An inventive pair dials up pleasure when they bring their exhibitionistic fantasy to life.

“I want to fuck you in a phone booth.”

I knew Van was the one for me when I didn’t see a bulge in his pocket.

“I want to press you up against the glass and lift up your little skirt.”

The boys in the city—they all have a well-worn rectangle on the back of their jeans from where their smart phones sit. In fact, the newest types of pants come with larger pockets to fit the latest models. Not Van. At first, I thought maybe he carried his cell in his coat—better than allowing his family jewels to be irradiated. But the first time he handed me his coat to hang up, there was no telltale weight. It was just a coat—a nice red-and-blue plaid coat—but only a coat.

“You’ll be so wet. You’ll be dripping wet at the thought that someone might see us.”

People in my circle give you looks when you explain that you’re not a techie. You receive strange expressions when you confess to not having any social media accounts, for spelling the word “tumbler” with an “e” and pouring whiskey into one. Especially if you live in San Francisco.

“I want truckers to drive by and see your feet on the walls and honk their air horns at us.”

But I’m low-tech, and so is Van. As a painter, I’ve managed to escape the need to connect with the world electronically. I do my best work in the sparsely decorated living room of my Victorian apartment, bring my wares to the gallery, and let people who know better handle the rest. Van is head chef at a high-end bistro in Noe Valley. The restaurant has a web presence, but Van does not.

When we visit coffee shops, we’re often the only customers who don’t carry devices with us. What do we do when we’re out together? We actually talk. Imagine that! Once, we were seated next to a couple who I thought was saying grace before their meal—turned out that they were simply both looking down at their phones at the same time, heads bowed, faces awash in the alien glow of their smartphone screens.

“I want us to be encased in one of those glass booths—where we feel as if we have privacy, but where anyone, everyone could see.”

So when Van confessed his number-one fantasy to me—the one that got him hotter than anything else—I decided right then I would make his dirty dreams come true. Screwing in a phone booth shouldn’t have been much of a problem, right? I’m flexible. Van’s bendy. Except when was the last time you saw a telephone booth? Not a kiosk, open to the public. Not a solitary phone hung from a wall at the mall. But a good old-fashioned, honest-to-goodness phone booth?

Neither of us had spied one in eons. Before I met Van, I hadn’t even thought to look.

I began to pay attention when I drove around the city. On my various journeys, I discovered several booths that had been turned into what could only be described as artistic installations, the phones removed and the booths transformed. Graffiti was the mode of choice for these endeavors. Colorful splashes of bright red and neon green—sometimes pictures, more often words of

the perfectly obscene variety.

Occasionally, the booths had been creatively repurposed. One was a garden. Another a makeshift library overflowing with battered paperbacks—take one, leave one, go on your merry way. I found booths that had returned to their prehistoric state, overgrown by dark green ivy, curling leaves twining in and out of the broken doors. Some booths were ashed by fires. None was right for the two of us.

That didn’t stop me from searching. Van wanted this. He wanted it so bad that whenever we had sex, the talk of phone booths became foreplay. If we fucked in the shower, he had us pretend that glassed-in area was a public phone booth. When we were in the bedroom, he’d hold me up against the wall, whisper to me that this is how he’d take me in public, his hands cradling my ass, his cock in me to the hilt. His fantasy soon became my fantasy. I understood the concept of exposure, of exhibitionism. But more than that, I reveled in the idea of turning an erotic daydream into something tangible and true.

Past lovers had often shared their desires with me. One had craved watching me kiss another girl. Any girl. Didn’t matter to him. He wanted to see two women French kiss, swore that nothing could top that concept in his X-rated imaginings. What began as bedroom talk turned real one night. Yeah, I’d hooked that up—calling in Molly, a kinky friend from college, who always bragged about her bi streak. Molly and I had put on such a show for Raymond that we had momentarily forgotten about our audience. Molly had long red hair and pale skin dotted with freckles. We’d kissed and cuddled on the couch until clothes seemed like an unnecessary hindrance, and we’d stripped and sixty-nined, all while Raymond sat nearby, tugging on his cock and waiting for his turn.

