Let me first state that I am a proud supporter of smut.  Long have I enjoyed the titillating thrills of a good peep show, or the immeasurable pleasures of a drawn-out fan dance.  I enjoy it, and to hell with the puritanical manatees who would rather shake a bible then watch a young woman shake her dainties.  So when I espied a television solicitation while struggling with insomnia one night, I immediately grasped my phone with my feet, and placed a call.  Now the lovely young vixen whose sonorous tones enticed me to place the call assured me we were going to talk.  In fact I recall her saying something like, "Give a call and maybe we can... you know... talk."  The advertisement failed to mention that in order to talk I would need to wade through the horrors of an automated system which I can assure you, was not in the least bit erotic.  When I had finally made the appropriate selections and provided dubious individuals with my financial information, I was placed in contact with a young lady named Ginger, though I doubted both her youth, her name being Ginger, and perhaps even the notion that she was a lady.

What followed dear readers could be likened to a smoky-voiced grandmother vomiting obscenity.  The topics young Ginger threw at my swollen ears both shocked and offended.  Where was the playful banter?  Where was the clever word-play?  The intrigue generated by two strangers meeting by accident in the night?  Bah!  I hung up on the harlot in disgust.  The next morning I had a member of my staff examine my bank statement which is when I discovered what the automated system meant by "minimum charge."  Though I had only talked to Ginger for a scant three minutes I was charged the requisite fifteen, which was surprisingly more expensive than the standard per minute charge.

Adult phone lines?  Phooey!  Who needs them?  When I feel the need to be randy dear reader, I shall retire to the solace of my drawing room with a well-worn copy of Lady Chatterly's Lover.