MY LIFE AS A PHONE SEX OPERATOR: DIALING IN

“Ridiculously easy money," my friend
informed me and the rest of the Q
train, smacking her gum and picking
her nails in fingerless gloves. "I get a
dollar a minute. I pay my rent in a
week, and I'm free to audition. It's
fucking awesome."
"I don't know, I think I'd laugh."
"No, I swear it's so easy. You've done
theater, you're fine. At least try it. The
only thing that sucks is the hours, but
I'm up anyway."
I hadn't even thought about phone sex
as a thing people did anymore. I
figured it had been rendered obsolete
by the Internet, but I guess the niche
was still big enough to keep
moonlighting actresses afloat. It
seemed like a fail-safe enough plan: it
was anonymous and flexible, and it
could tide me over until I found a
“real job." I was a few years out of
college, then, and unemployed.
Actually, I had just come back from a
stint teaching in China, and though I
now spoke Chinese and had some
marketable skills, I got back just
before the recession let up a little and
doctoral candidates were clawing each
other to death for a shot at being a
barista. I figured I wasn't above this.
There was nothing to really even be
above, it’s just talking on the phone.
There was no interview process at all.
I called the number my friend gave
me, and I spoke directly to the owner,
Tammi, a woman I never met in
person, who ran the operation from an
outpost somewhere deep in rural
America. I was surprised by how sweet
and young she sounded and pictured a
woman with fluffy blonde hair who
decorated predominantly with pink.
“Phone sex is something I love, and I’m
actually getting paid for doing
something I love. I really feel like I’m
living the dream. I really feel blessed.
Do you masturbate a lot?”
“Um—”
“I do. Every call. Every single one. I
really feel like that’s important, you
know?”
“Sure.”
“It sets us apart. I care about all my
girls and my clients as people. And I
want you to know that you’re beautiful
and this is a safe place for you and you
can tell me anything.”
“OK.”
I had no idea to what extent she
believed herself. She asked me what I
was into, sexually — what were my
turn-ons and what were things I would
never, ever do, no matter how into the
other person I was. I asked her if all
that was really relevant, and she said
absolutely. This was all very important
for the formulation of my character.
Daytime TV blared in the background
and she typed furiously.
“OK, so, c’mon, sweetie. What do you
like? Are you into S&M?”
“Like, me, the real person? No, but I
don’t see how—”
“I bet you wouldn’t have anal sex. I’m
not judging you at all, I’m just getting
an idea of who you are.”
“What?”
“You’re shy, aren’t you, honey? I know,
I know! Violet! Oh, that’s perfect,
that’s perfect, and we need a girl next
door.”
“Okay.”
From that point on my real name was
relegated to my paychecks, and she
referred to me as Violet no matter
what we were talking about.
When I logged into the website, my
character would appear as available
and calls to the main line could be re-
routed to my personal cell phone. I
could sign in and out as I chose, but
heaviest traffic time was 10 p.m. to 3
a.m. Violet would be assigned an
appropriate porn actress stock photo
to serve as a profile picture for the
site’s front page, but I was responsible
for fleshing out the rest: backstory, a
list of turn-ons and areas of expertise,
and a set of headless nude and semi-
nude selfies for strangers to beat off
to. I thought that would be the most
cringe-worthy part of the whole
business, until I was told that Violet
should keep a blog. I asked what about
and she said, “Fantasy!” At this point, I
was almost ready to back out, but $60
an hour is nothing to sneeze at. If I
can talk the talk, I guess I can commit
it to paper.
“OK, great, so I guess this covers
everything. Can you be ready to take
calls in, I don’t know, a few hours?”
“Absolutely.”
* * *
I had no idea what to do. Dignity
wasn't really a factor in any of this, but
I did feel like I wanted to keep it a
secret. I was living in a house with
four guys at the time, and while we
were all friends and they were
"artists," the prospect of them hearing
me fake orgasms and wax lustful over
some esoteric fetish made me
uncomfortable, so I took to the attic.
