Shut The Fuck Up: Crime And Punishment With Principal Ramona

Oftentimes, when you see ads looking for phone sex operators, you will see listings referring to “phone actress” jobs. If ever there was an attempt at a euphemism, that has to be it.

Anyways, acting is a big part of the phone sex operator job…mostly because you have to pretend that you want to be there (haha, I’m kidding. If you have serious issues, this job is a real hoot). 

Clients can’t see you, obviously, and you can’t see them, thankfully. It’s all about the fantasy. I’ve been every race and age. I’ve been a black female bodybuilder (I pulled that one off beautifully, I must say), I’ve been someones 80 year old great aunt (it’s good that it was me and not her, because her knees would likely not have withstood that pounding). 

I’ve been bad babysitters, stern bosses who care not for the HR departments guidelines on sexual harassment, barely legal blow job givers, naughty moms, frisky next door neighbours, cruel wives…you name it, I have used my vocal chords to embody it. 

I was once an actress for real. Growing up, I thought that that was what I wanted to be. I took intensive classes for years. Then, I became a grown up, and realized how hideous it is to be an actor. I live in Canada, so, being an actor here is much different than being one in the US. Here, there are far, far less jobs. People toil for years here and see very little for their efforts. The same can of course be said for actors in the U.S, but, the opportunities are greater. Hunger can really pay off in the States. Hunger here can just lead to a greater hole burned inside of yourself. 

I didn’t get much out of my so called acting career..a lot of embarrassing gigs, and very little money or advancement. 

Last year, I went to a casting party and decided that that was that, in terms of acting. Sure, I like the craft of acting, but, I don’t like the business. And, at this party, “the business” entailed trying to have a conversation with a directer who was furiously sucking his gums in some sort of cocaine induced war with his own mouth.  I realized that I was getting too old to hope that second rate directors would want to fuck me badly enough to cast me in their shitty movies that few people would see, and no one would like. After all, can’t I make my own shitty movies and be a predatory second rate director on my own? Isn’t that what feminism is all about, girrrllll?  

So now I write, primarily, as an artistic outlet. I know, I know, isn’t writing what all rapidly aging failed actresses claim that they always wanted to do anyways? When no one wants to fuck you anymore, pretend to be an intellectual. 

My most lucrative and least embarrassing acting gig has been as a phone sex operator. That is the truth. Most actors look for that juicy reoccurring gig…the one that keeps them in the spotlight and in peoples homes and keeps the bank account stellar. In the land of phone sex, you can also end up with reoccurring gigs…. one of my most prolific was a creation by the name of Principal Ramona.

Some clients are so so specific that talking to them is like collaborating on a specially commissioned erotic novel. An epic one, at that. Think multiple volumes. Like “Game Of Thrones” but dirtier and weirder.

Principal Ramona was the requested creation of a man named Rodney. Rodney was a 40 something year old man. About once a week he would call, and the games would begin.

In this fantasy, Rodney was in high school. Because we don’t do underage, we had to say he was 18. I say this is because he failed a grade, which gave me an excuse to call him a retard. Phone sex cares not for political correctness. PC culture is a desert for boners. 

The scene began with Principal Ramona requesting that Rodney make his way down to my office. The other students oohed and ahhhed at Rodney’s humiliation. 

He arrives in my office. I tell him to please take a seat. On my desk are some items. 

I say, “Rodney, we recently conducted a random locker search, and when we searched your locker, specifically, we discovered…contraband” 

The items on my desk include beer, and…..porno magazines. 

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

“They…they, aren’t mine…they belong to…Mark.”

“Rodney! I know you are lying!” I holler. “I can practically smell you all over this issue of Juggs!” (I’m not even sure if Juggs is still published. I always envisioned that this was a time travel sexual fantasy, where we were in the 80’s)

Rodney stammers, and stutters, and makes more excuses. I won’t have it. Contraband? In my school? You have to be joking. Principal Ramona did not become an educator to put up with this sort of tomfoolery.

With that, I remove a tazer from my desk. I don’t like it when it comes to this…but, hey, just because the courts did away with corporal punishment in schools doesn’t mean that they made the right choice. 

I hit Rodney with the tazer. He falls to the ground and flails like a motherfucker. I hit him again. I take a roll of duct tape from my desk and tape his wrists and ankles together. I leave his mouth untaped. I want his screams to be heard!

I drag Rodney into the hallway. Teachers and students come out of the classrooms and stare in disbelief as I drag Rodney down the hallway. 

“Principal Ramona! What are you doing!

“Shut the fuck up!” I yell back. I will teach the children. They best know that contraband will not stand in this hallowed place of knowledge!

I get Rodney to the parking lot and throw his ass in the trunk my car. I have no idea what the make of this car is. It’s silver though.

I get behind the wheel and start driving. We drive and drive….I can hear Rodney banging around in the backseat. 

“Shut the fuck up!” I shout. 

We have a close call when I get pulled over for speeding by a cop. I get out of it with charm…and maybe a blow job (a lady like Principal Ramona never reveals her secrets). We drive and we drive. The hours chug by. The roads become rural. 

We drive and we drive. I don’t have a licence, so, this is a fantasy for me too. Finally, the car stops. We have arrived at my very secluded cabin deep in the woods. 

This is no ordinary cabin though. This is the tricked out psycho cabin of a total lunatic. The insides gleam with chrome, like the Ice Truck killers room he uses for dismemberment on the show “Dexter”. There is a dungeon.

Perhaps now would be a good time to reveal something important about Principal Ramona. She's actually a man. Not a transsexual, exactly. More like a drag queen. She has thighs like a shaved grizzly bear and eyebrows that go up into her hairline. She is all woman, with the meatiest dick tuck you have never seen.

I drag Rodney out of the trunk. I take him into my lair. All bets are off, motherfucker. I drag him into the dungeon. I have a gigantic wardrobe with many frilly outfits. I dress him up. I dress him up like Shirley Temple. He looks so fucking stupid. I smear lipstick on his face, and call hims pretty girl. I strap him to a chair. 

On the walls, I project pornography that I force him to watch. It isn’t just any porn. It’s porn that I have directed. It stars his virginal girlfriend, Rosemary, and none other than porn legend Peter North. 

If you don’t know who he is…look him up. I’m getting so old and have watched porn for so long that I consider myself an amateur porn historian. He’s been around a long, long time. His cum shots have been likened to opening up a beer can that has been well shaken. 

After this revelation, Rodney yells in horror while I laugh. And then he abruptly hangs up. He did this every single week.

Maybe you think that this guy is weak. This guy isn’t weak. He’s strong because he can be vulnerable. That’s not cliche, that's a fact. I have no idea why he needs this. I have no idea of his history. I only see this one part of him. But in this one part, I can see all of him. It’s like how one piece of the human body, one drop of blood, a sample of saliva, a cluster of skin cells, can, if you look closely enough, and with the right tools, tell you much of what you need to know about the entire organism that it came from. I don’t know what Rodney does for a living. I don’t know what kind of shows he enjoys watching. I don’t know what his favourite ice cream is….I only know that once a week he needs to live through this fantasy, that he calls me up and surrenders to something that is absurd to everyone else, maybe even to him as well, but he is compelled to do it because it gives him something…it feeds a need inside. It makes total sense to him.

That’s all I need to know, really.