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Must Have Excellent Oral Skills
Author:[profile] sharon_hate 
Rated: NC-17
Disclaimer: These are fictional events.
Notes: Beta'd by [personal profile] matchsticks_p

"No experience necessary. Will train. All hours available. Part time or full time. Clean, fun and friendly environment. Great perks including paid time off and bonuses." 

‘Patrick the Phone Sex Operator’ AU. (Patrick/Pete)

It’s the middle of the afternoon and his building’s hallway is almost entirely abandoned; the exception being Patrick’s neighbor Jeff, who stands aimlessly in his own doorway, barefoot. The cigarette, lit and glowing, is his only accessory to his ensemble of faded blue boxers and a thread-bare robe.
“Going to the office?” he asks, nodding to Patrick as he steps into the thinly carpeted hallway. Patrick responds to the greeting with an achingly polite smile and a tilted chin.
“Yeah. You know how it goes,” he mutters uncertainly.
The disheveled man only laughs, his mousy beard pulling up around his smile. “No,” he replies coolly, “not really.”
After offering a customary laugh, Patrick takes off in even strides down the hall. Only half way to the stairwell, Jeff speaks up again, “Never was one for that whole working-thing.”
Patrick’s not, either, but having Ben, his roommate, give him that disappointed, let downlook as the bills pile up is enough to keep him clocking in.


The office Patrick goes to isn’t really an office, not in the traditional sense that his mother and neighbor Jeff think. It’s a wide, four-story warehouse filled to the very top with poorly made desks and creaky, charcoal grey swivel chairs.
His desk is towards the back of the floor, second desk in the second row. With the exception of the keyless phone on the left and the dirty magazines fanned out on the right, the desk is clear.
The shift Patrick has is mostly unvarying, 3 pm to 7 pm, Monday through Thursday and Friday nights if he wants overtime. It’s decent money for a job that really requires no actual movement. He gets normal calls, not the kinky fetish callers who are looking for humiliation and submission. So it’s okay. He’s okay.
He figures this is the closest he’ll ever get to being paid for his voice.
The only thing he really dislikes about the office is a few of the other employees. They treat Patrick a little bit like he’s a pet, always touching his back and grabbing at his chin. It’s the comments on his height that really rile up his mostly dormant Napoleon complex.
If he were to be honest, it’s more the fact that the comments play into his not-so dormant insecurities. Just because he’s in this business doesn’t mean he’s not allowed to be insecure sometimes (most of the time).


His breath catches, jagged, against the receiver, “Tell me what you’re wearing, Patrick.”
Nine minutes in so far; Patrick makes it a point to at least keep them for fifteen.“I really want to know,” the man sighs, faceless and a million miles away.
John, he says is his name, but that’s what they all say, so. Patrick just rolls with the punches, and learns to stifle the laughter blooming in his chest.
$3.99 a minute, Patrick thinks, and fiddles with the frayed, softened edges of the notebook in his back pocket. A half-dead blue pen is settled firmly behind his ear; he keeps it there for the unnecessary (yet still compulsory) math he does.
“Me? What am I wearing?” he says lowly, pulling out his paper and pen, and pauses for thought.
($3.99 times nine. $35.91. That’s—that’s okay, he supposes. It’s a good amount for some who supposedly has never done this before. Usually, they keep track of their minutes and the rate in their head. He gives it five more minutes.
The arithmetic is elementary, but he still has to bite his lip to keep from whispering the rules aloud.)
“Actually, you called just as I was getting dressed. I was going to go to a club with my roommate, later. I—I’m just wearing a pair of jeans,” he makes an involuntary face, “they’re actually kind of tight, but I like them, you know.”
It’s not as if John actually expects to be told the truth. He’s not an idiot, probably.
“You’re lying,” John smirks into the phone, lazy and a little teasing. He’s getting arrogant, Patrick thinks. Yeah, it will get to fifteen.
Patrick pulls his trucker hat off his head and tosses it down onto his desk; it lands just off center of the latest issue of Jock.“Maybe,” he says flippantly. (John voice is low and rough, ‘and your cock?’  He sucks in a breath.)My cock? I’d rather hear about yours. I bet it’s big.”
John grumbles, “It’s fucking huge.”
He runs his fingers through the longer pieces of blonde-red hair at the back of his neck, playing with the length idly. Patrick’s other hand, the one holding the phone, is beginning to sweat and he switches hands absently.
“Is it?” Patrick smiles, keeping his breath shallow. “God, John—let me feel it. I really want to feel it.”
“You want it in your mouth.”
Patrick blinks. “Fuck yes.” There are short grunts and sharp intakes coming through the receiver. “Fuck my mouth, John, I want it so bad. Pretend I’m Daniel, just fucking let me have it.” John’s silent, even his heart and lungs. “I want it, I need it so bad. Let me feel your big dick between my lips.”
“Daniel,” he sighs.
Patrick moans, “Do it, John.”
There’s a gasp, “shit.” There’s rustling, the sound of John wiping furiously at his pants and his panting slowing back to normal.
“Alright, fuck,” he breathes, “I have to go.”
“Take care,” Patrick pulls his hat back down over his hair, a reddish tuft sticking out through the back, “John.”


