Pocket Sex

Ever have someone pocket dial you? It’s usually one of your female friends, and then you’ll get that callback later like, “Omg! I can’t believe I pocket dialed you! Imagine if I was like having sex or something?” And you both laugh because that would...

Ever have someone pocket dial you? I’m sure you have. It’s annoying as shit. It’s usually one of your female friends, and you can hear the swishing of the phone sliding around in her purse while she walks down the street. You’ll also hear some muffled noises, coming from a conversation you really don’t need to hear of her asking what the difference is between lacinato kale and black kale at Whole Foods. Then you’ll get that callback later like, “Omg! I can’t believe I pocket dialed you! Imagine if I was like having sex or something?” And you both laugh because that would be so unlikely and so absurd that it couldn’t possibly happen to anyone anywhere...

Well... that’s not exactly accurate...

So I was scheduled as the final time slot for an interview during a press day for this new artist. She had a single on the radio, and it was doing really well, so the press day was obviously packed. I didn’t care enough to show up, so I agreed to a phone interview. That is the worst thing in the world to do because you’re the one whose scheduled time is often always moved around. It’s not like you’re there waiting for her, so why should your convenience matter? My interview was moved around five times that day. I was irked, but it beat having to huff it to midtown to sit at the label. So yeah, I was ass last. The interview was at like 6 PM or something, and the artist ended up calling me on her cell phone to conduct the interview. She was leaving the label on her own, and a limo was bringing her to some undisclosed location. She was actually really cool, and the interview was a lot of fun. We were still talking when she reached her destination. I hear her greet someone (I’m guessing it was the doorman) and then she said to me, “I might lose you” as she boarded the elevator. I heard the ding when she reached her floor, heard her knock at a door where a man’s voice welcomed her. Heard the noise of a kiss (don’t know if it was on the cheek or the mouth) and some mention of missing the guy that she was meeting. We’re still on the phone talking, and I heard the guy mumble about it being “the longest interview he’s ever heard of.” Oh, OK, buddy, you must be a fucking professional. She apologizes to him, and then apologizes to me, and says she has to go. I didn’t need anything more from her, so that was cool. We hung up.

A half an hour later, my phone rings, and it’s her number. I pick up and say "hello," and all I hear is muffling. Ah, she pocket dialed. As I’m about to hang up, I hear faint giggling followed by heavy breathing. Uh oh. All of a sudden I can hear everything in the room. I’m guessing she rolled over on her phone and dialed me, then rolled off it. I’m hearing… noises. Lots of them. Something about getting her boots off faster. Something about not pulling her hair because she has extensions in. They were definitely having sex. Or at least about to be. So I did the right thing. I hung up. A minute or two later the phone rings again. Another rollover, this time it was something about being on all fours. I hang up. Ten seconds later, I’m called back. They’re well into the middle of it. Fuck sounds for days. I hang up. Phone rings again. I pick up. Now mind you, I’m hoping during this time I’ll get at least ONE callback with like an apology or something. An, “OMG, I’m so sorry you overheard me ordering a penis at Whole Foods!” Anything. Nope. I was called back for about 25 minutes, each “rollover dial” leading further and further into this girl’s sexcapade. Since I was nice enough to hang up despite the repeated butt dialing (literally), I felt like I deserved to know whom it was that this girl “visited.” I shot an email to the publicist and asked where she was headed when she left the label earlier that day—ya know, as context for my story.

His reply: “Oh... her manager’s apartment.”


We’ve spoken three times since that interview, and I’ve never mentioned this to her. If she’s reading this story right now: girl, lock your phone before you go banging your manager. Thanks.