The music ended and I came on air and made a short announcement. My philosophy was that we did not have personality announcers, but a smooth flow of music and if our listeners noticed the voice had changed, that was fine. But it was the music that kept them listening.
When I flipped the mic off someone knocked at the door and I got up to answer it. To my surprise it was Patrick with a plate of cake.
“Kimberly told me to bring this to you.”
“Great. Want to come in?”
“Sure.” He came in and looked around. “So how does all this work?”
I gave him my usual semitechnical explanation and offered him a seat. “Stay while I talk on air, if you like. Try not to sneeze.”
“I won’t.”
“You’d be surprised how many visitors have a coughing fit.” I took a quick bite of cake and put my headphones on.
This time I talked a little longer, giving a weather update and mentioning the music that would be coming up later, aware that I issued an invitation to Mr. D. This is when I can talk.
Then I hit the play button for the CD, faded the mic down and switched it off and removed my headphones.
“Do you get nervous?” Patrick asked.
“No. Some announcers imagine they’re talking to one person, or their pet. I don’t. If you think about how many people might be listening it’s unreal, intimidating. So I just talk.”
“And you like being here late at night?”
Well, yes. “I’m not always here late. I can put a show together by downloading music and recording the announcements, and that’s what I usually do if I want an early night. An intern comes in to make sure everything is okay and can step in to broadcast from the other studio if something goes wrong. But generally I work live.” I forked more cake into my mouth. “Thanks for bringing me this.”
“No problem.” He cleared his throat in the way men do when they are about to get personal. “Kimberly seems nice.”
“She is.”
“You’ve been friends for quite a while, she said.”
He was asking for a character reference, in other words. I thought I’d move things along a bit for him. “She’d probably appreciate a ride home, if you’re driving, that is.”
“Good to know.” He nodded in an emphatic sort of way. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Unless you’d like more cake?”
I told him I was fine and he left me to the quiet of the studio. Now and again a group of visitors came by, and I put my headphones on and looked properly busy at the console even if I wasn’t at that moment.
I was watching the clock. I was waiting for the moment when everyone left and my time with Mr. D. began.
“I’m worried I’m turning into some sort of fuck-bunny monster,” I said to Mr. D. before he’d barely had a chance to say hello. “It’s as though every guy I see, I’m eying up as a possible sexual partner.”
“Everyone?” I could tell he was trying not to laugh.
“Well, not everyone. Not Gerard Morgan. He’s one of our major supporters and I think he’s about eighty. I’d probably get his wife, Marilyn, as part of the deal, too—she keeps him on a short leash. On the other hand she’s a nubile seventy-five-year-old. They’re both pretty frisky, now that I think about it. I’m talking myself into it. See what you’ve done?”
“I’m not sure people aren’t eyeing each other up as sexual partners most of the time. Perhaps you’re being more honest than most of us.”
“I accepted a date tonight with someone I think is despicable.”
“Why?”
“My friend Kimberly—I’ve talked about her—persuaded me it would be a good idea, and she’s cultivating him for a gift to the station. She thinks I don’t date the right men.”
“I think she’s right.”
I twisted the phone cord. “And I accepted so that I could fuck him and then tell you about it. No, I know what you’re going to say. It’s my decision and all that. I don’t have to fuck him and we can talk about something else. I know. So why am I doing this?”
A silence. “There must be something you like about him.”
“He’s physically attractive. Not my type, but he’s handsome. And there’s something about him—he’s crude and materialistic but he doesn’t pretend to be anything else and I admire him for it. No, the real reason I find him attractive, Mr. D., is that I want to have sex with him and then tell you about it.”
“And this makes you feel—what? Guilty, sad?”
“Are you a shrink in real life?” I grinned. “No, it makes me feel excited. It makes me feel powerful and sexy, and I like that. But at the same time, it worries me.”
“I don’t ever want you to feel obligated to me. I love to talk with you. We can talk about whatever you like. You don’t have to describe your conquests to me unless you want to.”
“But I do want to.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do. How long do we have?”
“About fifteen minutes.”
“I’d like to have you talk on air seconds before you come. I’d like to hear that roughness in your voice and know you’re speaking to me, something you and I share. Will you do that for me, Jo?”
I hesitated. My next recording was cued, and the notes I’d use to make my next announcement lay ready on the console. I could do it, but what would his next demand be? “If I do that, will you ask me to come on air next?”
“No. That moment is for me. I don’t want to share that with anyone.”
I squeezed my legs together. I was alone in the station—I’d made sure of that—but I wondered if he’d delayed calling so he could specifically ask me to do this. In which case, I’d put him on the spot, too.
“Unzip yourself,” I said. I put the phone on speaker and heard a rustle, the slide of his zipper. “Are you hard?”
He gave a soft, sexy laugh. “What do you think?”
“Describe your cock for me.”
It was something of a test. I didn’t want bullshit about his hard eight inches because in my experience eight inches, or more, was something that existed only in men’s imaginations.
Besides, who wanted a dick the size of a baseball bat pummeling their insides?
“It’s hard—I mean, hard in the sense of difficult—to describe something I’ve seen so many times. It has a slight curve to the right—I suppose because I’m right-handed. My pubic hair is dark brown with a few gray hairs, quite tightly curled. My cock is brown, darker than my skin, but the head is dark red. It’s very smooth. I’m running my fingertips up and down the ridge on the underside. Teasing myself.”
“Go on.” I traced my fingers lightly over my breasts. My nipples tightened.
“Now I’m cupping my balls with my other hand. They’re warm and heavy. Tightening against my palm.”
I listened to his labored breathing, the sound of his excitement.
“Jo? I’m touching the head of my cock with my thumb and forefinger, squeezing it. There’s some seepage, now.”
I traced the outline of my nipples and spread my legs. I’d worn a skirt for the party and beneath it my cunt felt full and heavy. “Tell me more. Tell me what your cock looks like now.”
“Darker.