We talked for a little over six hours, but we only fucked for three of them. I lost count on the sixth orgasm. Need I say she was a good conversationalist? I had never been that tired, or that exhausted, or that sexually engaged with an overheated telephone at my ear. I was a tad worried about radiation and the cancer it may well cause, but I could not help myself — I was now a slave to telefucking her.

What is one to do with a dying cell phone, sticky from your own juices and the sound of her breathless and acting out your most secret and shamefully exciting but forbidden fantasies? You dial her from the house phone and tell her to click over. When she answers, the marathon continues with her moaning and you leaking from orifices you aren’t sure should be self-lubricating. Then she says something you know she couldn’t have said and all the nuns from your all girls’ Catholic high school start screaming, “You are going to hell, Staceyann Chin! And the Devil has a special corner of heat waiting for you and this wanton wretch of a lover you are panting to on that phone!”

Every nerve in my clitoris is alive and dancing. Every pore is sweating the slick salt of my excitement. I am in heaven, and not even the threat of hell can make me hang up. Twice more, we buck and scream and dig our heels into our respective queen-sized beds. It is three in the morning, but I am not sleepy, and she is also wide-awake. Good sense says that we should end this and go to bed. Especially since I rise with the summer sun. But she is whimpering again and I am wont to follow with my own guttural renditions.

I can’t imagine what has come over us.

Two educated, articulate, witty women, reduced to the unintelligible sounds replaying over and over until the night is wet with our antics. Something of this feels like my brain has melted to mush and my will has given in to my body and its baser instincts. I want to pull myself up, say, “Staceyann, pull yourself together, say something to redeem you from this babbling, rasping mess of multiple kumquats.” But all I can do is lay there, fluid oozing from my pussy, my mouth unable to form any adult words.

And I know that we have truly lost our minds when, 15 minutes later, one of us (I’m not sure which) says, “I want to do it again.”

It is almost four o’clock when we finally shudder into a quiet acquiescence of goodnight. I sleep like the proverbial log until nine — and I should add that that was sleeping in for me.

Two days later, we still cannot speak of the night without blushing and/or gushing waterfalls in our pants. Being close to her is always cause for wetness, but now, being away from her means we may chance to telefuck again. So I wait for the sun to set. Then I casually ring to say hi, hoping something of the midsummer’s night will make us mad again.