Nicole's dirty talk was both ridiculous and oddly arousing. It was actually so comfortable, a lot of nights I chose to sleep out in the van rather than on a stranger's sagging couch. We chatted for a few minutes, then got into the phone sex again. This time I went Shakespeare: "Oh baby, wherefore art thy labia? Now that we'd had sex a couple of times, I wanted to know what she was all about—I wanted to know where she worked; I wanted to know what she was into (besides having phone sex with strangers); I wanted to know what kind of person calls hotel rooms to have phone sex with strangers.
Three nights later, in Oklahoma City, I was getting ready for bed out in the van when my cell phone rang. The next few times we talked, she was still whispering, which was starting to seem a little suspicious.
Nicole would be talking dirty, telling me how she wanted to squeeze my dick with her pussy, and I'd just start riffing on some goofy shit: There was NASCAR-themed pillow talk ("Straddle my throttle, Nicole. "), and then sometimes I'd do it up in a stiff, upper-crust British accent ("Oh, God save the queen.
I'm coming, I'm coming, tea and crumpets for all!
"Hey, Davy," she'd breathe, "how 'bout a quickie?
"In December the book tour ended, and I resumed a more regular kind of life—staying put in Michigan, playing basketball twice a week at the rec center, sleeping in my own bed.