Penises are funny.

Men might not think so, but to ladies? A rubbery appendage which dangles between the legs — if slinkies inspire giggles, then, of course, a penis would as well. Oh, and the way men go on about them! “It’s so sensitive.” “They’re so tender.” Really? That wiggly, jiggly thing?

For a woman, a good penis story is as good as gold. Girlfriends will share it with others, and clamor for multiple tellings. Better than misadventures on vacation, more potent than details of the bedded tango instructor — a good penis story enthralls the girls, causes them to huddle in pajamas, hesitating with the bon-bons inches from their lips as the tale unravels.

One cause might be that penis knowledge — true insight into the tidbits beyond stiffness and bursts — isn’t taught in Sex Ed. We’re forever gleaning morsels of interest, yet, all of them contradicting our initial understanding of the cock as a glob of erectile tissue which functions to the detriment of the innocent womb. It’s so important to a man! Certainly, a woman is apt to treasure her bosom, and the snug confines of her vaginal walls, but we hardly gauge our femininity upon the expanse of a brassiere. To a man, though, a penis is not just his sexual device; it’s a built in ruler! The measure of his masculinity, self-worth, fortitude and prowess at towel-hanging. “Don’t squeeze so hard.” “Please don’t kick me there.” A cock might as well be Tiffany china. Who knew?

Case in point — the first humorous penis story a woman shared with me:

On the heels of some uterine trouble, a doctor informed my friend that she should take every precaution not to become pregnant for a certain length of time. Newly wed, she and her husband weren’t all too keen on the idea of a hiatus on intimacy. Weeks passed, their nerves growing more and more frazzled by the lack of penetration, until she finally could stand it no longer. Necessity breeds invention — and that absence of full orgasm gifted her with a stroke of brilliance: “We HAVE to have sex,” she explained to her husband one night, “but I can’t risk getting pregnant. So, I think, if you were to wear two condoms, it will be alright.”

The husband considered the request… and readily agreed.

One condom. Two condoms. Done!

… and he slipped inside.

One pump. Two pumps… when he emitted a blood-curdling screech.

“What is it?!” She spat (hell hath no fury like a lady deprived orgasm).

“The… the…” he pulled out, painstakingly, his face twisted in breathless agony.

Somehow, latex upon latex caused a freakish static cling — the condoms had rolled, one into the other, all the way down the shaft gathering into a taunt, rubber-band-grip just at the ridge of the head. The story was related as, “– like someone cinched a choke-chain just below the head. My, was it red — Coca-cola red!”

And at this point — always at this point — the ladies who hear it absolutely howl.  Perhaps it’s the irony, as this is the high price of standing urination.

So, a couple of days ago, while standing in a check-out line, I was thumbing through a magazine. Near to the end of the pages was a section of letters to a guest Urologist. Though, certainly not intentionally the funniest bit in the magazine, I couldn’t help but find amusement with the following Q&A:

Q: ” ‘Did I cause serious injury to his penis?’ The other night, while I was on top during sex, my husband suddenly cried out in pain and said we had to stop. Days later, he’s still complaining that his penis is sore and bruised. Could I have fractured him with my pelvis somehow?”

– Let’s pause here. The above is proof-positive that I don’t just happen to chum with particularly sadomasochistic ladies. The couple in question is having intercourse — the man cries out in pain, and then “said we had to stop.” Not, “oh, he was clearly in pain! Poor pup! I, of course, immediately removed myself from his midsection…” And that “days later” line is precious in its revelation — “he’s still complaining that it’s sore and bruised.” Sounds very much like, “what a bellyacher. Complaining! DAYS later!”

The response, though, has inspired the most humorous retorts from my female friends.

A: “Probably not. Penile fractures are very rare, excruciatingly painful and usually accompanied by a distinct cracking sound…”

Holy wonder! A CRACKING sound?!

“Oopsie…”

“Erhm… I think I broke it. My bad.”

“That’s never happened to the dildos.”

“No worries — I’ve some tape and Popsicle sticks in the craft drawer.”

Perhaps The Cramps were right — all women are bad.

If this battered economy brings only a single positive development into this world, let it be a call for women to more frequently bear mantles of power.

No, no — seriously! It seems a surge of medical claims to such are being brought to light:

http://gmy.news.yahoo.com/v/12016410

First step — Iceland!

Next stop.. um… warm places!

A statistician has found that a man’s chances of having a homosexual son raises 33% per son (so, he has one.. then the second faces a 33% increased chance of being gay, and so on) — but only if this father is right handed!

Evidently, southpaws’ sons have a steady incidence of homosexuality.

What does this mean?

… I don’t know.

But it’s interesting. Veeery iiiinteresting.

So, there are no less than five (5!) erotic stories in various stages, simmering in the Drafts folder.

You see, ideally, this blog will be a mixture of stories and rambles. Here’s the hiccup: the plan was to post a story before I posted another rambling entry… but since I’ve yet to complete any of the stories, NOTHING was posted.

Change of strategy, then!

I thoroughly enjoy what I do. Friends often refer to my “strange” line of work — and then, they climb into their starched, ill-fitting uniforms and go bust tail for The Man. As I write this, my status is “Available” for calls, while I’m still clad in silken nightgown, fuzzy slippers, and sipping my way through a glass of orange juice. At noon.

