A Letter To The Raspy Voiced Woman On TV
Don’t ask how I got your address…
To the voice-over actress on TV,
It was a commercial for second-hand cars I believe, or a new residential district opening up on the outskirts of town where every property had the same mix of browns and tans.
It doesn’t matter, I guess.
What does matter is the way your voice articulated those ‘browns and tans.’ You’re the perfect narrator for a late nineties TV movie. So assured, so defined, and just a hint of Jennifer Coolidge’s eviscerated voice box.
Who knew I had a massive thing for ladies with a raspy voice, not a gravelly, loose moral, pack a day for 30 years voice, but a struggling to squeeze every word out through your narrow oesophageal opening kind of voice — the most tantalising of all inner tubing.
Wow…
I can’t quite remember the occasion, but all I know is that my niece, nephew and sister were in the room with me. Was it Christmas? I know the Grinch was on TV so it stands to reason.
This isn’t the point.
The point is the revelation that riveted down my spine upon the first word from this raspy voiced goddess… “do.” That ‘do’ did damage, and with every syllable that followed I found my ears prickling up further and further like a god damn whovillian in heat.
The e’s hit different. I found out the hard way when she wheezed, “enjoy every experience.” I’d found my trigger, having to cover Johnny and the twins with what I initially thought was a pillow but in actual fact my nieces toy hippo. Fortunately, the shape was perfect for the situation — round.
This siren before me had no idea the power she held in her throat as she listed out costing, $13,990 drive-away or 3% interest, I can’t remember. Her struggling vocal projection — now THAT I remember. Squeezing every word out like a starved child before fishfinger Fridays, softly offering a product I couldn’t care less about to a guy who is definitely not her target audience.
This awakening has transformed me into a raspy voiced craving maniac. I can’t even remember what life was like before. Normal voiced women are so boring for me now. The only thing for me is rasp. I live for the rasp. I fight for the rasp and I goddamn work for the rasp!
My marriage to Kathy has taken a toll. At first, foolishly, I thought I could ignore the craving. You know, continue on blindly ‘loving’ a woman with immaculate vocal projection and articulation, but her clarity of speech slowly chipped away at the soft limestone foundation that was my newfound desire — rasp.
The divorce was messy — turns out ‘vocal tone’ isn’t a great excuse for requesting 100% of all holdings. The court hearings were long and costly for me, but barely made a dent in her Father’s 18% stake in Nike. I was screwed, but I didn’t care because I knew my reward was rasp.
My bedtime used to be a swift 10pm, or whenever NCIS was over, but I now find myself staring at the blue light of the laptop screen until the early mornings scouring medical journals for why my rasp obsession kicked off like it did. Is it hereditary? A mutation? What happened?! I keep playing the advert over and over again in my head before making quick bathroom stops. That simple word ‘do’ igniting a lustful fury within me.
Awakenings can come in many forms. I just hope that all raspy voiced women have their own awakening. An awakening in a direction towards ‘adequacy’ or even a newfound desire for someone ‘surprisingly clammy.’ I’ll take either.
Sincerely,
The guy from all the letters.
