I quite enjoy my ringtone. It’s the theme to Curb Your Enthusiasm, a bouncy jingle which often confuses people who aren’t already familiar with the television show.

It is somewhat irritating though, when you’re holding a turkey breast, filling it with stuffing, and trying to answer your phone before it reaches voicemail.

“Hello?” I answered without looking at the caller id, thankfully hitting the speakerphone button to return to my turkey-stuffing activities.

“[six],” Bunny Slippers’ voice sounded tinny and canned. “… hi.”

“What’s up?” I asked, now taking the time to cleanse my hands and address the phone call.

“… I… well…” she stumbled. She hesitated. I could hear people in the background, and some Christmas music.

“C’mon, [Bunny Slippers] what’s the matter? How’s your Christmas Day going?”

I heard the phone rustling. And then, in a hushed voice, “I hate it here.”

“What’s the matter?” I asked, concerned. I knew where she was - at her parents’ house in Greenwich, Connecticut, a short and boring ride on the train. Her family was bound to be there, her brothers, parents, uncles from Arlington, aunts from Boston, nephews, and nieces. She doesn’t see them all that often, even if she does live so close. It’s not the physical distance, it’s the emotional one, something an express train out of Grand Central can never reach.

More rustling. And what sounded like a door. And then a whirring of what sounded like a vacuum cleaner? Hm. I held the phone up to my ear. It was like the droning sound of a fan.

“[six], her voice returning, less hushed, but with plenty of background noise. “I hate it here. Why can’t I be there with you?” her voice pleaded. And then a pause. The sound of the fan droned in my ear. “Why can’t I be there… with you fucking me?”

The kitchen, the turkey, the oven, everything vanished. The only thing left was her voice.

“Is that what you want for Christmas?” I asked, knowing the answer already. “You, walking through the door, your body passing a little too close to mine, as you drop your purse on the table, like you always do.”

“… Yes…”

“And then turning on your heels to face me, to lick your lips as you see me taking those steps towards you. My eyes washing over your body from head to toe, up and down, before snapping back on your eyes. You know the way I look at you, don’t you?”

“… [six], yes, I do…”

“I look at you with lust, [Bunny Slippers]. I look at you with a thirst for your skin. I look at you with a hunger for your body. But you know that. And you know what’s next, right?”

“… Mmm, yes…”

I had a vision just then, of where she was. I’d been to her parents’ place once, and I remember now the bathroom on the first floor, by the kitchen. It was pretty small, a sink and a toilet, the white tile glistening from the light cast by the three round vanity bulbs over the mirror. There was a white fluffy rug and matching toilet seat cover. And the overhead fan that turned on whenever the lights were on, controlled by the one switch by the door. That’s where she was.

“My hands on you. I want you to touch yourself. My hands on you, [Bunny Slippers]. From your shoulders, down the sides of your body. Past your breasts, brushing against your nipples. To your hips. Undoing the button. Sliding the zipper down. Tearing your jeans off of you. Grabbing your panties on the way down - down until they’re around your ankles.”

She moaned. I knew she was sitting on the toilet seat cover, her jeans and panties down to her ankles already, her legs spreading wide so she could rub her clit. Her pussy moist and juicy-wet, her middle finger sliding back and forth.

“My tongue, licking down from your navel to your hips… my eyes looking up at you before I start licking at your pussy. Mmm, your pussy always tastes so good… it makes my mouth water, my tongue try even harder to get you wetter… to suck and to slide, to tongue and to taste, to lick and to lash at your pussy and your clit.”

I was speaking fast, my erection straining against my pants. Her moans and whimpers fueled me on.

“And my fingers now, on you. Rubbing up and down between your pink and swollen pussy lips. Slipping and sliding on your wet pussy. And it’s getting shiny… covered in your juice, soaked… before… sliding in. And up. And the tightness of your pussy, gripping my finger…”

She was a mix of “mmm” and “ungh” as I knew her finger had slipped up her pussy to match my words.

“Rubbing against the insides of your pussy… pressing against the tightness, sliding up and down. Fucking you.”

I don’t know why, or how I changed gears.

“Pinch yourself. Use your other hand, pinch your nipples through your shirt.”

“… Yes… Oooh…”

“And keep that finger in your pussy. Slide it up and down… now two fingers. And put the phone down by your pussy so I can hear it.”

Rustling. And the overwhelming fan noise… and then, the sound. Slick and wet, the sucking sound of her fingers diving into her pussy.

“Did you hear that?” she asked, the pauses between her words were a half of a second too long.

“Yes. Now rub your clit. Keep fucking yourself, those fingers in your wet, tight, hot pussy. Keep fucking yourself for me.”

“… Ungh… Yes… Mmm…”

“That’s it… yes, baby… keep fucking your wonderful pussy for me, that deliciously juicy puss-”

She cried out. And I hope the fan was loud enough to mask it. It droned as I could hear her moans, whimpers, and gasps come in quick staccato bursts. More rustling. And then her breathless reply.

“… I love you.”

It was followed by the sudden absence of the fan noise. Silence. She’d hung up.

For the second time in a week, I heard it said to me. I thought about mouthing the words, saying it silently back into the dead phone line. I thought about it because I felt I needed to say it, another knee-jerk reaction, maybe. Maybe not. It made me think horrible thoughts of stuffing, mashed potatoes, casseroles, and the naked turkey in the roasting pan. Horrible, horrible, Christmas thoughts.