Looking back, I remember thinking about sex as early as age eight. Nothing specific, really. Just some vague thoughts involving pussies and dicks. At nine, I knew I liked sexy things and by the age of eleven or twelve, I was fucking a blow-up doll my brother and I stumbled over in a bedroom in the west wing of one of the many houses we were raised in – this one, a time-share my father kept in West Virginia – the first time I’d been out of Los Angeles in my entire life.
Our parents rarely ventured into that part of the house. My brother and I did, though. That’s where we found her. In a closet full of random shit. Someone had left her there, deflated (and with no plans to return for a year, have you). Boy, I’ll tell ya’, we were on that doll like white on rice. Once we got past arguing over who got to bang her first, we blew her up and, thanks to an overabundance of Sesame Street episodes that focused on cooperation, figured out that if we joined forces we could each take a side. With that, we each proceeded to make a good wife out of her. It took some doing. About every other day, we’d pull her out, blow her up, and tag her. Boy did we have fun trading her off to one another. I’d have my dick in her mouth while he fucked her, then we’d switch. I’d fuck her while she gave him head. …and by the time we were done, we could both say “co-op-er-a-tion” all at once without clapping. The only drawback was she wasn’t a virgin. You could totally tell because she had holes in her beyond those that were supposed to be there. Her last owner must have been a real man’s man because she’d start losing air about halfway into the session. We’d have to stop and blow her back up every five minutes. I must say, it made things more difficult than they had to be. Just like a woman. These disruptions became more frequent every time we pulled her out of the back of that closet (where she belonged) to nail her. Every week, she’d deflate faster and faster. I eventually got fed up with her shit and gave her a healthy domestic beating that pretty much did her in. Stomped her into the fucking ground, no less, with my brother’s help. And then (get this) we still tried blowing her back up and banging her again.
Several summers later, back in Los Angeles (where I belonged), I took my proclivities to an entrepreneurial level. It was also then that I had my very first brush with addiction. Yes. In the confines and solitude of my bedroom in the back of a very, very large home (where I wanted to be and my parents never protested) a twelve-year old Miles Previtire caved-in to sexual media pressure and did something he’d been wanting to do for a long time.
Using the phone I’d just been given for my birthday, I sat down and called a phone sex line. I started with 976-WETT. I can’t tell you how I knew to use those call-letters. I must have seen some ads in the back of a magazine or something. Plus, I knew pussies were supposed to be wet, so… I can tell you that to date, I still consider this to be one of the most important phone calls I’ve placed to anyone – ever.
After several auto-prompts and a terrifying age-verification warning that I consented to out-of-fear, I was connected to a woman with a painfully sexy voice and of very few words. We meandered through a five- or six-minute conversation that I thought was going somewhere before she (without warning) started moaning loudly and breathing heavily. Her din reached a climax right before she sighed and thanked me. “Thank you, baby,” she said. Just like that. And then, click. I felt so used. I let it go. I was assuaged by the voice of an automated operator who chimed in to advise me that “For a better time, call 976-SUCK, for girls who love to suck cock.” She even said it in the same sexy voice and everything. So, I called. And called. And kept calling. Each hotline suggested another hotline – every one of them better than the last. I tried them all.
