I have spent three long decades wondering What is my place, my purpose, my higher calling? At six I imagined myself as a stripper on Bourbon Street. I would spin those tassels as they had never been spun. Then I fell ass deep in love with Bobby Ewing. I kissed my teddy bear, told him, “I love you, Bobby. I just want to kiss your face off and marry you by the pool wearing my bikini. Our cake will be shaped like an oil rig and J. R. can’t have any.” I would be an actress.

Improvisation exercises in junior high, high school and college terrified me. My partner for the Uncle Vanya scene was heinous. I could not feign attraction for him. I would teach English.

I am a lazy woman. When I was dating my first husband he was charmed when I told him that I dropped out of college the first time because of Beavis and Butthead. I wasn’t joking. I rarely made it to class because there was a big screen television in the lobby at Women’s Residence Tower. I was addicted to “Beavis and Butthead,” “The Real World” and “Saved By The Bell” marathons. I am too lazy to get up early in the morning and attempt to turn teenagers onto John Berryman and Wallace Stevens. They can have their Snooki and their US Weekly and their Angry Birds. I am not the one to blow what is left of their minds.

Various men I have known, a few in the Biblical sense of the word, have clued me in as to where exactly my star potential lies. “You’re an excellent lay.” “You’re so sexy on the phone.” “Damn, girl. Your words turn me on beyond belief.” It seems I have a gift for igniting the male imagination, making men think Those Kind of Thoughts. I facilitate fantasies. I pick up on kinks and fetishes and exploit the hell out of them.

So tonight I had an epiphany. I will be a psychic phone sex operator. For a nominal fee men will call my toll free number. Men are not merely carnal creatures, after all…they’re spiritual carnal creatures, advanced beings who yearn to have their dicks sucked and their auras brightened simultaneously. Men want Hooter’s and The First United Church of Sympathetic Pussy in one gloriously messy package. They will hit the proverbial jackpot with me.

Him: What kind of panties are you wearing?
Me: I’m wearing a rhinestone studded thong that plays “I Wanna Sex You Up” by Color Me Badd. Just joking. I’m wearing invisible panties that really accentuate my cute bubble butt. No. I’m wearing cotton candy panties. You lick my panties and they dissolve like so much pink spun sugar on your tongue. The truth is…I’m not wearing any panties.
Him: Damn.
Me: I’m sensing something. Your dick is hard, isn’t it?

“You’ve found your niche,” the ghost of my gay uncle tells me with a cackle. I do believe he’s right.

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