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One of those men was me. Each guy's greeting was his name and a little something about himself. Our messages were either lewd or pornographic, nothing else. Using euphemisms about your penis counted as a true gentleman's move. I was no better than the rest. The women's greetings tended to differ from the men's; they spoke about amusement parks and dining out and walks on the beach.

We all knew why we were here and it wasn't to line up any dates. We were there to talk dirty into our People who want phone sex and masturbate in our separate darkened rooms. We liked each other's voices — each other's imaginations — enough to keep calling back.

Scroll through the many recorded messages, listening for the voice we recognised. She was Margie and I was Michael. We spent two years having phone sex and, eventually, speaking to each other off the line, but we never told each other our real names. Why was I doing this? I was in college and, in theory, surrounded by eligible women.

Even the losers were doing all right. I weighed 25 stone, and I didn't stand nine feet tall, so the weight didn't sit well on me. I was as big as an estate. Lumpy and lazy; I aspired to lethargy. People who want phone sex the second year of university, I missed half my classes just because I couldn't pull myself out of bed.


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