Perhaps this phenomenon works differently for men. A male friend of mine used to spring a stiffie listening to the afternoon traffic reporter in Dallas, a sultry alto offering hourly interstate-congestion updates: "I see her taking off her helicopter helmet, blond hair cascading around her face in the wind," he said. Frankly, I find that voice a bit cliched. Neither Steve Inskeep or Ira Glass has a traditionally sexy voice, which is probably part of the attraction, kicking up as it does some latent geek-virgin fantasy I've never fully acknowledged, in which I deflower the valedictorian in a bathroom stall and teach him all about love and/or doggy style. Which is probably why the Mrs. Glass bit pissed me off, come to think of it. I could no longer indulge the glorious virgin fantasy. Someone else had loosened his collar, someone else had crushed his bifocals.



But in general, what fascinates me about radio personalities is the lack of vocal sexiness. The sheer Puritanical absence of it,

making me hunt for the sex toys in the drawers, scrounge for the naked pictures under the pillow. Take Michele Norris, co-host of All Things Considered. For a while, I had a minor obsession with Michele. For one, there was the contrarian pronunciation of her first name, MEE-shell, which was staunchly enforced by every guest, all of whom must have been given a ten-minute primer prior to air. Then there was her dry delivery, a bit Condi Rice, though unlike our secretary of state, Michele had just the slightest undercurrent of sass — like when she unexpectedly made a joke about the day's news, a little wink between friends. And those moments reconfigured all I had assumed about emphasis-on-the-first-syllable Michele. Whereas I had once envisioned her as a stiff in a Liz Claiborne suit, I now saw her as a voracious sexual predator, barely containing her feral energy with those morning updates. I saw her with her hands lashed to the bedposts, teeth gnashing in ecstasy, raven hair taut and pulled back by some unseen hand.



I have never seen a picture of Michele Norris. Please do not show me one.



Act III: Gross Anatomy

I can't talk about NPR and sexuality with mentioning Terry Gross. For a while, when I worked from home in Dallas, I listened to Fresh Air every afternoon, and I still miss it. As I would wash a sink of dishes or click away an hour on the internet, avoiding the writing I had promised myself to do, I would let my imagination curl up into whatever conversation Terry Gross was having. And it's not that I had erotic thoughts about her so much as an erotic curiosity. I found myself fascinated about her sexuality. "I'm Terry Gross. And this is Frrrrresh Air." Man, she bit into that name. Every single time.



I wonder if it started with the infamous Gene Simmons interview. It was a classic debacle: the bookish Gross railroaded by the tongue-wagging KISS icon. He uttered every phrase like he was between her creamy thighs, and it wasn't sexy; it was unnerving. "I'd like to think that the boring lady who's talking to me now is a lot sexier and more interesting than the one who's doing NPR," he said at one point. "I bet you're a lot of fun at a party."



In the moment, I only sympathized with Gross. It remains the most painful, cringeworthy interview I've heard to this day. But it must have sunk its hooks into my imagination, because afterward, I couldn't listen to a Terry Gross interview without wondering which way she swung.



Terry Gross would interview an AIDS specialist, Terry Gross would have a show on same-sex marriage, and like a gay-baiting Rosie O'Donnell, I would tell the cat, dozing in the corner, "Oh, she's gay, I know she's gay!" Did this make me like her less? No! It made me like her more. I loved the idea that she was enduring what must have felt like the heterosexual-industrial complex, secretly wearing flannel and silently slipping me the finger with every interview. I don't know why I liked this idea so much. Maybe it's because she reveals so little of herself that I felt the need to puncture the façade and grab some piece of privacy. Because I felt as though I should know her, because Terry Gross isn't like Dan Rather, or Katie Couric, or any other television news anchor shared like popcorn by America. She is someone I listened to alone, like so many of us listen to NPR alone — in the car, in your apartment, on headphones, just you and her.



In the introduction to her book, All I Did Was Ask, Terry Gross writes about a funny thing that happened when her husband, the writer Francis Davis, won an arts fellowship: "My mother-in-law came with us, and at one point I saw her laughing, and she later explained that the woman had pointed at me and whispered, 'Terry Gross is here. Did you know she's a lesbian?' That's one of the reasons I love working on radio: You might be a public figure but you're essentially just a voice, and this lets each person who listens form whatever image of you he or she wants — tall or short, fat or thin, sex bomb or schoolmarm, straight or gay."



If she's right, and each NPR personality is some kind of Rorschach test, then it isn't so interesting that I thought she was gay. The interesting question then becomes: Why did I want her to be?



Act IV: Headphone Sex



The Dresden Dolls have a song about Christopher Lydon, who does a show called Open Source. A few choice lyrics:



"I never knew what one voice could do

I was in heaven the moment I heard you

My friends go out drinking and having fun

I stay home with my headphones on."

The singer, Amanda Palmer, sings it like a torch song, like Christopher Lydon might be teething her undies on an empty library table. I only heard the song recently, though I love it, and I can only imagine that Amanda Palmer

feels a little bit of the pulse in the groin when an egghead rattles off the news. Bob Mondello, Margot Adler, Renee Montagne, Neal Cohen, Robert Siegel, Kurt Andersen. Oh lord, Kurt Andersen, with all his hard-won theories on the media, the way he's so compelled by how the ugly machine works.



And maybe that's part of what turns me on about NPR personalities. Not just their intellect, but a fascination with human behavior that makes them open to any experience. Hell, if you pulled out a gimp suit, they'd just start the tape recorder and scribble some notes on a napkin.



But I think I like being in a dark and faceless fantasy, too. Because let's face it. We're all a little tired of our bodies — worrying what they look like, how they measure up, how our legs seem in thigh-highs and a garter. Frankly, I wouldn't mind disappearing into a tape whir for a while. It's nice when you think about it. Not just you or your lover blindfolded, but the entire world.

Click here for the This American Life website.

This American Life, the TV show, airs on Showtime.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
	Sarah Hepola has been a high-school teacher, a playwright, a film critic, a music editor and a travel columnist. Her work has appeared in the New York Times, Slate, The Guardian, Salon, and on NPR. She lives in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.