He does not ask what I am wearing. He has never once asked for a picture, a detail, a description. He calls, I say his name, and I hear his whole body relax on the other end of the line like I have touched him. Perhaps I have. Some men are built that way, and I have come to adore them for it. He has a voice kink, and I am his favorite sound in the world.
Our calls begin the same way every time. He asks me to whisper. Not talk. Whisper, the way I would if I were beside him in a dark room and the walls were thin and everything I had to say was only for him. So I lower my voice until it is mostly breath, and I begin. I tell him about my day, which he does not care about, and I describe nothing at all scandalous, which he cares about even less. It is not the words, darling. It never was the words. It is the sound of me, close and private and unhurried, curling into his ear like smoke.
"Slower," he will murmur, twenty minutes in, when my whispering about the rain has somehow become the most erotic thing he has ever heard. "Say my name again."
So I say it. I say it the way I would say it across a pillow at two in the morning. I let the breath of it stretch. I smile when I say it, because he once told me he can hear my smile, and he can, and knowing that makes me smile more, and the whole call becomes this lovely spiral of a woman enjoying being listened to by a man who listens like it is a sacrament.
Later, of course, my whispering changes. I begin to describe what I would do if my voice had hands. I let my breathing do the describing as much as my words. I get closer to the phone until there is nothing in his world but my mouth and his heartbeat, and I talk him, softly, sweetly, relentlessly, all the way to the edge he has been approaching since I said hello. A whisper can be a caress. A whisper can be a command. In the right mouth, at the right distance, a whisper can be everything a seductress needs, and I have spent years perfecting mine.
He told me once that he has dated beautiful women whose voices he cannot remember, and then there is me, a voice he has never seen attached to anything, and he dreams in my sentences. I think about that more than I should. There is something devastatingly intimate about being someone's favorite sound. Anyone can be looked at. I am listened for, longed for, replayed. It is the most elegant form of desire I know.
So tell me, darling. What does my voice do to you? You have been reading me in your head this whole time, and even that, I suspect, was not entirely innocent. Imagine the real thing, low and close and meant only for you, for a dollar a minute on PhoneBuckFuck. Close your eyes when you call. Everyone with your particular weakness does. I will handle everything else, one whisper at a time.