By Leanne Moreton
In an era of almost unbearable sexual paranoia, everyone thinks they are in danger of sleeping with the enemy—especially on university campuses. What’s a girl to do but complain. Valentine’s Day is over and I love hating it. My concept of romance is skewered by standards. Don’t buy me chocolate unless you want to scratch my hives. Hallmark’s ‘I love you’ make me puke, romance dinners are touching shared between 30 couples all clad in red and only give me flowers if you permit me to promptly hang them to dry. Am I being a spoilsport?
Cupid’s shooting to kill. I decided to try phone sex for a little excitement. No need to be embarrassed. I didn’t see Tom Hanks or Megan Ryan blushing in Sleepless In Seattle.
In the back of NOW Magazine there is a full page advertisement for Speakeasy—guaranteed as the world’s first interactive phone bar. It reminds me of the World’s Biggest Bookstore’s claim to fame. Speakeasy is open 24 hours a day for callers to croon, babble or breathe into the phone. And it’s free for women.
I left my boyfriend watching TV and settled into a wicker rocking chair in my kitchen with a bowl of popcorn.
It was midnight when I called the bar was full. Eighteen men and 12 women. Over top a bad mix of rock ‘n’ roll blues, “Rick,” my automated bartender welcomed me to “Speakeasy—the bar that never closes.” I could hear pre-taped voices flirting in the background. Rick warned me of some rules. No soliciting, no last names, phone numbers or dirty mouths. No dress code was mentioned so I felt comfortable in my long johns.
It was time to record a pick-up line. I settled on the honest approach, except for my name. By pressing the digits on my touchtone phone I could record, pick music for the background and answer some of Rick’s questions so that the patrons would know a little more about my likes and dislikes. Ten minutes later I was still answering Rick’s probing and intimate questions like, “What’s your favorite flavour of ice cream?” or “Where’s your dream vacation?” and finally “What do you look like?” I pressed number two on my phone, indicating I was good-looking. Other option included “drop-dead gorgeous” and “cute and cuddly.”
Figuring I was well acquainted with my phone pad now, I started cruising the bar. “Hi, it’s Vanessa. This is my first time at the bar and I was wondering if someone could show me around?” Mike answered me quite quickly and since I didn’t know how choosy I could afford to be, I pressed three on my pad agreeing to have a drink with him.
“So Vanessa, tell me about yourself. I know you like orange sherbert and you want to travel to Europe, but what else? How old are you?” Mike asked.
Trying to be sleazy, I responded “How old do you want me to be?”
“You are over 18 years right?” He asked.
“I’m legal enough to be yours,” I said coyly.
This did not impress Mike’s ethics and he phoned bouncer Billy who came onto my line and said, “Sorry little girl, adults only.” I listened to the dial tone ringing in my ear. I had never been kicked out of a bar before. Rather indignant, I phoned back and used the name Susie. Thankfully no one recognized my voice.
“Hi, this is Susie and I just got in from a bar and thought I’d talk to someone before going to bed.” I got a message from Jake, John and Mark. I pressed four to learn more about Mark. “If you want to send this person a message under their drink, press five now,” instructed Rick. I sent Mark a friendly message and he sent one back. Apparently his phone was pretty hi-tech. Mark thought my hair smelled fantastic, looked fantastic, felt fantastic. “Can I play with it?” He asked. I slipped Mark a note explaining I had a shaved head.
Honesty wasn’t quite getting me who I wanted so I tried another voice. “It’s Lana and to be blunt I’m not interested in masturbating anyone tonight, but if you’re looking for good conversation, give me a call.”
Lana got a lot more responses. First I heard from Jeff, Gilmore, Mark (he wanted to play with my hair again), Dave, Michael (again) and Gilmore (again).
I decided to give Gilmore, who’s pick-up was “Hey ladies, it’s Gilmore. I’m from Scarborough, 23 years old and I’ve been told I look like the lead singer from White Snake,” a chance, even though I had no clue which band he was talking about.
“Hi Gilmore, it’s Lana. Thanks for sending me a note, but I think I’m going to cruise for a while longer. We’ll talk later.” I pressed one to continue listening to men’s messages. Rick broke in to tell me I had several new messages but that I should slow down because I had met everyone in the bar. Lana was getting a little bored. Besides, it was almost four a.m. and I wanted to try some vampy/trampy messages. This particular quote is borrowed from Madame Heidi Fleiss.
“Hi, it’s Heidi and I was probably born with a hooker’s mentality because I do believe men should pay for everything. I think men should pay for girls’ houses, cars, diamonds, dinners. I don’t think girls should have to do anything. Girls should have fun, that’s it.”
I stayed on the line waiting for a response. Apparently Fleiss’ concept of romance included everything that is unappealing to the men on Speakeasy because I only got one response. Prince Charming slipped me a note under my drink. I pressed three to listen to it.
“I understand where you’re coming from. I’m very traditional and I believe a man should pay,” said Prince Charming. “Would you be interested in going for a Chinese buffet on Valentine’s Day?”
Heidi reflected for a while on being Cinderella, ate some popcorn before pressing two to record a message. “Well Prince Charming, that certainly is the height of romance, escorting a woman to a restaurant and whispering in her ear “Honey serve yourself.”
No wonder Heidi Fleiss is in jail. No gems here.
Enough is enough, I had been on the phone now for four and a half hours. I wanted to try one sexy voice before hanging up. This is addictive.
“Hi, it’s Juliet and I’m looking for some pillow talk,” I crooned into the phone, lowering my voice as much as I could without coughing.
Waiting, I cruised through all nine men left in the bar. I was sure Juliet would arouse a line-up to listen to cheap phone sex. Meanwhile, I continued listening to messages. Suddenly a very clear voice said, “HI everyone this is Christian. I’m new to the bar, but I’ll tell you a bit about myself. I write a regular newspaper column, 38 years old and I have a four-year old son. I’m trying to start a magazine focusing on single fathers. If you’re interested, call me.”
This man sounded genuine. I wanted to talk to him as Leanne, but Juliet was my guise. I sent Christian back a note in an equally clear voice.
“Hey Christian. I edit a woman’s campus magazine. If you really do write, I’d like to talk to you.”
We played phone tag for a while on our respective touchtone phones, passing notes until Christian asked me if I wanted to dance. This is Speakeasy’s code for talking. I hadn’t spoken with anyone all night in person so I pressed seven to degree.
The glass shattered.
Christian checked my initial sexpot recording. “What’s with the message Juliet? You wouldn’t be doing a story would you?” he asked.
Caught red-handed there was no turning back.
“Christian, what kind of fruit do you like because I like melons and bananas. I’ll suck your banana if you suck my melons.”
Click.
Bouncer Billy wanted to talk to me again about my dirty mouth before throwing me out the door. I was not pleased about being thrown out for a second time. On the bright side, I wasn’t banned.
Disappointed in the lack of kinkiness of my mouthpiece I finished my popcorn. I’d never been the type to get thrown out of bars. Forget romance. The once sporting battle of the sexes has become an apocalypse now. Is there any hope?
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