First, there was 976-BLOW where I got my first blowjob from a real woman. Next, 976-CUNT where I could listen to recordings from girls all over the world playing with their pussies. This went on until I’d exhausted every number suggested. Having tried them all, I felt I’d come full circle, so I did the next sensible thing. I started inventing my own call letter combinations. Well, not my own, exactly. Combinations that seemed obvious for sex-hotline call letters. I tried 976-TITS. No go. 976-FUCK. Dead. Still, I kept trying. When I got to the bottom of the barrel, 976-DICK, I was surprised by a man’s voice. “Welcome to 976-DICK, where the hottest guys go to meet.” I immediately hung up. I thought about it for a few minutes. “Where the hottest guys go to meet.” I felt pretty confident and hot. Why shouldn’t I surround myself with other people like me. Turned out, this would be my introduction to gay sex. It was also where I received my first marriage proposal. The first of many, I should add. In other words, I was an instant hit. Hit after hit. Call after call. My little fingers couldn’t dial numbers fast enough. 1-900-4MUSCLE became a favorite – although I had the hardest time remembering how to spell “muscle”. In no time, I had a list of regular chat buddies who met me there for conversation. I still remember a couple of their names, as well as a few particulars that moved me at the time. For instance, there was Bob, who asked me to come out to his place in Burbank and let him get me high enough for an open-door, multi-guy, ass-in-the-air, taking-all-loads session with yours truly tied up as the offering. And just like that, on a phone sex line at the mature age of twelve, I realized I was a top. There was also Terry who, in between taking hits of crack cocaine so long I wondered if he had hung up, told me the story of how he and some buddies raped a fag in the parking lot of an LA nightclub. He told me that after they finished fucking him, they all came in the queer’s mouth. I remember asking, “Did he swallow it?” (Reader – please not now!) He was like, “Are you kidding? He drank it down like it was his last fucking meal.” I know. I know. It was a really hot thing to say. I don’t mind telling you that I have used Terry’s line from time to time with clients as a way to inspire them to do a better job. Oh, I make some changes when I do it, though. I like… try and personalize it, you know? Like, “Okay fag. Drink it down like it’s your last fucking meal! Thanks, Terry!!” But I only say the Terry part using my inside-voice, so…
I developed my bedside manner on these calls and learned quickly how to handle myself in sexy situations. Not to mention, I eventually learned how to spell “muscle”. Before I knew it, I wasn’t calling nine-hundred numbers anymore. I had mastered speaking in a deep voice. My next call would be to Pacific Bell to inquire how I could start my own 900- business. I was always a self-starter.
My vision at the time was to be the best male 900- operator alive. I knew I had what it took! I just knew it!! I started building my empire immediately. The first big business decision I had to make was to determine what kind of hotline I should launch. I went over my options. I knew I got a tingle every time I heard a girl “somewhere in the world” playing with her pussy, and yet, I had acquired a loyal following on 1-900-4MUSCLE – men who were waiting for me to get the line started and promised to call. I did the right thing. I removed my own interests from the equation and chose the market with the most promise. And there it was. What began with something as normal as an pubescent phone sex addiction became the foundation for my first capital venture.
When the pamphlets explaining how to start a 900- business arrived in the mail, I was ecstatic. Just the thought of my success made me giddy. (It still does.) I stuffed them in the waistline of my shorts and I rushed past Mom to my room. I tore right into the pamphlets and started reading. My excitement reached fever-pitch when I found out that getting started was “easy and cost nothing!” I searched and found no fine-print about having to be eighteen to activate a 900- line. Boy, I thought for sure I had hit pay dirt. But, I’m afraid this story has a sad ending. In the midst of making calls and trying to get some people involved, I discovered that although you didn’t have to be eighteen, you couldn’t be twelve, either.
I remember thinking to myself, “Man, when I’m like…older, or something…” Apparently, Pac Bell doesn’t know that the best talent is fresh talent. Sucks for them. Years later, when they finally agreed to do business with me, I was of legal age and already involved in other projects. I no longer had the time it took to run a 900- business. It wasn’t a realistic option anymore. I mean, at twelve, my schedule was my own. It would have been perfect. And you know, this is a fine example of how vague corporate policies and age-requirements can bruise momentum and stunt creativity. I mean, everyone knew I had this. No one was glad to see me go down, I can assure you. Anyway, I found myself back in my bedroom before I knew it, calling the old gang to tell them I was sorry. I did the best I could but the film wasn’t coming out this summer. My dreams were mowed down like the front lawn I cut myself for a lousy five dollars every weekend. Godammitt.
That lasted a while but Terry and the rest of my fan base would become lost utterly and forever the day my folks finally bothered to open and read their phone bill before paying it. Talk about a tag-teaming and a good domestic beating. Wasn’t pretty. My dad stomped me into the ground until I was pretty much done for. And then (get this) after I was deflated, he even tried to blow me back up and kick my ass again. I know, I know… Sounds like a high price to pay, right? But if you could have heard me on that damn phone – so worth it…so worth it.
Anyway, the year is 2012 and although phone sex is marginally patronized by the general public today, the 900- business model is dead in the water and I’ll never know what could have been had the suits at Pac Bell worked for me and not against me. I’m happy to report I’ve since had a brief run in the music industry, a great run in corporate America, and now, I’ve successfully refocused my efforts on escorting and hopefully directing porn one day. As for my sex addiction, well, what can I say? I stopped playing with dolls. Oh! And I can even talk sexy on the phone with prospective callers without having flashbacks of Terry and his minions serving up final meals for boys outside of Mickey’s Nightclub in Santa Monica and my dad walking in while I’m right fucking there, hanging on every word.
Los Angeles, 2012