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Back when I was with my ex, back when surgery twice a week was as commonplace for me as brushing your teeth likely is for you..

I had just gotten my front sutured shut for the second time, after a massive scar resection, I had a Hickman line in my chest, I wasn’t mobile, was working my way out of my wheelchair, and onto elbow grip crutches. Needless to say, I wasn’t all that mobile.

My ex couldn’t keep a job, due to his inability to wake up in the morning, and we were in real danger of getting kicked out onto the street. I was 19.

I tried to do the stuffing envelopes thing, and the piecework from home thing, but with the size of our apartment, it just wasn’t practical.

I leafed through the newspaper, hoping to get some inspiration, something…
…and there it was. Salvation.

Our landlord came slamming to our door that evening, demanding the 1100 in back rent that we owed him, or we would face eviction.  I’d have to do something about our finances, and quick.

I furtively called the number, and got a machine, directing me to do my sexy best. I hadn’t prepared anything, and just sort of winged it.

Surprisingly, I got a callback.

I phoned wheeltrans, and they took me to the strangest interview I’ve ever been to.

I met Ray.

“Do you have any acting experience?”

No,” I admitted. -nothing that would be anything like relevant, here.

“Have you worked in the adult entertainment industry before?” he asked.

“No.” -trying not to laugh. In what, praytell? Hot, hot wheelchair action?

“There’s no script,” he said.

“That’s OK,” I told him. “I’ve got a very active imagination.”

Ray told me I could say anything I wanted, as long as it didn’t involve animals or children. When I wanted to work, I simply dialed the company number, entered my ID code and password, and logged on to the system. When I was done for the night, I called again and logged off. And that was it. My induction took five minutes.

At home, I prepared my persona. I was “Veronique”, with black hair, green eyes and 40EE breasts.  Veronique, of the whip, the chain, the ball gag- with no bra and a short denim skirt. Veronique, who could discuss the relative merits of the Japanese Rabbit Pearl and the Pocket Rocket, and cater to fetishes from stuffed animals to cigars. Veronique, whose typed script ran to six eloquent pages.

But the needs of my callers were disappointingly basic.

Instead of attempting conversation, I told tales, soliciting only the briefest sounds of encouragement.

It was the day that I discovered that most major kitchen appliances would pass for sex toys, that I think I started amusing myself at work.  “Ooooh..baby, I just can’t help myself, I have to use it!” ..and On would go the mixmaster..  “Sooo hot..sooo wet..mmmmoh..”.. In went the eggs and milk for the muffins I was making.  “Do you want to spank you? You’ve been bad..” The rubber spatula slapped against the side of the bowl.

“I’m going to take you like the dirty little..Oh.  Time’s up.  Soooo hot. “


Damned tasty muffins, though.

7 responses to “1-800-Veronique”

  1. Owen Owen says:

    That's the best last line ever!

  2. Jesse Jesse says:

    Muffins often are.

  3. Avatar disperse says:

    Who knew baking could be so suggestive?

  4. Stacy Stacy says:

    Enjoyed the read! Wondered, though, what the Ex thought of this…

  5. Kail Kail says:

    Indeed. Now I need a cold drink.

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December 2010
November 2010
On My Honor
October 2010
Witch Hunt
September 2010
If, Then.
May 2010
Small Crimes
April 2010
February 2010
"It's Complicated"
January 2010