When Crank Calls Go Awry, Maternal Figures Talk Dirty

Reflecting on how a conversation with an old friend’s mother turned into a sexual awakening.

Death Dealer | Daily Girth


Has your friend’s mom ever talked dirty to you? Not just a speedy, one-time retort, no, I mean a full-on mouthful.

It happened to me, a long long time ago.

It was eighth grade and this exchange happened as a result of a crank call gone wrong.

My boys and I were playing video games late on a Saturday night so they just decided to sleep over. My parents were cool with it. Like any mischievous 13-yeard-olds, we thought it would be big fun to crank call people. Crank calls don’t have the same appeal any more since everybody has cellphones now.

Back then, a well-executed crank call could provide laughs for weeks, months, sometimes years. Hell, I made a crank call two years ago that my friends still talk about.

We call our classmate’s dad. He answers the phone, “Yo.” After the pickup, we played a track from one of Adam Sandler’s old albums. All the dad heard was, “No! They’re all going to laugh at you! No!”

Another call was made, this time to a random dial. I forgot who made this call, but the dialogue went like this: “Is Jim Bob there?”

“No, there’s no Jim Bob here. You must have the wrong number.”

“Wrong, man. You just picked up the wrong fucking phone.”

And then we hung up.

This took me by surprise … to be called that, it felt awkward. To hear another woman say it to me, that was exhilarating.


The last call was next and I made it. The plan was to call a classmate, actually a friend of ours, but not so close that he was playing “Super Mario Kart” and “Street Fighter II” on the Super Nintendo with us at that moment. No, not that close at all.

I dialed and homie’s mom answered. I said something generic, I can’t recall what, but I simply wanted to start a conversation, ramble and piss someone off.

The conversation went in a completely different direction.

“Who is this?” she asked.

“Who do you think?” I answered.

“Blowjob,” she said.

This took me by surprise. Blowjob? I knew what that was, but to be called that, it felt awkward. To hear another woman say it to me, that was exhilarating.

“Are you still there, Blowjob?”

I couldn’t answer. I was frozen. My pubescent brain couldn’t handle the stimulation.

“Blowjob, I know you’re there. I can hear you breathing over the phone. Come on, you called me.”

My friends stopped paying attention since no real dialogue was coming from me. They had their fun with Dragon Punches, Sonic Booms and Yoga Flames.

One of them asked what was going on? Was I still on the phone? Was anything being said?

She continued her steamy convo.

“Blowjob, how’s it going? Is it getting long and sticky?”

Wow. Just wow. Who was this woman? I didn’t know parents talked this way.

For the first time ever, I understood the appeal of speaking with those sex hotline chicks. I was genuinely aroused. I had never seen homie’s mom before, but she had me hooked with her dirty mouth.

She continued to seduce my young mind.

“Blowjob, is it reaching up to your belly button yet?”

Yikes. I had never thought of that before. Did it reach my belly button? Damn, I didn’t know. This type of measurement didn’t come up on a daily basis. Math class consisted of distance, area and perimeter. Measuring dick size never made it into the lesson plan.

After a while I just hung up. Fast forward numerous years and I heard that our buddy got mad at his mom once because he called her cell and heard her voicemail.

“Fuck,” he said. “Fuck. I can’t believe this. Mom, you need to change your voicemail message. You sound like a phone sex operator!”

Years after corrupting my brain, it sounded as if she still has that salty language at her disposal.

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