The Phone Interview


Perusing through Back Page a few days ago, I found an ad in the classifieds that read as follows:

“Need glamorous personal assistant for beauty consultant. Me be sharp, confident, and energetic. Call Mrs. D for an immediate interview.”

I’ve never been a personal assistant before, but I imagined I would have to follow some sophisticated woman around  with a notepad in hand. I would scribble down tasks, cross out the ones accomplished, doodle little hearts when I was supposed to dictate her memos. I would most likely get yelled out for spacing out, or get scrutinized because I always have runs in my stockings. I would spend my off hours thinking about all the errands I would have to run when I’m actually working. And when I’m working I would think about the nice things I wouldn’t have time to do when the clock struck 6 or 7 or whenever she excused me from the room. I’d drink my suppressed sorrows away, drowning in White Russians as I cling to what little hope remains after a work day…

So, naturally I called…

While I was putting away groceries, I received a phone call from Mrs. D. She sounded like a second hand Kathleen Turner, though her voice was scratchy and worn but with a higher pitch, a sign of a long-time smoker if I ever heard on. She asked me to rate my confidence and sex appeal on a scale of 1-10. I said 10 for both, although that’s nowhere near true. Then Mrs. D told me about her business. She instructed women on all things fashionable – sex, money, finances – with the underlying philosophy that men are douchebags and are only good for sex and sex alone. Women are the dominant gender and should be regarded as such.

I was intrigued.

She asked me an ice breaker question: “It’s Valentine’s Day and you want to do something special for your lover. What would you do?”

I stumbled on my answer. I thought it was weird to ask.

“My lover, huh? Dunno. I guess it depended on if I celebrated Valentine’s Day, which I don’t. But, if my lover did, then s/he probably would want to go for a drink, smoke until we’re stoned, have some creative sexing throughout the day, and play games.”

“Well what sort of games?” She asked. “Dirty games?”

“Whatever’s lying around – Risk, Scrabble, Monopoly. Or maybe some fun video games. Poker…. poker most definitely.”

She paused. Mrs. D asked more questions like these and less about my qualifications and such. I didn’t mind until we started on the subject of lesbian sex.

“I was 14 when I tasted my first pussy,” Mrs. D said.

Seriously. That’s what she said.

“She ordered me into the bathroom,” she said. “She pulled my panties and starting to lick my wet cunt. Then, she told me it was my turn.”

Um. Call me crazy, but do potential employers masturbate on the phone while asking about your first girl-on-girl encounter? Little hints started sinking in that I was being duped. First, that Turner-esque voice was starting to sound more like a man’s voice, a man trying to sound like a woman. Secondly, there was no website or anything to indicate this woman has an actual business. And, she wanted me to touch myself. Hm.

“You know what really turns me on, Mrs D? Clowns. Those painted faces and big, polka dots pants get me so excited I just want to burst. Oh, and when those pie in the face routines get going I can’t help but touch myself… mmmm… pie. I like pie porn. You ever seen it? Two pies just going at it. Man!”

She hung up. I weirded out the pervert. I win!

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