My ex-boyfriend George had gone the other route. He’d whispered late one winter evening that all he truly needed was another man in our bed, one who would take turns between the two of us, plundering me, then plundering him.

“That’s what you want?” I’d asked, intrigued. I’d never thought of sleeping in a bed with two men before. But the ménage with Molly had opened my eyes to new possibilities. Maybe I’d like being the filling in a sandwich, taken from front and back by two different men.

“Just once,” he’d said. “A hot guy to fuck you, then fuck me, then fuck you. Wouldn’t that be so sexy? Wouldn’t you like to see me suck another man’s cock? Or have one suck mine?”

The honest answer to that was a resounding yes. I loved deep-throating George, doing my best to capture the full fat length of him down my throat. Watching someone else try that same trick turned me on. We had the hottest sex ever as we discussed whom we might invite into our bed to make that happen. There was Manuel from the gym, our attractive building super Freddy, but we’d ultimately ended up with one of George’s coworkers. The three of us got tipsy at an office function, hurried back to our apartment, tore off our clothes in the living room, and sprinted naked to the bed.

In that game, I lost out, realizing as I watched Tim blow my George that what George really wanted was not a one-night stand but a boyfriend. We’re still in touch, the three of us. We do brunch in the Castro at least twice a year.

In comparison, Van’s desires seemed relatively simple. Whenever we were in tight spaces, he would remind me of what turned him on the most. That happened more often than one might expect. We had a trial run in a dressing room. Van pretended that he needed my advice on a pair of slacks he was buying. Who needs advice on slacks? They either fit or they don’t. It took me a moment to cotton on, to understand that what he actually wanted was me in the dressing room with him, the potential for other customers to know what we were doing, the thrill of almost getting caught. And oh, that is a thrill. That tickle of fear. That whisper of possible embarrassment.

He pressed me against the back of the door, undid the buttons on my sheer black blouse, then tugged down my scarlet bra. He bent to capture my left nipple in his mouth, then my right. He stuck one hand down the front of my jeans, toggled my clit while he licked the side of my neck and sent pure silver spangles of pleasure flittering brilliantly throughout my whole body. There wasn’t any true danger. We were in a second-hand store in the Haight. The clerks at the front desk were too busy discussing their next tattoo designs to worry about us. Nobody gave a fuck what went on in the rear. But we pretended. We kissed with passion. We fucked quickly, me with my hands braced on the cold glass mirror, Van behind me, gripping my hips. I could see his fierce expression in the glass, could see that he was transported by the excitement.

This was good. This was real.

But that didn’t change the fact: he wanted to fuck me in a telephone booth.

Next, we tried an elevator. You would have thought a phone booth would be easier. Phone booths don’t move. Nobody can get on and off a phone booth while you’re in mid-fuck. But in spite of our best efforts, we still hadn’t located the perfect one. So one night we went to a bar in a high-class hotel downtown. We had a drink each and played footsie under the table. I knew what we were going to do. Van knew, too, and the anticipation was as much of an aphrodisiac as the way he looked in his suit and tie. I think he’s hot in his white chef gear, but this was different. We wanted to blend in with the hotel’s upscale clientele. Late at night, after last call, the lobby was nearly deserted. We made our way to the bank of elevators as if we had every reason to be there. Just one more fancy couple, right?

Luck was in our pocket. We weren’t stopped as we snagged an elevator on our own. We had more than thirty floors to ride—and oh, did we ride them. I started by sucking Van on my knees. He pushed button after button on the panel so that we went up to ten, back down to six, up to 14. It was like a dirty math problem—and when he ultimately shot down my throat, I licked my lips and motioned for him to take his place. What’s good for the goose, right? He did so with glee, lifting my dress and getting his mouth right on me. He tugged at my pussy lips, opened me up with his thumb and forefingers, kissed me directly on my clit before making slow and subtle circles around and around.

Nobody disturbed our erotic adventure.

Maybe that was the problem.

He got me off while I watched the numbers light up. He lit me up, that’s for sure. But although the sex was phenomenal, it was elevator sex, not phone booth sex.

