Hotline Fling

3: Find Your Inspiration

Juneau's POV

"What's that face for?" Adam's tall, trim frame swiveled in his black mesh-backed chair. I sighed at his thick, enviously perfect dark brown locks and impeccable, polished appearance. He pressed into his seat until those dreamy slate-blue eyes lay perpendicular to the ceiling. With a tight-knuckled grip, one hand loosened his narrow, black tie. He yanked the knot down to his left clavicle. "I want to see that face when you rip yourself apart, babe."

He wasn't talking to me. Adam's eyes shifted, and his hand slid over his microphone. "S'up, Junebug?" He smirked, then punched one fist in the air. His clock read 30:01, with no signs of slowing down.

Show off. Performances like this one were why he was the reigning employee of the month for three consecutive months. Also why management turned a blind eye to how he drained all the toner from the copy machine from over-copying personal dick pics to solicit more business. Only in this office would that be considered an initiative.

I shouldn't complain. He'd gotten me this job and taught me everything I knew, Which was saying a lot about my true lack of sexy experience because he was gay and handled male-on-male request calls. He happily told me, over and over, a paying-stroked penis was a paying-stroked penis, no matter the fantasy behind it, and that I would find my niche soon.

Just wish that niche wasn't wedged between Ten Second Teds and Five Minute Phils. With the exception of my doctor, I generally received a plethora of first-time callers. This included the 'Oh, I called for a prank' calls, always followed by laughs and hang-ups. Our automated filter should catch more of those.

We met at a City College of New York reunion bar event. Not long into our 'So how much do you still owe on your loans for this useless degree?' conversation, his business card with the associated hourly wage here at Wet Dreams was all Adam needed to pique my interest.

Most phone sex operators would argue that the only perk, other than the pay, was working flexible hours from home. Heat rose into my cheeks from how much I'd 'enjoyed' that perk. Our office oddly insisted that we came in for two days of the week in a failed attempt to encourage employee collaboration and whatever else shit displayed on those motivational posters.

For those of us brand-new, defined here as working less than thirty days, being full-time in the office was mandatory. After our thirty-day review, we either got a phone and a metaphorical slap on the ass to work from home or a pink slip and forms explaining we weren't eligible for unemployment benefits. I suspected that the real reason behind 'in-office coverage' was so management kept tabs on us, along with how our calls were recorded and reviewed for 'quality review.' Whenever that red light flipped on our phones, my heart rate sprinted.

"How's what's his name, Junebug?" Adam leaned back to grin at me. "Your boyfriend?"

"First name Crash, middle name And, last name Burn." I tucked the right corner of my lips into my right cheek and frowned. "And don't call me Junebug."

The only picture on my small desk was my thighs sandwiching the neck of a handsome guy with toned arms, my weakness. Laughing, we looked happy despite how he wore a baseball cap backward, no matter how many times I'd told him how stupid he looked.

With a huff, I trailed my index finger over our faces, then tossed the picture into the trash. Wait, that was a decent frame. After I fished it back out and tossed the picture, a blank frame stared back. Story of my life.

"Meeting the parents didn't go well?" Despite how I spilled every detail last week, Adam had no interest in dropping the subject and watched my movements with interest. I shook my head and gave one more fleeting glance at the picture in the trash. Rosita, our lovely cleaning lady, could have him.