Page 50 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

“I’d take off the blindfold so you can watch me while I take you apart one tiny piece at a time. I want you inside me, every inch of you. I want to hear you,” she says, a little breathless.

The way she’s talking today is driving me crazy, saying you and me—it’s overwhelming. Our normal is “Henry, stroke faster,” not “Henry, I want you inside me.”

I’m too close. I’ll come if I stroke, so I rub my thumb over my slick head.

“Babe, I’ve got you. Let me hear how good it feels. Can you smell the leather while I ride your cock?”

I can’t resist. I stroke, and she tells me how good I feel inside her.

I come and I come and I come.

The office I share with Julian in Hyde Park, a suburb of Chicago, is small but cool in an industrial warehouse and brick way. We rarely have clients here, as evidenced by Julian’s Xbox and my stereo. We wear what we want, and as long as our hefty workload gets done on time and is of quality, no one questions how we do it or comes to check up on us. Today, I’m in a pair of Levis and an old U2 shirt that Saoirse forbade me to wear in public, laptop balanced on my knees with my feet up on my desk and music as loud as it can go without noise complaints.

The song changes, and Julian cackles. “Why the holy bloody fuck is ‘Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy’ on your Spotify? This music is concerning, Henry.”

Julian is efficient and an excellent paralegal. He’s also a giant pain in my ass.

“It isn’t that funny.”

And yet he’s doubled over with laughter.

“Call her, Henry. Call her right this second and ask her to marry you. She’s perfect for you. She is the funniest person I’ve ever not met. Claim her before some other lucky bloke gets her.” He’s wiping his eyes, literally crying, he’s laughing so hard. “Give me your phone. I’ll call her.”

We both lunge for it at the same time. He wins.

“Good thing you don’t know the code.”

“You wish.” He rolls his eyes at me as he unlocks my phone on the first try. “Why can’t I find her? What is she under? Sugar monkey? Love panda? Heart emoji? Juicy peach and eggplant emojis? Oh, here we go, Kate Gordon.” He starts to press Call as I protest.

“No, no! No! That’s the crazy one you called the cops on after she slept on my porch in a sleeping bag, waiting for me to come home.”

“Why on earth do you still have her number?” he asks, shaking his head.

“So I don’t accidentally answer and it’s her,” I say. “Obviously.”

“Tell me how to find our Kait, or I’m going to text Ms. Gordon and tell her you miss her.”

“She’s under Kait. K-A-I-T.”

“I spelled that wrong. Ah, yes, here we go. Kaity Babes. Oh my god. Isn’t that sweet? Kaity Babes.” She used to be under “Sleep,” but she’s more than that to me now. I changed her name in time for Julian to torture me with it. He mumbles it under his breath a few times like it’s a tongue twister he’s having trouble wrapping his lips around. And he’s calling her. I’m watching the creation of a monster in real time. He’s a phone-number-having colossus capable of terrible destruction, and I’m at a loss for how to stop him.

“Hello, Kait? This is Henry’s phone calling, but as you may have noted by the dramatic improvement in accent, vocal sexiness, and overall attractiveness, this is not Henry.” He pauses, nodding. “Why, yes, this is Julian.”

He’s beaming. Kait must have that effect on all men. Any second now, he’s going to start fanning himself.

Julian taunts me, looking extremely pleased with himself as he intermittently ignores my irritation and mocks me, strolling around the office with my phone. He turns his back to me so he doesn’t have to see my repeated gestures to give it back while they chatter on endlessly. If I’m the slightest bit honest, I kind of love it. Having my favorite people like each other is a welcome change. Julian once got a bit tipsy and admitted he wouldn’t have pissed on my last girlfriend if she had burst into flames. Rather telling.

“Sure. Of course you can call me back on the office line.” He rattles off the number and hangs up. “Henry, you need to meet this girl, ASAP. She’s probably going to be the woman you marry, but let’s make sure she’s not a Russian bot or something first, m’kay?”

He says it as he hovers over the landline that sits on his desk, waiting for Kait to call back.

“I had a friend who met a girl on the internet, and they did the long-distance thing for a while, but it turned out she was actually not a girl at all. The catfish had long whiskers—she was almost fifty, and she was a man, so not a girl in any sense of the word, actually. But she—he—did love to shop with my friend’s money.”

“Was that entirely necessary, Julian?”

“Well, perhaps not,” he says, his accent getting plummier by the second. “But be that as it may, you should still meet Kait in person sooner than later. Wouldn’t you agree?”

I’m spared the rest of this conversation when the landline phones on our desks ring, but he grabs his before I can reach mine. “You didn’t have to call me right back. It’s not urgent. I’ve called to congratulate you on the modifications you have made to Henry’s Best of Britain Spotify playlist.” He nods to whatever she’s saying. “You know, we work together, side by side, me, his unflagging and entirely essential servant, always willing and eager to be of service, for five long and exhausting years, Kait. Five years worked to the bone, never a minute’s rest. No coffee or snack breaks.”