Are You Really The Man, John-Boy? 08:24:2007

Mood: pensive… reflecting
Listening To: I Will Always Love You – Whitney Houston
Notes: Names are always changed to protect the not-so-innocent and my checkbook.

So there are a few things on my mind, but I don’t feel like making an outline… so I’ll just freestyle it like I do when performing in such luxurious venues as my bathroom as my alter-ego M.C. Chickn Biscuit. Today I found a partner in crime, MC BOO TEE, and we’ve decided that when we drop our first LP on wax it’ll be called Chickn N BOO TEE.

Sucka MCZ betta watch out! Break yo-self, FOO!

And… now that we’re done with that, back to me acting like I have some sense. A 7 year old kid told me I was immature today. Sadly, that made me feel great about myself, because I’m 28. She even called her mum on her brand new “RAZR wit tha K” phone and told her that she’d met (and I quote), “A really cool lady that acts like a kid from school.” Which then made me feel really bad because she’s in second grade.

I’m singing along with Whitney Houston at the top of my lungs, and I’m thinking about the caller presently known as John-Boy. That is nothing near his real name, but I had to talk with him for 40 minutes today, and I figure someone should benefit from our conversation, other than him of course. So while Whit sings about getting so emotional and being shocked, I’ll tell you about John-Boy. Chatty Chuck, I might even call him from time to time… Loquacious Lawrence, even. Talkative Terry… I mean good heavens, it’s rare for them to even want to tell a girl their names, he wanted me to know his blood type, last 4 of his social number, his mama’s name, and the best food she’d ever made for him.

I wanted to ask him why he didn’t just talk to his mama, because it seemed like they were close, but we can’t bring up the mamas… or the papas. Which is odd because I think it’s okay to talk about Puff Daddy… maybe because he’s shiny? Face it, ladies and gents, the brotha is glossy.

Back to Verbose Vincent, after telling me about his childhood dream of becoming an airplane pilot, he not-so-smoothly segued into “adult” subject matter, which is fine with me, because it’s what I deal with 110% of the time. I don’t mind guys who come in and chat a bit and then get to rubbing one out, it’s part of it. What I mind are losers who call and .. well… the conversation goes something like this:

The Geisha: Hello?
Random Guy #9382372: I want you to tell me how you’re going to [adult activity]
The Geisha: What?
Random Guy #9382372: I want you to tell me how you’re going to [adult activity] *moan*
The Geisha: Uhm… what’s your name?
Random Guy #9382372: YOU DON’T NEED TO WORRY ABOUT MY NAME, SLUT.
The Geisha: Okay… well, I’m… Vivian. What do you look like?
Random Guy #9382372: *click*

And that’s the end of that call. </fake happiness>

But John-Boy, he wasn’t like that all, in fact quite the opposite… so much so that I began to think he’d never called a line before (they all have to start somewhere), but if you’re seasoned at all in this, a girl quickly learns never to make a final decision about the caller until they hang up. I’m not joking.

For example, some guys will call and they’ll sound really down, like frighteningly down, tell you they have this big problem or some such nonsense. If I was dumb, I’d fall for it from time to time, because they sound so convincing that I believe they could win academy awards for the performance. So you play along, see if he really has a problem (.00001% of the time, this actually happens) or if he’s running some sort of crazy, weird, non-acceptance-of-my-own-sexual-fixations game (the rest of the time, this is what happens). They’ll cry, they’ll tell you they are suicidal, depressed, they drink a lot, take drugs, or whatever is on their list of reasons you should feel sorry enough for them to listen to some oddball story that they will wank it to, while you listen like the poor, stupid sap you are.

I remember once, a guy called me sobbing. He told me that his best friend had been assaulted sexually the day before this call he’d made to me. He was crying hysterically, talking about how he’d always loved her. This was the first time I met a Story Guy. I felt so bad for this man. He asked me if I’d ever been through it and I said yes I had, because I have been assaulted in the past. He asked me what had happened to me, told me if I felt like talking to him about it and telling him how he could support his friend… and for a minute I actually believed this dude… until I heard the tell-tale shortened breath of a man in the throes of “passion.”

This man was actually going to have me relive one of the most painful moments of my life so that he could rub one out to it. It was really at that moment that I realised lying was the best thing I could ever learn how to do. I have since then, never told a single person on a line anything true about myself. I’m not even a part of that crazy equation, only the made up girls who moan for them exist while I’m on the line.

But I digress: John-Boy is tonight’s spotlight star, and he definitely deserves it. I was truly thinking this guy was shy, maybe he’d never called before, maybe he’d never even been with a woman before, and didn’t know how to go about talking to one. So I was more gentle with him than I usually am with the usual abusive, lonely caller. Then it happened; John-Boy flipped on me. I mean… this cat flipped it upside down like Diana Ross sang about in that disco song.

All of a sudden he was saying, “Tell me I’m the man, whore.”

I actually said, “Okay. You’re the man, dude,” because I had no clue what was going on… at all.

Then… John-Boy did it… this mugafooka asked me to cheer for him. Like a cheerleader. He wanted me to jump up and down, and clap my hands while I said, “YOU’RE THE MAN, JOHN-BOY!” over and over… like a mantra.

He wanted me to cheer.

I have had some of the dumbest requests known to man in the time I’ve been a phone girl, but I have never had someone ask me to get my round ass up and cheer. This mofo asked me to do a cheer and say, “You’re the man.”

I wish I would have cheered for his ass. I wish I would have been dumb enough to stand up and jump up and down and cheer for him, for any amount of money. I mean, can you see that on the headlines? “Chunky Girl Shatters Entire Left Leg While Cheering For Sex Caller .”

I think I must have mumbled the words, “You’re the man, John-Boy,” something like… 60 times before he finished his business. After he finished, he told me he was in love with me. <shaking head>

Yes, John-Boy, wherever you are tonight, you’re the man.
-geisha