Did Van want to be caught? I didn’t think so. Not for real. What he wanted was the possibility. And we were running out of options. Dressing room? Check. Elevator? Check. What was next? A taxicab? A cable car? I didn’t think even stealth lovers like us would be able to pull that off.

When we were apart, I searched for phone booths. When we were together, we talked about what the experience would be like. How sexy screwing in such close confines would be. He’d whisper to me, his accent as erotic as his words, telling me how he wanted to take me, what I’d look like, how he’d make me feel.

Next, we fucked in a cloakroom at his boss’s wedding. Then, we did it in the powder room at a neighbor’s barbeque. We tried dawn out on my fire escape. Midnight on his rooftop. Another couple would have reveled in the creative ways we found to play. And yet, when we were making love, it was the booth fantasy that always brought Van to his limits. Phone sex for us meant something different entirely from the standard definition.

“You have to really work for it in a phone booth,” Van said, and then I started to wonder exactly what his history was. Why this particular fetish? Where had the idea come from?

“So you’ve done this before?” I asked curiously.

“The phone booths are bigger in England,” he said.

“Tell me about it.”

Turned out that one of Van’s earliest sexual experiences had been on a college dare. His girlfriend had made him come quietly one night on the Tube, her hand in his lap hidden by the folds of an old peacoat. His eyes shut as she slowly, quietly, gave him the most delicious handjob of his life.

He’d returned the favor by squiring her to a phone box and at one in the morning, when nobody was around, going down on her while she braced herself against the glass.

That was it—all they’d done. Now he wanted to do the full deed. Fucking in a phone booth. If we could only find one that would suit us.

Whenever we were out, we searched the city. Sometimes, one of us would think we’d scored—“I found it!”—only to go back the next weekend and see that the booth had been removed in the few days that had passed. This was something happening all over the country. The death of the phone booth, killed by modern technology. Van read an article about the booths in New York—all but four of them—being transformed into new types of informational kiosks with wi-fi and free calls anywhere. No need to insert a quarter any longer. There was a feeling of pressure; if we didn’t act now, it might be too late.

“You’re not going to wear any panties,” Van said. He liked to plan the entire encounter. It was his favorite method of foreplay. “You’ll have on a short skirt, thigh-highs, boots. Please wear your boots.”

“And you?” I asked. “What’s easy access for you?”

“Button fly, baby doll. And commando, of course.”

Even if we did find a working phone booth in the city, how likely would we be able to pull off a public tryst? Van and I had a superlative sex life indoors. But still—he talked about his fantasies.

So I went online. I started searching for phone booths, and I was intrigued when I finally located one on a rural road a few hours north of us. I made plans. I booked us a bed-and-breakfast. I told Van something about the weekend getaway, but I kept the main event a secret. Van thought we were headed to the hills for a little R&R. He was fine with that. He packed his hiking boots and fiddled with his outdoor gear. On the drive, we listened to music and discussed where we might dine… and then I pulled over.

“Is everything okay?”

“I just wanted to make a call,” I said.

He looked startled. He knew I didn’t have a cell. That was one of the very things that had brought us together. Then he saw the booth.

“Oh, fuck,” he said, and he was getting out of the car before I could say another word. My pussy was instantly wet.

Now my outfit made sense to him—the short sultry skirt, the thigh highs and boots. Who dresses like that for a drive to the country? He practically ran to the phone booth. I trotted after him. This was still a working phone booth. He lifted the receiver and heard the dial tone. We’d found one! We’d done it!

Well, not yet, actually. But we were about to.

He had me up in his big hands, pressed against the side of the phone booth. He pushed against me and I could feel how hard he was, and I closed my eyes, so pleased I had found this for him, so pleased I had given this to him.

“It’s hard to tell now,” he said, “with all the newfangled gizmos on the market. Hard to tell which ones are the good girls and which ones are the bad girls. The best girls.”

“What do you mean?” I panted as he pulled the gusset of my panties to the side and ran his thumb between my pussy lips.

