It dawns on me that some of my readers may be too young to recall the days in which obscene phone calls were a thing. The world was full of anonymous pay phones, and caller ID didn’t exist, or it was a premium service with an extra monthly charge that many people didn’t pay. Go far enough back, and “tracing the call” was something that had to be done by a live human “operator” at the phone company while the call was in progress. That pretty much meant that an obscene caller faced no repercussions whatsoever, unless they were foolish enough to harass the same party repeatedly, to the point where the police became involved.
I’m not actually old enough to remember when obscene phone calling was still the favorite activity of boundary-pushing perverts, but when I was a younger person, it was still a vivid part of the cultural history and memory of all the adults I knew. It was so common, people made comedy about it.
Thus it is no surprise that a stroke book from the 1970s opens with a description of a fictitious obscene call:
“Damn it! If you don’t tell me who’s calling I’m going to hang up!”
Harry Appleton smiled obscenely as he listened to the irritated female voice at the other end of the telephone. He was sprawled in an old overstuffed chair, the telephone cradled between his check and shoulder, one long leg hooked over the chair’s dirt-encrusted arm. In his left hand he held a tattered copy of a magazine that was open at the centerfold. His avid eyes scanned the glossy color photograph of a naked girl kneeling on the floor, her heavy breasts pressed flat against the carpet while her fingers reached around her body to pull her pendulous buttocks apart and expose her puckered little anal opening. His other hand lovingly massaged the swollen cock that jutted out from his unzipped jeans.
“”George, is that you?” the woman on the telephone asked, a note of fright creeping into her voice and replacing the previous irritation. “Is this another one of your jokes, George?”
Harry smiled again and cleared his throat. He could tell that the nervous woman was about to hang up on him and he didn’t want to loose the connection.
“Is this Miss Watkins? Sarah Watkins?” he asked, pitching his voice low. There was almost no chance that she would recognize his voice from their one brief meeting, he knew, but he was going to take no chances.
“Yes, this is Sarah Watkins,” the woman answered, a little puzzled now. “Who’s calling, please?”
“You don’t know me, Sarah,” Harry said quietly, without a trace of emotion even though his heart was thudding wildly in his chest. “No, you don’t know me at all.”
“What is it you want then?”
He choked down a lewd laugh as he stared at the photograph of the obscenely posed girl in the magazine. When he let his mind roam freely, as he often did, he could almost imagine that the girl was here in the room with him, moving her luscious ass around in provocative circles while she begged him to shove his lust-hardened cock up into her tightly-puckered asshole. His fingers grasped his penis in a vice grip as the woman on the telephone interrupted his obscene reveries by speaking again this time more urgently.
“If you don’t tell my what you want right now, I’m going to hang up!”
Harry threw the magazine onto the floor and sat up straight, a fierce glow in his eyes. He licked his dry lips with his tongue as he cleared his throat again.
“I want to fuck your asshole, baby!” he almost screamed into the telephone. “I want to shove my cock up into that tight little hole and make you scream for fucking mercy! And I’m going to! Just you wait and see!”
From Anal Rampage by Paul Stone (certainly a pseudonym), published by Blackpool Library (BL-119, 1970s).
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