Guest Post by Marika Christian
Confessions of a Phone Kitten
By Marika Christian
Write what you know. That’s what everyone says, and I decided that’s exactly what I had to do. When I wrote my book Phone Kitten, I worked on a phone sex line, all in the name of research–and a paycheck. One of the calls that make an appearance in Phone Kitten is an actual call I took–and one of the most interesting men I spoke to was Michael.
If you were to ask me what got Michael’s engine running, I would shrug and say, “I have no idea, but he sure likes Peter Frampton.”
With Michael it was all Frampton, all the time. He worshipped the man. Me? Not so much. I missed out on the Frampton era, and if pressed I could name one single and was vaguely aware of a pretty boy album cover that made me believe he was a teen idol (and not an amazing guitarist.) Michael’s goal was to dispel all my silly Frampton notions. He educated me on all things Peter, and boy was he a talker! It wasn’t unusual for Michael to talk for forty or fifty minutes a time, and while I would roll my eyes, getting “Framptonized” could run up to eighty or a hundred dollars. To that I said, “Yes, please.”
With most of my more “unusual” callers, I made it a game to figure out exactly what happened to make them hot for their particular fantasy. With Michael it was easy. I knew what had happened. Everyone in his life had already told him, “Enough with the Frampton!”
Michael called a lot, so much so I started to look for things to send him off his rails, just to liven things up, because trust me, endless chatter about Mr. Frampton’s utilization of the talk box can be mind-numbingly boring. At first I tried talking dirty, urging him to participate in a little self-recreation. Michael just talked over me. You see, Michael never indulged in, shall we say, “pleasure” while we talked. It really was all about continuing my Frampton Education.
I did a little research. I told Michael I googled Peter Frampton and I thought he looked like Leif Garrett. He went through the roof and did his best to explain why that was not the case. I remained unconvinced. I confused his songs with David Cassidy songs, guaranteeing a conversation on why Frampton was no bubblegum boy; Frampton was a rocker!
Finally, the opportunity of a lifetime: Frampton was going to be playing in my town! It was an outside concert venue in the middle of town, so I could grab a soda and sandwich at a café, dine al fresco, and listen to Peter do his thing, and that’s just what I did.
My next conversation was about Frampton’s music and was he ever delighted I went, although I had to mention that he was a little prune-ish.
As with all phone “friendships,” Michael eventually stopped calling. I like to think that he met a nice girl, settled down, and at night the two of them slow dance to “Baby, I love your way . . .”
As for me, should I ever appear on Jeopardy, “I’ll take Frampton for five hundred, Alex!”