cell phone as a weapon of sexual perversion ( R-18)

Then: “Hon, what flavor is your condom?”
Now: “Hon, what model is your cell phone?”

You. Yes, you, Ethel Booba prototype. You have become paranoid---what will all this hoopla about sex videos. All too suddenly, you regret having egged him to replace his 3310. Or was it 5110?

Foreplay to you has taken on a new dimension. Now it’s you who undress him, making sure that no phone cam is wedged between his bushy armpits or tucked into his filthy navel or taped on his burgeoning love handles. As you grope him, you wonder if there’s a phone small enough to pass as cavities. Or in-grown toenails. Or tonsils.

He complains about all this fuss. You persist, nay, insist! Finally, you lie down beside him, only to bolt up after something that glints in the ceiling crosses your peripheral vision. A hidden phone cam? But you tone down just as fast, knowing there is no way he could stick it there because earlier you made sure to enter the room ahead of him.

You make love. And wriggle. And moan. And ever so excruciatingly, you open mouth. Then you remember your Fil-Am cousin telling you about this gum-thin cell phone. Like a frog zapping a mosquito, you shut your mouth in a snap. What if in the white heat of passion, he slips it into your mouth and you, in turn, swallow it? What if the next day, you watch in horror all your entrails, including a cirrhotic liver and a busted appendix, being dissected on national television in a show that has nothing to do with human anatomy?

You shudder. Whether from the burning thought or blinding orgasm, you don’t know. All you know is you need to go back to basics. Like buying him a fax, perhaps?