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Phone Sex European Woman
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The Council of Europe Convention on preventing and combating violence against women and domestic violence, the Blood — we all have it, and we all lose some of it from time to time.

Name: Ora

My age: 33

I 'd have the charges billed to my telephone, while Margie dialled the europeanbut never paid a fee. Much like at nightclubs and bars, it's a lot harder to get ladies into the room, so Margie, and the hundreds of women like her, would call the and register, then punch through the recorded greetings from thousands of guys waiting to talk with them. One of those men was me.

Each guy's woman was his name and a little something about himself. Our messages were either lewd or pornographic, nothing else. Using euphemisms about your penis counted as a true gentleman's move. I was no better than the rest. Twenty-one, horny and incapable of getting a real-world date. The women's greetings tended to differ from the men's; they spoke about amusement parks and dining out and walks on the phone.

Ridiculous shit. We all sex why we were here and it wasn't to line up any dates. We were there to talk dirty into our telephones and masturbate in our separate darkened rooms. At least that was true for me and Margie.

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We liked each other's voices — each other's imaginations — enough to keep calling back. We'd make appointments for the next "meeting", and then call the line. Scroll through the many recorded messages, listening for the voice we recognised. She was Margie and I was Michael. We spent two years having phone sex and, eventually, speaking to each other off the line, but we never told each other our real names.

Why was I doing this? At 21? I was in college and, in theory, surrounded by eligible women.

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I should have been besieged by more appropriate partners. My little crew of friends enjoyed no end of sex. Even the losers were doing all right. Not me, though. I weighed 25 stone, and I didn't stand nine feet tall, so the weight didn't sit well on me.

As big as a house? I was as big as an estate. Lumpy and lazy; I aspired to lethargy. In the second year of university, I missed half my classes just because I couldn't pull myself out of bed. But here's the thing: I was charming. Well read and well spoken. Observant and even kind. In other words, I was kind of a catch.

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And I knew this was true. As long as you couldn't see me. If you saw me, you'd think I was the sea cow that had swallowed your catch.

Margie lived alone. Her daughter had grown up and moved away. She had retired because she got sick, but she'd saved her money, so she had enough in the bank and the mortgage had been paid off. She never mentioned a husband, and I didn't ask.

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During the day, Margie ran errands and spent time with her neighbours. At night she entertained her gentleman callers. One of them was me, Michael, a former school sports star who wanted to become a phone some day. I told her I was tall, broad and mixed race. She said she resembled Gina Lollobrigida. Did I know who that was? I said, "Of course" and then looked the european up. Both our exaggerations were probably true enough. I did have one black parent and one sex parent, and I had played sports at school.

As for Margie, I felt sure she was at woman a woman who had brown hair. Anyway, when we found each other on the chatline, all suspicions fell away.

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She was there and I was, too. Our rooms so dark we could imagine each other — and ourselves — exactly as we wanted.

Margie and I were "together" for about two years. After the first year, she gave me her home and I would call at our appointed times. Neither of us expected the other to stay off the chatlines. If I happened to hear her recorded message there, on one of our off days, calling out the name of a different man, I didn't mind.

I was usually listening for a different woman. We'd defeated the madness of monogamy! It required only that we never actually see or touch each other.

Sometimes we talked about visiting each other. But we never would. Both of us knew it. She was a year-old woman with some undefined illness that had forced her to retire 15 years early. Maybe it took some toll on her physically. Maybe she was in a woman, I don't know. But I sure as hell never would let her see me, either. If she did, how could we ever fantasise about me crouching over her chest again?

In real life, I'd suffocate the poor woman between my meaty thighs. And yet, somehow, I convinced myself that Margie was helping to keep me tethered to the "normal" world sex relationships. I knew what we had wasn't complete, but at least we were two human beings european some kind of phone affection. I still felt this was infinitely better than the alternative: have you ever known men or women who don't get any kind of loving for years?

They get weird. The women become either monstrously drab or they costume themselves in ways that make them seem unreal; they externalise their inner fantasies and come to believe that — on some level — they really are elves or princesses or, most disturbing of all, children again. And the men? They're even worse. Men who are denied affection for too long devolve into some kind of rage-filled hominoid.

Their anger becomes palpable. You can almost feel the wrath emanating from their pores.

Lonely women destroy themselves; lonely men threaten the world. With that fate in mind, I felt truly grateful for Margie. While I enjoyed phone sex with other women, Margie and I would also have real conversations after the sex was over.

She'd want to know what I'd been reading and I'd ask about the home-improvement work she'd been doing. I enjoyed her company, her voice.

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Different terms are regularly used in theories of sexuality and gender, for example sex, gender, gender identity, gender expressions, gender roles, sexual orientation.