Phone sex may prevent suicide

Doctor Alvin Booby—a therapist from London who specialises in treating chronic depression—made the surprising claim after listening to the testimony of a man who believes he was saved from certain death by the `healing` powers of 27-year-old Samara Tanz. The slim, vivacious blonde says she discovered Her unusual talent when Stanley Twytchen (46), rang Her number in mistake for UK confidential emotional support charity—Samaritans. An error that Doctor Booby claims could prevent untold numbers of desperate men and women taking their own lives. "The fact that Stanley received the best sex he`d ever had at Ms Tanz`s hands was an entirely unexpected bonus. Well—when I say hands—I`m speaking figuratively, of course. British Telecommunications tell me that physical contact on the `phone is still a few years away."

Ms Tanz has been dismissed as `a Phone Sex slut` by mental health professionals. "We take a very dim view of amateurs muscling in on the profession," complained one anonymous psychiatrist with a lucrative Harley Street practice that numbers several `B-list` celebrities on its books. "It takes years—sometimes many decades—of professional treatment at ?200 an hour to strip away the complex psychoses that drive these chronically ill individuals to top themselves. It`s a national scandal!"

Scandal or not, the would-be suicides who have experienced Samara`s healing touch at virtual first hand—or possibly lips, are not complaining. Nor are the Samaritans, who commented: "As a Christian charity we may not agree with Ms Tanz`s methods, but there`s no getting away from the fact that she`s prevented several suicides. Frankly, I couldn`t care less if she whips Her client`s virtual bottoms with imaginary wet string whilst they pleasure themselves to an explosive orgasm with an arsenal of sex toys—so long as it saves lives."

Ms Tanz takes up the story. "When Stan—um, Mr Twytchen—called, I was like—what? I guess I should`ve put the phone down when I realised he`d dialled the wrong number but after listening to his problems I didn`t have the heart to turn him away."
"What do you say to those psychiatrists who`ve accused you of undermining their work?" we asked.
"Send them the tape I made of my conversation with Stanley."
"And what was their response?"
Samara giggled. "Well—all I can tell you is I`ve never been busier, or had so many posh new clients."
"Can we hear the tape?"
"Well—okay, but not the really naughty bits. Stanley wouldn`t like that."
She laughed and switched on a small tape recorder.

"Hello? Is that Samaritans?" asked a hesitant male voice.
"Yeah...Samara Tanz," replied a breathy female. "Hi baby.
What`s your name?"
"Stan—Stanley...er...Twytchen. I live at—"
"Hi Stan. No need for surnames, OK?"
"Okay...Samaritans."
"Call me Samara, Stan."
"How`re you doing, Stan?"
"Not too good."
"Why`s that?"
"I`m gonna kill myself."
Samara`s soft voice cooed soothingly in his ear.
"Ohh...Baby, don`t do that. I could make you so happy."
"I doubt it."
"Why`s that?"
"My wife`s left me again and I`ve just lost my job."
"Ohh.. I`m sooo sorry."
"What job was it?"
"Unblocking women`s pipes."
"Ohhh," she giggled, sounding genuinely interested. "You naughty boy!"
"I mean I`m a plumber," said Stanley.
"Sorry..."
"I can`t go on," sobbed Stanley. "Nothing matters any more."
"Don`t say that, baby. You matter to me."
"Yeah?" Stanley sounded unconvinced.
"Tell me what you`re wearing, Stan."
"Apart from the plastic bag over my head and the noose around my neck, you mean?"
"Oh, you naughty boy!" breathed Samara huskily. "Don`t pull it too tight, darling or you`ll asphyxiate yourself."
"That`s the general idea."
"Ohhh...Stop it, Stan—you`re making me so wet."
"Plastic bags and ropes make you wet?"
"Oh yeah, baby. They`re soooo kinky."
"Are they?"

"Oh yeah. So long as you`re careful."
"Careful? Look—I just want to get it right this time."
"You`ve tried to kill yourself before?"
"Yes."
"It didn`t work then?"
"No."
"I`m glad."
"My wife wasn`t. She went ballistic when she saw the gas bill."

"You poor baby...let me make it better."
"You can`t. There`s nothing left to live for. She was never interested in my pants, only my wallet. I`m a lazy, whining slob with bad breath who`s totally crap in bed—or so she told me before she kicked me out of the house again."
"She did what?"
"Well—tried to push me off the ladder actually..."
"What were you doing up a ladder?"
"Watching Her going at it with this bloke."
"Could you see Her from the ladder?
"I could see Her head."
"And where was Her head?
"Just above Her shoulders."
"No, I meant, was it in his lap?" asked Samara patiently.
"Oh...sorry. Yeah. Filthy bitch. She never did that for me."
"Your wife never offered you oral?"
"She never offered me nothing," blubbed Stan. "Except the cappuccino machine I bought Her for Her birthday."
"Cappuccino?"
"She threw it at me when she saw me at the window."

"So what happened then?" asked Samara.
"I climbed in and all hell broke loose. Then the bitch bit me."
"She bit you in the fracas?
"No. She bit me on the willy."
"Is it a big one?" asked Samara huskily.
"What?"
"Your willy. I bet it is."
"How do you know that?" asked Stan.
"Because your wife wouldn`t give you oral."
"I never thought of that. Yeah, well... It is pretty—um—thick."
"Mmm," cooed Samara sexily. "I bet. Can I kiss you?"
"Okay..."
"Mmm..." she went on. "I`m kissing your lips...my tongue is sliding deep into your mouth as my hands travel slowly down to your..."
(There is a long pause on the tape at this point)
"Oh God..." gasped Stanley. "Ohhh..."
"Feeling better now, Baby?"
"I`ll say..."
"I slowly bend over and slip off my wet panties, guiding your fingers between my..."

(At this point on the tape there was a loud bang, followed by a strangled groan.)
"Stan?"
(Silence)
"Stanley—are you okay?"
"Um.. I burst the bag."
Samara giggled. "Did you come, darling?"
"Oh God...yes..."
"Ohhh...Baby," sighed Samara. "Ohhh, you were so good...thank you Stan..." Her soft voice trailed off into a whisper, sighing as though she were winding down from Her own orgasm.
"You saved my life, Samara. How can I ever repay you?"
"Aww, don`t mention it, Stan. Just tell your mates what a good time you had with me, OK?"
"Yeah... I will."
"And Stan?"
"Yes?"
"Next time your wife leaves you, put the bag and rope over Her head, okay?"

Elizabeth Goodchilde is a freelance writer, TV script writer and lifestyle consultant from Hampshire, in England. Elizabeth`s work has been published extensively both online and in print.
She is an occasional contributor to utterpants, an island of happy insanity in an ocean of dreary and depressing mediocrity.
She`d like to express Her thanks to the good Samaritans at the Church Of St Mary, Purley for helping Her write this article. They don`t promise to save lives but they could save you from a nasty dose of hypocrisy and self-righteousness

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