Caller: So, is this Mistress Mah-TEE-cee?
Ya’ll know I have a theory that if you can’t pronounce my name, I’m probably not going to like you. You think I'm kidding. But it's really odd how often there's a connection between "can't say my name" and "asks me for inappropriate things".
So if you want to come see me, repeat after me: Mah. Teese. Slight stress on the first syllable, and that last e in the second syllable is silent, so it rhymes with geese. Henri would be spinning in his grave if he could hear how people butcher the name I borrowed from him. But since this caller sounds like a too-young (read: under 30, not my preferred age group) white boy, it’s possible art history is not his strong point.
Me: It’s Matisse, and yes, this is she. Can I help you?
Caller: Well, I was, like, wondering what you were up to?
What am I up to? No good, that’s for sure, but what’s his point?
Me: Are you calling to get information about a session?
Caller: No, I was just hanging out, and I was wondering if you wanted to come over and do some E with me.
Me: (foolishly) Excuse me?
Caller: I’ve got some Ecstasy and I was wondering if you wanna come over and do it with me.
I’ve heard of cockeyed optimists before, but I would say this guy’s cock is definitely poking him in the eye and impeding the blood flow to his brain. But I long ago ceased to be surprised by how hope springs eternal in the masculine breast. You can see plenty of examples of it through history. Just yesterday I was talking with Steve (hi, Steve) about how before the invention of a shipboard clock, there was no accurate way of calculating longitude and thus no absolutely reliable way for sailors to know where the hell they were going. The kind of insouciance required to get onto a boat and say, “Hey, let’s try sailing in that direction and see what happens” is amazing when you think about it. I mean, for all those guys knew, they were going to sail off the edge of the world, or be eaten by sea monsters, or who knows what. But off they went.
This guy would have made a great pre-18th century sailor. However, his optimism is utterly and completely misplaced in this context.
Me: No. No, I don’t.
Caller: Well, d’you wanna spank me then?
It’s nice when the answers are so simple.
Me: No, I don’t.
Click. He hangs up. Since navigation at sea is now a matter of science rather than luck, perhaps a career in telephone solicitation might suit him better.