Aggressive Angela

Ah, for the days when I was young, chaste, and chased. I still laugh at this. I met Angela in my night music theory class. The next year, we had another class together -- Piano, I think? Angela was a temptation straight out of the fiery flames of you-know-where. Quite appropriately, the woman was hot. She was exotic, she was ripped right out of my fantasies, she was 12 years my senior, and she was on a frickin' mission -- and I was it. This is from my journal, since there were no blogs in 1992. 


OKAY, SO I HAD just gotten off the phone with that Amazonian beauty, the one I had a thang for in high school but was always too intimidated to talk to, but I met her after high school and got her phone number. You know how that goes. So I called and she was happy to hear from me. Until I let on that I hadn't found a summer job yet, and was pretty broke, plus I had just wrecked my car. Then she suddenly found a reason why she couldn't talk to me any more.
 
Oh well, next on my list: Angela. She'd been trying to reach me. She is the usual gabfest, talking about anythang and everythang: her ex-husband (she calls him “What’s-His-Name”), her kids, her mom and mom’s widowed friends, her radio career, her trip to Mexico, her interviews with famous Latin singers, her school grades. And then she stops.

And in that creamy Spanish-accented voice, comes that question I always dread:

“I’ve been telling you all about myself. Tell me a little about you.”

“Um. What do you wanna know?”

“Anything. Everything. Your background? Your childhood? How do you think?  What do you want to do with your life? What do you think about?  What do you dream about when you daydream? Do you daydream? Do you have sex dreams?”

Cue nervous chuckle.  

“Do you have a girlfriend, have you ever had sex . . .”

Awkward silence.

Is this the time to tell her about my virginity thing? Am I still committed to it?

Lame laugh.

I mean, I thought I was an old hand when it came to resisting females (sometimes after getting them quite turned on, regretfully), but – those were high school girls. This was a big grown-ass sexy MILF, and she was 12 years older than me and I swear I could feel the heat radiating from the phone . How had I gone from a cocky 17-year-old high school senior to this 19-year-old puddle of goo with no self-confidence? Forget moving up from high school ball to college ball--this is the pros.

She waits.

My mind's racing. What am I supposed to tell her> The truth?

Finally I reply, “Well you’re quite the curious one.”

“I’ve been telling you all about my life," she purrs. “Tell me yours. Have you?”

“Of course!” I lied. Well, I guess it depended on your definition of sex. You can have sex with your mouth.

“What was it like?”

I recalled something a friend related to me once. “It wasn't like in the movies,” I said, trying to affect jadedness. Then I added hastily, "I was only sixteen, you know."

“Well, maybe you need to find the right person. And it will  be like in the movies.”

“Hmm.”

“You’re – what? – nineteen now. You’re older. More mature. Wiser.”

“You think so.”

In the most innocent voice she asks: “What kind of underwear do you wear? Not the plain white kind. Not tighty whities! What’s-his-name used to wear those.”

“Oh, no, no, no. Mine are definitely sexier. The skimpier kind. And not plain white.”

“Ahhhhh.”

“You satisfied now?”  

“What do you sleep in?”

“Um. Nothing special. A tank top and some shorts.” I realized that didn’t sound sexy at all. “Sometimes just underwear,” I add. “My skimpy underwear.”

“Mmmm.”

“Or sometimes when it's really, really hot -- nothing,” I add nonchalantly.

“MMM-hmmm!”

Hoping she’s happy now, I try to get off the subject of me. “What about you?”

“No, we’re through talking about me. I wanna know about you now.”

But I don’t like talking about me.

“You'll have to forgive me, but come on. You’re cute.”

“Oh, stop.” 

“Really. You’ve matured. You look older now from when I first met you. Less like a kid.”

“I still look like a kid.”

“Not to me,” she breathes. “No, no, no. You are so sexy. You are a sexy young man. And I think you are a very healthy one too. You know what I mean!”

By now my natural modesty is in full bloom. “You really think so?”

“I know so. You are a stud! Is that the word you Americans use?”

“I’m not so sure it’s accurate.”

“It is very accurate. I like you. I really like you a lot.”

What does she want, free phone sex? Hasn’t she ever heard the saying, “you get what you pay for”?
She reminded me of my first real girlfriend. I was 16, she was 15 and she always wanted me to “talk dirty” to her. Three years later, I’m still not disposed to talk dirty and even if I were, I wouldn't know what I was talking about. 

I tell Angela a little more about myself – only non-sexual stuff. I tell her how shy I used to be and how I was just coming out of my shell. Like how I didn’t care about looks in women nearly as much as personality. How a lot of good-looking girls were interested in me but I didn’t know how to talk to them. I guess, subconsciously I was trying to bore her into giving up on me.

“But that’s okay. You have such a sexy voice. Anything you say probably sounds sexy. You could probably say ‘duhhhhh’ and still have the girls falling all over you.” 

Well, when my voice was working, which was only sometimes.

“Let’s get off this subject," she says. "You’ve got me thinking naughty things.”

“Yeah. What are you trying to do?”

“I just want you to know how much I like you.”

I stammered a little, trying to find words that wouldn't sound like rejection. “Maybe you’re wasting your time.  I’m in college and I have no job or money or car or anything.” In my naive little mind, I didn't realize she was looking for Mr. Right Now, not Mr. Right.

“You have you. And soon you’ll find a job.” She goes into a long story about how she got her first real job, back in college. Ah, just the way I like it: She talks and I listen.

After all that, she says: “Hey. It’s late.”

“Yeah,” I groan. “The phone bill!”

“I wouldn’t want your parents to kick you out of their house. Although if they did, you know where to come.”

I laugh.

“Plus you’ve got me thinking naughty things and I’m about to have sex with you over the phone. That would amuse your mother, wouldn’t it?”

I laugh again. Ha, ha.

“I’m just kidding,” she says.

“Yeah… you kid a lot.”

“Good night. Sweet dreams,” she whispers.

I say good night and then go pray.