"SOP Txtbk" The message reads, from an unregistered, but familiar number. I scan the message with dismay.
But instead of sending a biting reply, I brush it off, hoping the caller would get tired of not getting any feedback, and just go away.
"SOP for 3sum via conference... Pwd k txtbk..." Another SMS from the same number a few days later.
The person who owns the digits is a remnant of past incursions. Boredom was to blame, and Hornet was my distraction. In ways, I had to entertain him as he would certainty pull me from doing the real thing. I had hots for the photo he sent and he was fine to talk with.
And still, I remember the guy - a bear, it seems. scruffy-looking and who speaks with a baritone voice. We had few sensible exchanges despite the agreement of being his phone sex buddy. We talked about my gym and for me, fitness merits for a decent conversation.
When in play, he is the kind of creature who gets turned on by cussing. His perversion includes fantasies of snorting his cousin's underwear and threesomes with a stranger. What I would never forget about him though, is his habit of dropping the call moments after he got off. The sudden hang-up forces me to replay the conversation in my head so I can catch up and cum. I have no right to protest at such callousness though, for he was the one calling. But if it were a live engagement, I would end up feeling used. Parausan. And so I ditched the idea of playing with him, especially when he started calling - without notice - during work hours.
I started dropping his call.
The guy, whose name I never learned is a subject of much contemplation lately. He is sex-crazed, no doubt. A neurotic in need of counselling. "Does he have a life?" I mused. Why can't he get it that I'm no longer interested?
That I asked him to delete my number?
Come to think of it, he once said "I love you." to my consternation. Two days of piecemeal talk, and there he was, professing his hollow attachment. I didn't reciprocate, of course. In fact, he got an explanation as to how I define love.
Apparently, he didn't get my memo.
These over dependence on phone sex, and the blatant expression of unfounded feelings; the apparent disgust over the act, when he drop calls as he reaches an orgasm; and his delusions of grandeur when he once quipped of possessing a "seven incher," which he would use to tear my hole, and to which I demanded, "send a photo," but didn't send any, points to a mindcircus in the head of a deranged individual. To me, he will just be a loser. A passing fancy I can spin around should I find myself in the mood to use someone for my own ends. And yet deep down, as a human, damaged, and struggling to find his corner in this pretentious world of ours,
Words that can pierce, no longer hurts him. Neither does talking heals the brokenness within. These I kept clear to myself.
And so the next time he calls, or looks for SOP, which I would send a reply with much gusto, all he can expect from me is a timely hang up, just when he's about to erupt.