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“Maybe you are. ”
“What are you wearing, rich girl?”
She exhales a laugh again. There’s this shift I can almost feel, a click on the line, digital signals rearranging themselves from one stream to another. What are you wearing? The phone-sex starter pistol firing, and I’m on the block, ready for it. Jeans unzipped. Hand outside my briefs, because I can’t go inside until I know she’s playing along. Not this time.
“I’ve got my pink silk shirt on. ” I can hear the shift in her voice, too. Saying yes.
I slip my hand inside my shorts.
“And that long, tight brown skirt,” she adds. “Brown boots. ”
“You have boots?”
“Sure. Every girl in America has boots. ”
A tight grip. A slow stroke. “You’ll have to wear them for me sometime. ”
“Why?”
“I like boots. ”
The strain. There’s nothing like it—so bad and so good. It’s in every muscle in my body.
“Oh. ” The sound is a sigh.
“Hey, rich girl?”
“Mmm-hmm?”
“Turn the volume off on the TV. ”
I wait, working up a rhythm. The background noise fades to nothing. I can hear her breathing.
“What do you think they get up to in that closet?” I ask her. “You know, when the camera cuts away?”
There’s a pause. “I never really thought about it. ”
“You wanna think about it now?”
“Maybe. ”
“Where’s your hands?”
“Mmm. I’m not sure I’m saying. ”
“Put one of them someplace interesting. ”
She sniffs, a kind of laugh, and I wait a few seconds to make sure she’s doing it. Then I say, quiet and low, “I think they started off kissing. ”
“Yeah. ”
“And the kissing got hot, and he pushed her back down onto the bench. ”
“I’m not sure there’s a bench. ”
“There’s a bench. It’s long and flat, with no back on it, so he can lay her down and kneel next to her and push her skirt up past her knees. ”
“It’s kind of long and tight, though. I don’t think he could push it up. ”
