I naively asked,

“Watcha doin’?”

I thought the question would take him completely off guard, but he never faltered in his rapid breathing reply.

“I’m talking to you, Fay, and I’m SURE doin’! Ohhh YEAH! Am I EVER doin’, Renee!” A devilish little chuckle emitted from the drooling lips of The Groin Master. Then he said it. The #1 most common and crass lead into sex- by- phone that ever was spoken:

“What are you wearing right now?”

I almost went off on him again about the multiple wrong {again!} names and would have hung up the phone on the wanking worm, but I suddenly got an overwhelming feeling of pity for the slimy soul. Here he was; all hot and horny and turned on by just the sound of my voice on the other end of Ma Bell’s little boy Al’s invention. And that, in this day and age, the phone was not solely meant for idle chit-chat - it was meant for - in Dickhead’s case at least - unbridled tit chat. And knowing he really couldn’t do anything else in his jock cock- shock condition, and that this was the only way he could release the Kracken and get off, I decided at that moment to be a good, sultry Samaritan and...

HAVE PHONE SEX WITH THE DICKHEAD!

I felt I could really do this; provided I distanced myself from picturing in my mind what abusive things he was doing to his sick dick as I turned him on with my words. Oh! That’s right! I would have to use words, wouldn’t I? Well, that should be relatively easy – Dickhead didn’t need much verbal prompting; that’s for sure! Actually, he didn’t need much prompting at all! Hell, this should be a piece of cake - pretending to be giving him a piece of me! Bring him on! Turn him on! YOU GO, KAY!!!

Now, the stark reality of it all drove home the fact that I was sitting on the sofa in sweats and slipper socks; my hair up in a pony tail and my make-up all removed {with the help of his dog earlier on in the day}, but I couldn’t burst his proverbial perverted bubble, so I cleared my throat once again, and this time, I heard my new, “come-fuck-me” voice say...

“I’m wearing my birthday suit – and very little else.”

I knew it wasn’t the sexiest of lines, but the asshole on the other end was so engrossed in the gross of his fungus- among- us- cock, that I knew he wouldn’t dare be a critic at this moment of dick desperation.

“Ohhhhhh, darrrrrlin’!” he crooned in response.

Then, I heard some shuffling, and his voice; all husky and musky; whisper, “I’m going to put some soft music on to set the mood.”

It was a 1970’s cut; “Disco Dancing the Night Away”

He is soooo, very beyond pathetic.

I suppressed my uncontrollable fit of laughter burying my face into a throw pillow, and then, when composed and with confidence renewed, I resumed my telephone tease with ease.

I started my gooey deed for the day. “Yeah, that’s it, baby. Give me what I want – and what you need. Mmmmmm... Oooooo...” {I really need to get these nails filed down. Now where is my emery board?}

His groaning reminded me of when you first wake up in the morning and stretch. Well, I knew what HE was stretching! So I stretched MYSELF out on my sofa; cradled the receiver between my shoulder and chin, and then murmured my next cock wrestling remark as I began filing my nails smooth.

I began to close in on my vulgar victim with, “You don’t mind, “D” if I join you, do you? I mean, if you’re going to have your hot meat out to play with, I would like to slide my one piece of clothing off, too – my little black satin thongs – and...”

I didn’t know where I was going with this, but he actually saved me the anguish of clawing at thin air for an idea, and between groans interjected with...

“Ohhh!!! Ohhhh!!! Take them off, baby! You KNOW what I like!” {I really didn’t know; nor gave a shit.} “Now, let Big Daddy hear you beg for his cock! Come on, baby – don’t be shy!”

Well now! We have just discovered another waaaaaay –out- there-in-the- Twilight- Zone definition to the words “far fetched” haven’t we? I was now re-polishing my nails in the grip of my {rude} awakening desire for the sordid sex icon.

“Oh, please, Big Daddy! PLEASE let me have it! I WANT IT! I NEED IT! PLEEEEEEASE! I’m BEGGING YOU!” I cried into the receiver; Academy Award winner style. {What I WANTED was a Q-tip to remove the polish that ran over my cuticles; what I NEEDED was a stiff drink to numb my ass and help me forget the entire hellacious day, and what I was BEGGING him for was to get this fuckfest-by-phone finished – I had to pee so bad my teeth were floating after all the excitement.}

I was blowing on my nails to get them dry and inadvertently blew into the receiver. Dickhead thought I was blowing in his ear, and the misnomer put him right on the erotic and psychotic edge.

THE DICKHEAD WAS GOING TO GO FOR IT!!!

“I’m almost there...almost there... so close...”came the Dickhead’s sexual directional signal.

“Ohhhhh, BIG DADEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!! LET KITTY KAY HAVE IT!!! BRING IT ALL HOME TO YOUR SEX KITTEN!!!”...