Vast and in disuse, it made a suitable
office once I lined a corner with carpet
samples, the only major drawback
being that the windows would have to
remain closed, rendering the place
oppressively stuffy and absolutely
stifling in the summer months.
I sat in the living room with my phone
in my hand. I'd done theater, and I’d
always wanted to try improv. Maybe
this could serve as my time to test the
waters. Nothing to be nervous about.
Just one human being on the other
end. One human being who was
paying for my expertise in something I
knew nothing about. What if I picked
up the phone and some guy wanted
me to “dominate” or whatever? If I
were paying almost $100 an hour for
someone to be my aural dominatrix
and all they could muster was, “Oh,
you’ve been so bad, you should be
punished?” I’d demand my money
back. Oh, what was I thinking?
By this point I had been logged in to
the site for an hour, and nothing. I
minimized the page and tried to
distract myself with YouTube videos,
to no avail. At the first ring of the
phone, I grabbed it and made a mad
dash across the apartment and
upstairs, tripping over everything
along the way. Pots and pans and
roommates tupperware had planted
themselves in my path. I threw myself
through the kitchen back door. Weeks
of neglected garbage blockaded the
attic, and I swept it aside in one swift
shove, slathering my arm with
congealed something.
An automated message informed me
that I had received a request for a 30-
minute call and had 30 seconds to
press 1 to accept it. I slammed the
attic door behind me and fumbled
with the lock, scrambled up the stairs,
sat in my corner, took a second to
collect myself, wasn’t able to, and hit
1.
“Hello, this is Violet.” I was still out of
breath, which was probably a good
thing.
“Violet, I haven’t seen you before on
the site, are you new?”
“I am.”
“Well, I promise I’ll be gentle.”
I wanted to vomit already. What
should I even say to that?
“What’s your name?”
“Mark.”
“Hey, Mark.”
“Violet, I want to fuck you, but I’m not
allowed to.”
“Oh?”
“I think maybe you need to publicly
humiliate me for my desires.”
“...”
“By dressing me up in women’s
clothes. And beating me. And telling
me I’m disgusting.”
I heard what I could only assume to be
him throwing himself on the floor.
“Oh, no, please, Violet, don’t do this to
me! Don’t tell me I’m disgusting!”
“You’re disgusting!”
“Oh no, what are you gonna do to me?”
“I’m gonna make you wear women’s
clothes.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“Please don’t hit me!”
I smacked the closest broken chair.
Had I any time to process it, I would
have been flabbergasted at my luck,
stumbling into a call and response
situation like this. I didn’t even have
time to worry about laughing, even
when he told me to say things like,
“You will wear this leash and walk
around town in my underwear and I
don’t care who sees you and I don’t
care if it makes you cry.” I don’t think
I came close to being a convincing
actress, but Mark didn’t seem to care.
Maybe this was auspicious; maybe
they’d all be like this. I was actually
starting to get confident, but then he
turned the tables on me.
“Now, I want you to suck my dick! I
want you to suck my dick right now!”
“OK!”
I was not prepared for this intense a
foley session. I couldn’t suck on my
hand, I was covered in garbage. I
started making out with my clean arm.
“I’m gonna come so hard on your face,
Violet, do you want that?”
“Um, yes?”
“Are you gonna come, too?”
“Um, uh-huh?”
“Are you coming right now?”
Fuck.
I’m Meg Ryan. I’m Meg Ryan in When
Harry Met Sally and we’re at Katz’s
and the whole crew is here, all the
union guys and the extras and
everyone is in on the joke and we’re
all gonna laugh so hard at this and
then they’re gonna tell me I’m
brilliant. Even though the dialogue is a
little forced. Maybe we all think we’re
a little bit better than the script, but
we’ve committed to this project,
goddammit, and I am a seasoned
actress and everyone here is attracted
to me! And, cut!
My friend was right. Piece of cake.
Julia Hebner is a Brooklyn based writer
and filmmaker, and is currently
developing her phone sex experiences
into a film. This article is part one in her
series. Come back next week for the
second installment.
Via Cosmopolitan