Monday, June 25, 2007
Hair Don't (Or, Live Or Memorex)
I remembered this story over the weekend...
A (very) long time ago, my friend Max's then-roommate worked for a tech company in Boston that hosted a 1-900 phone sex line. The sex line was designed as a peer-to-peer (or queer-to-queer) system where people left messages and other potential, um, peer/queers responded to them. The roommate would occasionally come home with digital copies of the better messages left on the system.
Or, rather, the worst messages.
Case in point:
(First, to appreciate fully, think of the thickest Baaaawston accent your imagination can muster)
"Hi. My name is Michael. I'm a hairdresser in Brookline. I don't get many responses - don't know why. I want to suck you, fuck you, do your hair, do your nails, and take you out to dinner. So call me. Call me. Call now."
Now, not sure if it was the desperate three "call me"s at the end of the message...or the threat of a new spiral perm and acrylic nail tips that doomed poor Michael to never finding true love (or sweaty sex) via this 1-900 line.