Strange, yes… but good.

Of course, anything a lady puts her mind to is going to have its share of snags. This past week is a fine example of such. When I first began fielding calls, it was for a service out of California. As with most traditional phone sex services (… I consider what I do to be phone fantasy, but that’s another tangent, entirely), the ladies are expected — required — to do every call given them.

Incidentally, some men are unabashed twats (the same could probably be said of some women… but I won’t be saying that here. At least, not today).

If one builds a system, another will come who will exploit it. That’s simply humanity for you. So, you have a service dealing with some of the most secret fodder of the human spirit, with ladies as the mouthpiece, who are duty bound to please the man who rings in. . . inevitably, a sordid fetish comes to light. Some men get their jollies by willfully making these women speak to them in a pleasant manner, regardless of the subject matter, or tone. There’s a common phrasing when ladies of this industry chat: “He’s one of those guys who gets off on taking it out on the phone girl.” (I refer to them as “PIN Men” — P.rickless I.rritating N.ancies.)

Fortunately, I take pride in what I do… and some would go so far as to say I’m rather adept at doing it. My tenure at traditional services is greatly punctuated, due directly to the above. In any industry, tasks a person loathes causes said person to loathe the entire industry. I don’t want to loathe holding wildly inappropriate, discrete conversations with the world of men. So, I have near zero tolerance for the aforementioned twats.

Niteflirt allows the blocking of individual callers. Grand! It goes without saying, my blocked list is… erhm… not a short read. Some upon it have spent a dollar, some a thousand.

So… looping back to this past week. A banner seven day run for the blocked list. Added four callers to it. Outrageous! Lengthy though the list may be, I rarely block four in a month, let alone a single week. Even more astounding, this onslaught occurred upon a single listing: my Fem Dommes Listing

It is my favourite listing — a mock-therapy setup. Probing questions, and questionable “treatment”, quite a delicious mix. Two of the callers’ soft minds must have misread the listing, as they expected something along the lines of a psychic reading. “So. Ask me questions.” And I did. After receiving multiple, monosyllabic answers, and bristled by their audible disdain that I hadn’t correctly hit upon the “right” question within five seconds, I’d had enough. Both times. Both blocked.

The third was clearly a seasoned PIN Man, who interrupted each of my questions with haughtily delivered inquiries of his own. “So, tell me, when was the last time you–” “Well, what sort of questions are you going to ask?” He can’t be married. I mean, he simply can’t! I cannot imagine the woman who could suffer that condescending tone without turning murderous. Hmm. Unless he spikes her orange juice with Kava Kava Root, by the pound.

Judging from his lengthy, cumbersome attempt at insulting feedback, it appears he wasn’t very happy with being disconnected from. Because, you know, nothing makes any of us happier than paying someone to speak with us, who does not want to speak to us.

Declaring to the world that the “phone sex girl” hung up on you…. really?

If it happened to me, I daresay, I’d take that info and go quietly into the night with it. “I can’t even PAY a woman to speak to me,” is NOT something I would state publicly.

But then, I don’t have a penis. Perhaps the internal wiring is different for men.

The fourth gentleman waved off my intro, demanding that I immediately ask him, “everything” that I “want to know.” Mildly irritated, though hopeful we could sort it out, I suggested that woman have a great many alluring features — faces, bums, breasts… which part of a woman does he notice first, I wondered.

“Her pussy!” He exclaimed, in a dirty, nearly drooling fashion.

“…. that’s the FIRST thing you notice?”

“YES!”

I considered this. “So… you have, what, X-Ray vision, or something similar? You notice her pussy first?”

“YES!”

Erhm. “Excellent! Well… that’s about all I wanted to know. Thanks for answering!”

::Click::

Lame, indeed.

I say, those impeccable manners a lady exhibits in public should be crinkled up, and tossed into the bin, the second the bedroom door swings open. Though it is not my intention to connote granola chewing, body hair festooning feminism, I shall say this much: We breast-bearers have quite a task in unraveling the bonds placed upon our sexuality over the years. Dear boys — if you bundle her up like a lacy, Victorian mummy, leaving her to turn to air-robbing corsets for a smidgeon of sexy, she’s not going to feel comfortable whipping you this evening.

I’m not saying man’s logic is inherently fallible, and women, en masse embody the beaming virtue of rightness (certainly, in my travels, I’ve unearthed some certifiably nutty bitches) — but at least we are the superior kissers.

None of which has anything, whatsoever, to do with my point.

The intended point was: I want to discuss interesting scenarios. Wicked, naughty scenarios which will conjure a blush from either of us, tomorrow or the day after, when the scene comes rushing to mind at an inopportune moment (”Pass the potatoes, please.” I was passed around like a whore. A stretched, sopping, rag doll WHORE).

That said, it took me forever to decide upon a direction for both, AWickedFantasy.com, and this blog.

Elegant? Yes!

Literate? Yes!

Humorous? Yes!

I adore American Pop 50’s art — the pinups, the lettering, the schlock Hollywood bikini screamers. One of my favorite avenues for phone fantasies centers upon my being a therapist, doctor or mad scientist.

Hopefully, the selected elements will gel.