He brought his mouth to my ear and he said, “Only a bad girl would let herself get fucked in a phone booth.”

Was that it? Was that part of the pleasure for him? I’d definitely proven myself over the past few months—the two of us making love anywhere and everywhere. Except in a phone booth.

Now, I opened my eyes wide while Van undid his belt and pants. I wanted to soak in everything. I wanted to memorize every little detail. He held me against the inside of the booth, cradling my ass in his big hands. And I understood right then why he’d wanted this—there was something both old and new about being fucked like this. We were practically outdoors. The glassed sides of the booth were clear. But we were in our own private space. I put out my hand to hold steady, touching the chrome shelf beneath the phone, and then Van picked me up and pulled me down onto his cock.

We were really doing this! We were fucking in a booth—exactly as he’d fantasized about, as he’d talked about for months. On this deserted stretch of road, we were all alone, but out in public. This felt different from our sojourns in the city. Magical, somehow. Like we were the last two people on earth and we were fucking in the last telephone booth.

Van bit the side of my neck, thrust hard into my pussy. He was aquiver with excitement, his cheeks flushed, his gray eyes bright. When he touched my clit, I felt that burst of pure pleasure—it wasn’t going to take much more than that to get me off. And then Van began talking…

“The thing is…” he said. “This all started so long ago.”

“What started?” I asked, my breath hushed, my voice hoarse. “What did?”

“The idea. The fantasy.”

“How did it start?”

His cock was working me, fast and hard. His thumb would every so often brush against my swollen clit. From our time together, he knew exactly how to bring me to the highest place. A little tease, then a rougher stroke. A tantalizing whisper, and then a firm tug. Everything was perfect. Everything was right, so right.

“I made that up,” he said.

“Excuse me?” I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“The story about me and my girlfriend in college. We never did it in a phone booth.”

“You didn’t go down on her in a British phone booth?” I’d always liked the image. The red of the booth. The way her skin had looked in the streetlight. He’d describe the situation so divinely, I could have painted a picture.

“No,” he said. “Never outside of my fantasies.”

I was hovering on the edge, tightrope-walking on the brink. The way he rubbed my clit with the pad of his thumb had me feeling hazy, as if nothing was in clear focus. I wanted to listen to what he was telling me, but I also wanted to come. The two sensations shouldn’t have canceled each other out, and yet, I kept forcing my hips forward, craving more contact, more pressure.

“It wasn’t me in the phone booth… ”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I was out one night. Late one night. Insomnia. Walking. And I saw this couple. They were clearly coming from a party—fancy dress, suit on him, sparkly little thing on her. One of those dresses that almost makes the girl look naked.”

I saw the image in my mind. On the breeze, I could smell dried grasses, wildflowers. But Van’s story was making me think gritty, city, late night, neon.

“I don’t know what made me follow them. I wasn’t close enough for them to pay me any attention. But they were laughing, excited, obviously jubilant. I stayed back and trailed after. Slowly. I wasn’t going anywhere. Why not see what they were up to? It beat not sleeping in my apartment.”

He was up to his balls in me. His cock filled me to the hilt. I tightened my legs around him, knowing he loved the way my boots felt.

“They came to this phone booth. Scarlet. With all the little panels of glass. And they went in together. What were they doing? Making a call to someone at three in the morning? That didn’t make sense. And then suddenly it did make sense. They weren’t phoning a friend. They were fucking in a phone booth! I had a hard-on in a flash, bone-hard like you wouldn’t believe. I got as close as I could, and I blended with the shadows and tried my best to see what was going on. But even though I couldn’t see clearly, I knew. I knew he was lifting the hem of her naughty little dress and pulling aside her panties. If she had any on. Maybe she’d gone without. Or maybe he’d asked her to take them off at the party. I could only draw the picture for myself… ”

Listening to him tell me the story was as much of a turn-on as the way he was working me. Nearly as much, anyway. Van kept raising me up and setting me down on his cock. The booth took on the scent of our lovemaking, the heat and the musk of the two of us, that blend of erotic aromas. I basked in the X-rated feel of the whole situation. Van had his naked cock out, and he was plunging me to my very core. And the whole time, he was explaining the creation of this, his number-one sex fantasy, the one we were making come true right here. Right now.

