Writing About Cock.

So…

Many years ago now, finding myself completely unemployable, i put on my thinking cap (it’s blue, pointy and features many lovely badges) and tried to sniff out some opportunities for myself.

I tried to ingratiate myself into many a position; clown, circus performer, circus tent, stripper courier, professional bastard (overqualified), chimney, baby sitter, baby stander, igloo cleaner and Prime Minister of Woolongong.

Nothing. No one wanted me. I was despondent. I tried to kill myself by sticking my head in the oven. Unfortunately, it was a microwave oven and after two minutes the beeper went off and i was done.

It was then that i blundered across an article in my local street press looking for writers.

“Writers!?!” I thought, “I have a pen! Somewhere! I’ve written many things on toilet walls! I can write!”

The ad went on to say that it was for a phone sex line and writers of phone sex stories were desperately needed!

“Phone sex line!?! Stories!?!” I thought, “I have a phone! I’ve had sex! I’m familiar with the concept of a ‘line’! I’m constantly making up stories so they don’t cut off my dole! I’ll do it!”

E-mails were sent back and forth until eventually i was informed that they had all the stories they needed for their heterosexual, lesbian, fetish and bondage sections, but were sorely lacking in the gay sex story department. Embellishing my resume somewhat, i informed them that all i ever wrote about was cock and that if i ever wrote anything, including letters to my mother, they always included at least one graphically shocking homosexual sex scene.

Suitably bamboozled, they gave me the go ahead and i got to work.

I endeavoured to write the greatest, most thrilling phone sex stories of all time. I decided that not only would i tickle the undercarriage of callers, but also their minds, their lives, and yes… maybe even their hearts. My stories were epic yarns, six minutes (when read) of pathos, humour, raw emotion and a lot of cock play. I laboured, sweated over these fables, worked myself into a lather(not literally) and when i sent them off i felt vindicated that i had changed the face of sex forever.

It’s good to be humble when mailing something off, you know?

Time passed. Time passed some more. I watched tv. Time passed, went round the block, passed again and waved hello. Nothing. Not a thing. I heard no confirmation of the stories even having been received. I paced. I paced a lot. I re-read what i had written…

I hadn’t been back in the country for very long and the familiar sights and smells that greeted me on my return were beginning to make me think I had never left. My enforced expedition of discovery had left me empty and the adventures and life changing experiences I had thought I would find had not presented themselves.”

It ended with the line,

I suppressed my raging cock and walked out across the park.”

Pure poetry.

I felt like the Steinbeck of porn. The Kundera of crass. The Enid Blyton of erotica. And then, when all hope had been lost… the reply came.

“Dear Mr Adams,” it began. They had spelled my name right. It was a good sign. “You write very well.” Bulk ace. I was in. I was sure of it. “But could you get to the fucking quicker please!”

Now, i’m paraphrasing there, but that was generally the drift, okay? They hated all the bits i loved! The pathos! The grit! The humanity! The Enid Blyton of Erotica! They sent me a brief example of what they wanted and it basically involved a man walking into a room stating “I HAVE A COCK!” and another guy replying, “ME TOO!” and then them fucking.

I was aghast. AGHAST I TELL YOU!

They told me they liked my sex scenes and wanted more of them but if i could also include some scenes of fisting and scatting it would be much appreciated. How forgetful of me. However did they slip my mind?

Disheartened, i went back to work.

And i tried.

I really did. One story went like this,

“Clint walked into the lounge room where he saw Rod naked. Rod had a penis. So did Clint. Oh, did i mention that they were both a bit randy for it?

“I very much enjoy sex with men.’ hinted Rod.

‘Me too. Let’s fornicate!’ suggested Clint.

And then they formicated after which ppoint they felt quite satisfied as they were both men and liked that sort of thing.

The End.”

It was hopeless. I stopped short of writing to my erstwhile employer and saying,

“I know that they’re both a tad hungry for cock, but what are my characters real motivation? What are they running from that they have to hide in situatuions of meaningless sex? Are they really men? Couldn’t they be aliens? Manifestations of childhood repression? Couldn’t we set them in the mind of an orphaned dolphin? Would talking furniture distract from the real essence of the story? What about instead of sex, they ate ice cream in a suggestive manner?”

I thought it might have made me look a little unprofessional and not quite as committed to writing about cock as i had first made out.

Thankfully, before i embarrassed myself further, another e-mail came from my employer asking for my banking details through which they could pay me. When i requested an address, they would only give me a PO Box. I persisted. They just wanted the details. I smelled a rat. A phone sex con job rat. Our relationship ended there.

I filed my stories away hoping that maybe someday they could be salvaged.

As of this writing, they have not been.

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