The ad was straight to the point; "No experience necessary. Will train. All hours available. Part time or full time. Clean, fun and friendly environment. Great perks including paid time off and bonuses."
Sounds great to a guy with a GED and an aversion (an allergy, practically) to conventional ‘9 to 5’ careers.


At his small, two-bedroom apartment, the communal answering machine blinks frantically at him.
Immediately upon seeing it, an anxiety sets in his chest. (“Fuck,” he swears. “It’s her, of course, it’s her.”) It’s worse than his first call, the first time he heard another man groan into his ear because of his quick words.
He releases a heavy sigh and pushes the button finally.
“You have one new message,” it croaks out in a dull staccato.
Patrick?” the machine asks in a hurried, worried voice. “It’s me—Yeah, look. I know we were supposed to go out tonight, but something came up and I kind of have to cancel.” A tentative hiss sounds through. “I’ll talk to you later, I guess. Bye.”
Patrick should call her back, but having a normal conversation sends his heart thumping and makes his blood hot. And the thought of having to chat about why her sudden ‘something’ is more important than him makes his stomach flip.
He’s just so insecure sometimes.


“I want to know what you look like—really look like,” the voice requests, in a slightly nasal rasp. He hasn’t told Patrick his name yet, even after he asked so politely. He doesn’t think he ever will tonight.
And it’s not as if he could just check, because Patrick doesn’t get the credit information. He just gets the call, just a flashing red light on the phone dock that indicates someone needs his services.
The black-matte phone, cord long and tangled from years of mindless twirling, sits off to the side on Patrick’s plain desk—right next to the stacks of dirty, inspirational magazines he never utilizes.One of the three people he shares this desk with throughout the day, Eric, jokingly wrote in with shiny-shiny silver marker, “XXX” and “Trick’s sexy phone”. He laughed, even if he was a little embarrassed.
(It’s not as if he can modest about it; it’s not like they don’t do it, too.)
“I’m five-ten,”he licks his lips. Nameless-Raspy, with his slightly inquisitive croon, is a talker; Patrick can already tell. They’ve been on for only a minute, but he has a (disillusioned) seasoned sense for these things. “I’m blond,” he continues. “All over. That’s always the next question,” Patrick manages to inject a playful manner into his words and successfully hides the wear in his voice.
“No, no,” the caller interrupts and Patrick hears his slight exasperation, “I said, what you really look like.”
“That is what I look like,” Patrick rolls his eyes and sighs.
At 4:37 am, and nearing the end of one of his infrequent nightshifts, his fatigue is beginning to weigh down on him. Most nights, the drone of a husky-sweaty voice humming against his ear is enough to keep him from deflating into a heap on his desk. Tonight, or this morning, rather, the weariness has stretched down into his bones and settled. He shouldn’t be surprised; it’s been a long-time coming, this fatigue.
Jeez, just fucking tell me, okay?” the customer gripes, with sharp enunciation and hasty elocution. “I want to know.”
If there’s anything Patrick actually strives for with this job, other than to make it till the end of shift, it’s to keep the character he’s carved out for himself. It’s awkward and strange, saying all these things to people as himself, he had decided.
Some of the company’s veterans had informed him that it would be much easier if he kept everything as close to the truth as possible. Patrick sighed and thought, no offense to them, but the truth is, he’s not sexy or confident, so he pretends to be someone who is.
It’s 4:37 am, and nearing the end of one of his infrequent nightshifts, and he doesn’t want to argue with this first-time, nameless caller. He’s tired, and he just wants to be Patrick, for once.
“I’m—” he begins, broken down and world-weary, “I’m five-four. I have kinda reddish hair and, and I wear glasses.”
“Sweet,” the man inhales his own words like there’s a cigarette caught between his lips, “and like, your body?”
Patrick actually hesitates with a response. “I’m kind of paunchy.”
“Okay, okay.” The guy’s voice, it’s still nasal and torn raw like he spends his nights screaming at empty walls, but it’s quick and almost breathy. He’s getting off to it, Patrick realizes, and it’s to him—it’s to Patrick. A strangely gratifying warmth spreads throughout his chest, and he begins to wonder when the last time he actually had sex was. “Fuck, I really want you to give me a handjob.”