“They weren’t in the booth for more than five minutes I’m guessing, but it felt like longer. It felt like forever. This was better than any dirty book I’d ever read, any porn movie I’d ever watched. It was real. Real and happening right before my eyes, as if they knew I was there, as if they were putting on a show for my own pleasure. I stayed in the shadows against a wall, and it was everything I could do not to take out my cock and jerk myself off. I was so hard. I had these visions—getting closer, looking in at them, seeing everything, even shooting my come against the glass. Ultimately, they left, giggling together at what they’d done. I didn’t follow them after that. I went into the booth. I know that sounds strange. But I wanted to…”

“Share it?” I asked. Because that made sense to me. He’d wanted to sort of soak up the sexual atmosphere they’d left behind. He’d wanted to be part of the thrill.

“Yes, exactly. And then, well, I wanted to try it. But I couldn’t get my girlfriend to do that.”

“The one who jerked you off on the Tube?”

His eyes met mine, and I understood. That hadn’t happened either. Just another fantasy, another story.

“Then I met you,” he said, “someone so willing to try anything. Sex in a dressing room. An elevator. You even said a cable car.”

“We didn’t do that.”

“But you were down with trying. At least, considering…”

He pressed my clit suddenly, then pinched it with the perfect pressure, and I moaned. I was so close. I could practically taste the orgasm hanging right over me like ripe fruit. Then he was pulling out of me, standing me away from him so that I faced the desolate road, the emptiness of nature around us. Who’d thought to put a phone booth here? Had that person, that nameless, faceless city planner ever considered that lovers like us might want to use the booth in this type of way?

Van pulled my skirt to my hips. I was fully exposed to the world. He held me firmly as he thrust his cock back inside me, his beautiful uncut cock. I could feel my inner muscles tightening on him as the first flutters of a remarkable orgasm started deep within me. I pressed my palms to the warm windows and I cried out his name. I was lost and found in our connection, that incendiary power radiating within me. Van didn’t stop fucking me, and he didn’t stop talking.

“This is better,” he said, “better than that night. Better than anything I’ve ever done before. Thank you.”

Then suddenly, Van’s ultimate wish came true. Right when he was driving his cock in me hard enough to make me gasp, a silver cylindrical milk truck drove toward us on that open road. Would the driver see us? Would he know what we were doing? To my delight, he hit the horn. Three long beeps. Van gave him a wave. I nearly dissolved into embarrassed laughter. Van took that opportunity to come—sealing his body to mine and shaking with the raw intensity of his orgasm. I ran a hand in front of my body and pressed two fingers to my clit, spiraling into a second climax that was even more powerful than the first.

We’d done it! We’d had phone-booth sex.

But then… well, a little voice started to sound plaintively within me. How would we top that? What would we do now? Our entire sexual fantasy life had been based on this one event. It was as if we’d been practicing for years, and we’d achieved the gold medal. What do athletes do when they hit their highest mark?

I pulled my skirt back down. Van opened the door to the booth. We stepped out into that bright sunlight, let the scent of the bay trees and the salt marsh wash over us. What a different experience this was to being in the city. We were out in nature—and the only thing that let us know there was any type of civilization nearby was the proximity of our beloved phone booth. The answer to our fantasies.

Then I thought: phone booth sex? Check.

It would be fine, I told myself. Maybe we’d return to the phone booth every so often. Perhaps I’d go down on him next time. Who knows? We might try anal…

And then Van surprised me.

“I had a present I wanted to give you on the trip,” he said. “I was going to do this tonight, but now seems like an appropriate time.” He led me back to the car, rummaged through his weekend satchel, pulled out two tickets. Airline tickets. To England.

“I don’t know how many phone booths are left in England,” he said. “But I’m pretty sure you and I will be able to find the perfect one.”

PULL QUOTE: An inventive pair dials up pleasure when they bring their exhibitionistic fantasy to life.