PICASSO'S PHONE CALL
by Elizabeth P. Glixman

It was the third number I had called that night. The first call was a man named George who wanted to tie me to a chair and dance around me dressed in women's underwear while singing Put On A Happy Face. The second call was a man who wanted to be spanked and praised at the same time while the national anthem played on an old Motorola record player. As I looked through the phone numbers in the classified erotophone section of the daily paper, I was about to give up until I saw an ad that said, "Call me for unending pleasure." Unending pleasure—what promises would this writer make?

What had begun as a means to alleviate the boredom of a subzero winter's night during a full-fledged blizzard, a northeaster, became a search, a serious hunt for something I had not experienced or known before as a single mother of three. My children slept soundly dreaming of new running shoes and tickets to the ice hockey game at the rink in the city while I dialed number after 900 number searching for Eros.

"Hello," I said. "Is this the number to call for never ending pleasure?"

"Unending pleasure," a low almost inaudible voice responded.

"Sorry," I said. I continued. "How will you give me unending pleasure?"

"You are not taping this call, are you?"

"No," I answered. "Please go on."

The man's voice was smooth, cold, silky like clear frozen ice on the hill stream that ran from the top of the mountain behind my house falling, falling until it wrapped around our backyard like a protective moat.

His voice grew low and sultry, seductive, as if he were lying next to me on a hot beach in the tropics all sticky and sweaty pressing his thighs next to mine.

"I paint a woman's body with unending pleasure," he said. "I arouse with my hands like all great artists paint with their brushes. I paint feelings, slices of pain and pleasure, brushstrokes wild and erotic on a woman's body. I am a Picasso with my hands. You will experience what you have never known before; sensation beyond endurance. I have this gift."

I could hear him breath on the phone. It was strong, pulsating. It felt like he was in the room caressing me with his words—my body went hot and still. His tone of voice, his belief in his grandiose powers to satisfy that came from his hands, made me think I was in the presence of a lunatic evangelist who had no pulpit to preach from except this telephone. Something warned me this being might be dark, deranged, change my life forever, but I was caught, captured, seduced into his web of words.

What was so enticing, so captivating?

I had called the personals tonight in search of fantasy, and here was something gripping me with body sensations. My mind was on fire. Lust was smoldering and warming the telephone lines.

"I like this unending pleasure you speak of," I told the caller. "Clever line. Are you a poet?"

"No," he said. "Just the lover that every woman wants. I will make you beg me to stop. I can give you what you want. What is it you like? Do you like to be on your knees?"

His voice was low and rumbling this dark snow covered night shattered only by the sound of hailstones beating the windows. It was deep and powerful. I was drawn into his talk, but I could not respond.

"I bet your body is luscious and ripe waiting for me," he said.

I was getting light headed and tingly hoping he would manifest beside me so I could touch him. He must have been magnificent. Who else could have such powers?

I heard a child's voice call Daddy in the background. The man's voice changed. It became nasal as if the sultriness was a memory of someone else. Who was this masked man who could make my limbs burn? I knew the nasal voice. I wanted the seductive one. I churned the vibrations of both, their tones, the way the vowels were long and drawn out and the consonants hard and gripping.

It sounded like Jack Roper who worked at the post office. Couldn't be Jack. He could never make me feel this way. I must be wrong. I had to know.

"Is that you, Jack?" I said.

"Who is this?" he asked, his voice shot back to hot and sultry like a fourth of July firecracker ignited and in flight.

"Laurel. You know the lady writer who sees you every Monday when I mail my stories. Do you have a cold, Jack? Your voice has changed."

"No, it's not me, Jack. I am Picasso. Picasso has no cold. He has a palette of colors to arouse. I am also a magician with my voice. I can make it sound like weak men and babies. I can sound like children and mothers. My creativity knows no bounds."

"I'd know that nasal voice anywhere. It's you, Jack, isn't it? You can't fool me. Now come on, be truthful. The Jack I know would not make a lizard dance. He is frightened of reptiles."

The man became impatient. I was cautious and excited.

"I am not Jack. Who is this Jack, such a boring name? And I can make lizards beg. They do not scare me. I am the great Picasso. My Blue Period will make you weep with longing, and when I take your body and reconstruct it with my hands you will praise me. I have received standing ovations and superb reviews for my work. I am a master."

I became bolder. "It's you Jack Roper, the middle aged guy with the tortoise rimmed glasses. I see your wife Janice at the market every week. We went to high school together. You can't fool me. Come on. Admit it. I won't tell anyone."

There was a sigh and then the man said, "It's me Jack. If I knew it was you, I would have hung up the phone. I do this in my spare time. It helps me. Since Janice had the twins she has not wanted to..."

"To what, Jack? You can tell me. I won't tell a soul."

"To let me be an artist. Please don't let her know I make these calls."

"Well, Jack. I won't if.... you would still give me pleasure."

"How?" Jack said.

"Unending postage?"

"That's a lot of stamps, Laurel. I could get in trouble. Of course I would pay for them."

"Right, Jack. I believe you."

"I am an honest man, Laurel."

"I know, Jack. That is why I am asking. One of your sticky stamps on each of my yearning fingers. That is not much to ask for inner peace, knowing you did the right thing by me. What do you say, Jack? Unending stamps or a call to...? "

"You promise to tell no one what happened if I do this?"

"Yes," I said.

As if he knew his power over me, his captivating voice said, "In every man there is a Picasso ready to create. I will see you at the post office on Monday, and I'll give you what you want, what all women writers want."

"What," I said breathlessly fondling one breast and going lower.

"Unending... " he said.

I could take it no longer. I screamed, "Yes. Yes. Yes."

"Postage," he said.

"Good-bye, Jack"

"Good-bye, Laurel."

I had a cigarette, watched the snowfall, and dialed 1-800 erotophone. There were more things in heaven and earth that I could have dreamed of on the phone this snowy night.

© Elizabeth Glixman 2004

back to THE GSG VAULT