The suddenness of the statement makes Patrick laugh. His eyes still half-lidded with exhaustion, but he’s getting there. Consciousness seems like a possibility, a definite possibility.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, with a strange inflection on his words. He’s still touching himself, and just letting Patrick’s voice swirl around him like smoke. Nameless seems okay, he seems decent.
“Nothing, nothing,” Patrick tries to explain, “it was just random, sort of.”
The customer actually manages to snicker, “This is a phone sex-line, not that random.” There’s a moment of silence, where Patrick actually forgets this isn’t a normal conversation—it almost seems like it is, though, with this particular guy. It’s just talking, and maybe he deliberately let himself forget. “At least pretend to be enjoying this,” the man tries.
But it is a job, he remembers. He should try to do it, he thinks, maybe just a little.
“What do you want me to do? Tell you hard you’re making me?” he asks, letting his smooth tenor dip down even lower. Even if he’s not hard, Patrick is actually really enjoying this. “I wish you could fucking see me. I’m spreading my thighs for you.”
“God, I wish I could see them,” the caller scratches out.
The words get caught in Patrick’s throat, but only for a second. “Y-yeah.” He quickly catches himself and recovers, “I’m just sitting at my desk, and there are at least a dozen other people in the room right now. But I can’t stop thinking about how your cock might feel and how fucking hot you probably are. And how bad I fucking want you.”
Through the earpiece, he can ear the growls and swears of the caller. And in the background, if Patrick concentrates hard enough, he can make out the sound of a television and two people talking over a fuzzy laugh-track. He distantly fingers the frayed threads of his t-shirt as he continues listening in on the caller’s life.
“I’d love to see you on your back, white skin and—And freckles?” he seems to ask. Patrick murmurs a short confirmation—they’re scattered along his shoulders, inching down his back until they fade away.
“So you want me to go on my hands and knees?” He brushes a stray lock of hair from his eyes, and taps thoughtfully at his temple. “Is that it, is that what you want to do? You just want to fuck me from behind. And for me to take it.” A soft whimper floats into his earpiece, “to see my back and freckles.”
“I want to touch you, and your stomach. I want to come on you,” he grits out through clenched teeth, “fucking taste it.”
A soft moan resonates into Patrick’s ear, causing a shiver to run down his arms. “I am. I want to so bad, I need it—you to fuck me so hard, till I can’t walk. I want you to give it to me, to pound into me so I can scream for you.”  
There’s more sounds, more groans and sighs, and then a heavy silence.
“So,” the caller’s voice returns to normal pitch, and switches his phone to the opposite hand. Static and crackling vibrates straight into Patrick’s brain and into his spine.
“Hey, what’s your name?” Patrick asks, holding his breath. “I actually liked this. It was fun.”
“Did you even get off on it?” is his dry response.
“No, but—” Patrick pauses, “I could have.”
He laughs into the mouthpiece; it sounds distorted and dissonant on Patrick’s end. “My name’s Pete.”


Lying in his bed, Patrick can hear Ben in the living room watching old sitcoms. The living room window is probably open, letting the smoke from his cigarette billow out into the tall treetop just hitting mid-second floor.
It’s nearly three in the morning, but he lays still and staring at the ceiling. A small part of him wishes there were a body next to his, at least to warm the sheets. (She had called again, but fuck her, right? He doesn’t need that, and he definitely doesn’t need the anguish.) It sounds a little needy, so it’s something he rarely admits, even when it’s just him.
The last real-regular boyfriend he had, James, got off to his voice like he was a customer. He had thought his job was sort of cool and knowing that made Patrick’s stomach clench. Because it’s not really a cool job—it’s actually sort of shitty, he muses. It’s not like he can tell people he works at a gay sex-line.
As far as his family’s concerned, he’s a telemarketer. It’s almost the same, Patrick thinks.
James was too into it, with his sandy hair, and Patrick hated that he would ask for him to talk like that in bed. It’s like taking work home; it’s being treated like a kink. He’s Patrick. Can’t he just be Patrick?
The urge to call her back is stronger than ever and he actually almost gets out of bed. It’s late, though, she’s probably asleep. 


