How Many Licks?
So it just happened that I was sick of slobbering on my fingers nightly, feigning dick sucking noises at the same time my boyfriend had a quit smoking fail. “Here, take these,” he said, handing me two bags of Tootsie Pops. Who’s going to turn down a suggestion on dick sucking sound effects from a man, particular one who’s dick you suck on a regular basis. Not I. I hummed Lil’ Kim’s “How man licks” all the way back to my office.
Come to think of it, as a child I called lollipops, well “lollipops” but when I moved to the South the kids called them “suckers.” So, just as I mimicked their other colloquialisms, I called my lollies “suckers” and my mother smacked me across the face. She also smacked me across the face once when we walked by some kids smoking weed on a door stoop. Neither slap worked.
Equipped with my lollipops, I went to man the phones. The Tootsie Pops worked like a charm (but not a Charms pop, which I’d kill for. Green.) I had men all over the phones jerking and jizzing, saying I was the best little cum slut around. My call times when up, and I was happy, albeit my phone and myself both covered with sugary spit.
So I’m all proud of my new sound effects when scatological perv called wanting for me to poop .Good times. But first he wanted me to fart. Ok, who CAN’T make a fake fart sound? Apparently I can’t. I had major fart sound fail. I attempted to make a raspberry with my hand. Nothing. I played it off. “ooh baby that was silent but deadly.” Then I did as usual, and started dropping whatever was handy into my little bowl of water. No “plop, plop” instead it was “clink, clink.” I ruined two lighters, a tube of lipstick and an autographed Amy Sedaris pill case and the guy hung up.
Frustrated, I went back to my well-hung assistant telling him of my woes. “Oh, just use some wadded up toilet paper, next time.” He spent time in juvie and years on the road with a rock band, I didn’t question where he got this insider info. “Still baby, I apparently just can’t fart.” He looked at me like, “No, you fart all the fucking time.” (Side note: I once dated a guy for two years who never ever farted in front of me. Freaked me out. He’s dead now.) So my lover and sound guy licked his forearm and proceeded to teach me the fine art of feigning farts. I can’t remember if we had sex that night or not.
The next night I’m happy as a clam. I place amongst my other office supplies—vibrators and Sharpies, my lollies, two wet wads of toilet paper, a bowl of water, a pack of smokes, a few sodas and a handful of Advil.
Average night: the elderly bore who claims he fucked a Vivid girl bored me to tears for the 40th time, the methhead wants his diaper changed, and the lawyer wants to get pegged with a strap on.
“Hey baby, do you have any high heels?” I look across to my closet. Do I have high heels? I have an obscene amount of heels, including a pair of 7 inch black stilettos that even hobble I, the woman who wears pumps to the grocery store.
“You’ve called the right girl, baby.”
“Let me hear you walk in them.”
Oh shit. I look down. My entire apartment is carpeted, except for the kitchen and bathroom, adjacent to where my sound guy has the television cranked to 11.
“Um, my floor is carpeted.”
So now amongst my lollipops, toilet paper, and ready to fart on forearm is an old tabletop ready to be strutted upon.
