Confessions of a phone sex operator

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Reading Time: 3 minutes

My future boss walks into the interview late, all 4-foot-6 of her packed into a miniskirt and tight white tank top. Sitting across from me, she opens a bag of Cheetos and asks some hard-hitting preliminary questions.

“So you’re comfortable saying, ‘Yeah, baby, I’m lonely for your big hard cock in my tight, little, shaved pussy?’” She licks her fingers and grins at me.

Yes, I was a phone sex operator. I spent four months last summer holed up in an office with fluorescent track lighting, listening to the cream of the American crop come all over their phone keypads.

The easy rock that piped in 24 hours a day, seven days a week, did nothing to drown out the multilingual sighs, squeals, pants and screams that disrupted my concentration. The German woman beside me would get really into it, shrieking little nasties like, “Ooohhh, fuck me, fuk me, Muss meine puss,” into her crochet-covered headset. Eventually, I’d be forced to put down my magazine.
“What the hell is that?” asks Frank from Oklahoma.

“Oh, that’s just my roommate baby,” I answer, sneaking a candy out of its wrapper. “She really likes to vacuum.”

Not exactly what guys were paying $4.99 (U.S.)  a minute to jerk off to.

At our training session, I learned a few rules—primarily no physical contact with yourself or other operators while working, no eating at your station and never be late when you punch in your time card (that’s why I was eventually fire). Then came the training manual. Table of contents: ass-fuck, tit-fuck, blow job, pussy-eating, dominating, transsexuals.

I ignored it most of the time.
I didn’t need it. I informed long, tall Texans that it would be cheaper to pick up a girl off a street corner than grunt at me. I educated white trash inbred goat herders from Tennessee about the finer arts of ana lovin’ (no you cannot just shove your 12-inch cock up my ass. Lubricants are important). And most importantly, I shut down any ignorant 13-year-old who thought he could get away with pretending to be 21.
After a shift listening to gems of wisdom like, “Y’know, not all fags are FAGS,” I’d rush to meet my friends at a bar, inevitable monopolizing the conversation with my tales. As long as the job lasted, I was a pretty funny girl.  

“So, you like eating pussy, Frank?” I coyly ask.

“I don’t like to eat nothin’ ma mama can’t cook, bitch,” he anser. “Now suck it!”

It wasn’t easy some days.

I did learn a lot. Callers aren’t afraid to tell you what they like. I can now, theoretically, give the perfect blow job. When you’re on the phone your mouth can be in three places at once. And you don’t even have to pay attention.

But my opinion of humanity declined day after day. I encountered so much ignorance, hatred and unrepentant misogyny, it was almost unbearable.
I’d get guys who wanted to slap me around, tie me up and knock me down. Pissing, shiting, whips, chains, needles, clamps, baseball bats, bottles, school girls—the human brain is capable of too much sick shit.

“You ain’t a nigger, are you?” Frank asks me. “Cause I’d fucking chain you up in my basement and find every baseball bat in the house, cause that’s what you like, you dirty  little whore.”

I hang up and just breathe.
I don’t regret the experience though. I learned about stupidity, ignorance, fear and loneliness. One kid called from somewhere in the Midwest and asked me what was wrong with him that he couldn’t get a girlfriend.
I also feel less stupid, ignorant and afraid. I know what I like. I know I’m not as fucked up as other people.

But I have better things to do with my time than sit around reading The National Enquirer, crocheting baby booting and listening to stupid, horny societal rejects for $10 an hour.

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