The Circus Liquor is exactly five blocks from Patrick’s apartment; it’s only seven minutes away if he hurries. The tall marquee in the parking lot features a white-faced clown with arms wrapped around curling, red letters, Circus Liquor.
His shoes smack carelessly against the speckled grey tiles until he pauses suddenly in front of mini-refrigerator, the Rockstar logo printed all along the side and top if it. He opens it and grabs a tall can, the cold pressing into his palm, and takes it up to the cashier. He’s a dark-skinned man with jet black hair and a wispy goatee; his burgundy button up shirt has his name ‘Alan’ carefully stitched over his left breast in yellow cursive letters.
“Oh, uh,” Patrick stutters and blinks, looking behind the cashier to inspect all the small boxes queued in a neat row—cigarettes on the top, condoms on the bottom. Patrick happens to be buying both. It’s both to his amusement and dismay that they’re not even for him.
Ben had requested the favor quickly, shoving a crumpled twenty dollar bill into Patrick’s hand, one foot in the apartment and the other creeping out into the hall. (“You’re going out anyway, right? – Thanks.”)
“Marlboro Light’s and Trojans,” he frowns. The clerk turns around wordlessly, reaching in the back for a small white box with gold lettering. He goes to reach below, but pauses and looks up at Patrick with a blank expression that only comes with years of long night shifts.
“What size?” he questions dully.
“Uh,” Patrick fumbles, “regular.”
“Only regular?” a familiar voice titters behind him, sharp and pointed. Instantly, Patrick thinks it’s one of the guys from the office, as he calls it with only a touch of sarcasm.
“Fuck off,” he breathes as he turns around. It’s not one of them, though, it’s just some guy. Coffee skin and dark hair and wide smile split into his face like he was hit with an ax. “I don’t know you,” he automatically says, and immediately bites his tongue.
“Right, yeah, you probably don’t remember me. I mean, it was only like, ten minutes and you probably get a billion calls every night,” he steps forward and it’s Patrick’s natural instinct to step back.
“You-you called?” Patrick gulps. This has never happened before; no one’s ever found him in actual, real-life.It’s frightening in a way he’s never experienced before and he can only relate it to that shaky rush of having too much caffeine in your system, or too much adrenaline.
“Yeah,” the guy nods, “I recognized your voice. I remembered it— it was a big selling point for me.” The man behind the counter watches lazily, ringing Patrick up with exact and blunt clicks on the ancient cash register. “Wow, you’re small,” he notes, head cocked slightly.
Patrick’s cheeks bloom, before forcing a snarl, “Please fucking leave me alone. I just really want to fucking get out of here.” Spinning around, he grabs the black, indistinguishable bag and throws the dirty twenty down. It’s too much, but it’s not like it’s his money.
“Wait, shit, sorry,” the man apologizes, grabbing onto Patrick’s arm as he walks swiftly towards the door. He only stops because the strange man actually does look regretful with his worried eyebrows and deep grimace. “I don’t mean to be an asshole, but it happens. I’m Pete. I called like, last week. I hassled you until you gave up your bullshit ‘tall and blond’-thing.”
Pete, who has coffee skin and dark, fluffy and unnaturally straight hair, is grinning at him like he’s found a limb he’d been missing for years. And his hands are still wrapped around Patrick’s forearm, palms warm against his naturally cool skin.
“Pete?” Patrick licks his lips instinctively, “oh, okay. Wow, hi.” And Pete’s grin returns, twice as wide as it was before. “Hi,” Patrick repeats.
“Hi,” Pete says shortly, eyes beaming. Sticking out his hand, he continues, “nice to meet you, Patrick.”
Hesitant, Patrick sticks his own pale hand out. “Nice to meet you, too,” he murmurs softly with a shy smile.
“So are those condoms yours?” Pete asks. 
“Oh, no,” Patrick bites at his lower lip to keep his face from warming. “A friend of mine asked me to pick some up, on my way out.”
“A boyfriend?” Pete questions slyly, eyes slick. Patrick shakes his head, hand clutching the plastic bag a little tighter. “Oh, I see. So it’s okay if I get you like, a waffle cone or something?”
“A waffle cone?” Patrick laughs, embarrassment creeping up his neck. “Really, dude, that’s pretty random.”
Stepping even closer, if possible, to Patrick, Pete leans in a little and lets a serene smile pull at his lips. “I’m asking you out, not that random.”

 notes: Aha, thank you for reading. This was my first smuttish-fic, I hope you liked it. Please leave a comment, con-crit welcome.

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J. Gomez

May 2009


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