Well, I didn’t think I had it in me. To be honest; I didn’t have it ALL in me. I gave that last outcry from the bathroom as I was peeing a lake. But the echo of my “screams of ecstasy” against the tiled room made for one helluva climax {pardon the pun} to the conversation.

He was panting from the wanking workout, but he still managed to eek out something to the effect that “That was incredible!” and “We’ll have to do this again real soon – like, maybe tomorrow night?” and a few other equally out of left field remarks.

But the biggest score; the all- bases- loaded; two- strikes –out- of –the- way; bottom- of –the- ninth; the-winning- home runs -driven- in- by- the- first- year- rookie- that –has- now- won- the- series- for his- team - came within the next few moments when...

As visions of diseased baby gherkins danced through my head, I caught the sounds of faint moaning. And groaning. And... whimpering? But... It wasn’t Dickhead’s voice I was hearing now. It sounded like another animal. I risked breaking up the raunchy post game romance he was having with his groin, and cautiously asked him who – or what – was sniveling in the background.

Through his grunting, he managed to tell me that Slobber wasn’t feeling too well. Apparently, the almost; but not- quite canine downed a house cactus for a snack while we were being interrogated by the police at the amusement park, and his stomach was now voicing its displeasure. It seems he had dined like this before whenever he was alone for long periods of time. Dickhead said he had meds from the vet to give to the dog; which already were keeping company with the cactus needles in Slobber’s stomach. That’s why he decided tonight was the last straw; rather; last cactus, and that he needed to have a sitter to watch Slobber – and his houseplants - anytime he was going to be out.

“Now, both animals must be suffering together” I thought to myself “Slobber with his cactus cramps, and Dickhead with jock itch jack off.”

My mental medical diagnosis for the two was interrupted by Horny Himself saying,

“Hang on a sec, uh... now, let me see if I can get this right...”H”, “I”, “J”, “Kay”! Hey, I got it right, right? It’s time for another dose of the medicine the vet gave me. And I also have to get his ear mite drops. After the last time I used them, I put them somewhere in the medicine cabinet with my old roommate’s jock itch treatments. Boy! That guy sure had a BIG problem with that! I can’t imagine how he has lived without them these last few days since he moved out! He’s gotta be back for them real soon, or else his dick might croak for good!” Be right back”

The MEDICINE CABINET... JOCK ITCH...NOT THE DICKHEAD’S GREEN PICKLE...GAVE HIM PHONE SEX FOR NO GOOD REASON...

WHO IS THE DICKHEAD NOW, KAY???

I almost bit the tip of my tongue off, but it was way too late for that now. It was laying somewhere on Dickhead’s living room floor since this morning when I watched him get dressed.

As I staggered from the bathroom in a stupor back to my sofa to collapse from the shock of this new revelation, I heard faintly the voice of Dickhead speaking very gently, and consoling his cactus munching canine on the other end of the phone. He was soothing the poor creature, and, much like the Grinch that found out he actually DID have a heart after all; I found a human side {did I actually say HUMAN side?} to the Dickhead. No, he was not a bi-product from Jupiter, I suppose. But I still wouldn’t go so far as to say he was a normal delivery; more like spontaneous combustion from the intestines of Mother Earth would be more like it. Yet, he did have a “rough and tough cream puff” side to him. Maybe there was hope for this relationship after all; however dental floss thin it was.

“Sooo, KAY, are we on for the hockey game next Thursday? See? I’m getting better at remembering your name! Oh, and thanks for calling me ‘D’ before! I kinda like the idea that your name is “H”, “I”, “J”, “K” – ‘Kay’ and you must like to remember mine as “A”, “B”, “C”, “D” – “D” – short for ‘Dave’! That’s really cool! I like that! I really do!”

“Oh, oh yeah, right – ‘D’ for ‘Dave’ - that’s right! You like the way I did that?” I lied.

“Ohhhhhhhh, yeah! Almost as much as I like the way you come on to me and keep coming on until you get to have your way with me!” he jubilantly blurted.

He is soooo very beyond; soooo very totally pathetic.

I took in a deep breath and counted to three to myself for the last time that night, and confirmed that I would be going with him to the hockey game the following Thursday.

“That’s terrific! I’ll pick you up around six then” came the elated reply.

“Ummm, did you say you’ll pick me up in YOUR car? Unless you have traded in that sorry slab of rusty, dusty metal on four slivers of rubber that you jokingly refer to as ‘tires’, I will be more than happy to use my car, and pick you up instead.”

“Ok, Kay! You can pick up your ‘Main Man’ in your car, then!” he announced very proudly.

This relationship was going to take a lot of work. A LOT of work.

“Alright, then; six o’clock on Thursday it will be, ‘D’” I confirmed.

I thought I would give Dickhead another {pointed} head rush in my use of the term “D” once more before hanging up. I’m that kind of phone sex diva.

Because we ALL know – with the exception of Dickhead himself – what name that “D” really stands for when I say it – and it’s sure as hell not “Dave”...