I liked reading the Village Voice for its articles about art shows, concerts, and stories about people living “alternative” lifestyles. (When can we stop calling gay people “alternative”? Now, please?) But the best part was the back page. The classifieds! There were all kinds of weird help-wanted and sex-toy ads back there, and I loved reading them. I knew that was where I’d find a listing for the only job I thought I could get. I’m not sure how the ad was worded. It may have said, “Phone actress.” I know it said, “No experience necessary.” Base pay and the potential to make fifteen dollars an hour. Yasss! I called the number provided. A woman answered and gave me an appointment to interview to be a “talker” for the following day.
Honestly, I thought I’d be walking into a dungeon with girls in ripped underwear chained to radiators who were moaning into receivers in phone booths. (If that’s what I thought this job would be like, why was I showing up for the interview? Desperation. Duh!) I was surprised when I stepped off the elevator to see a normal-looking office. There was a glass door separating the elevator from the actual office, and through it, I could see a young, handsome Puerto Rican man at the security desk wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He buzzed me in and asked who I was there to see. I assumed that the radiators and phone booths were at the back of the office. I was led into what seemed to be a conference room with bright-construction-paper-framed pictures of employees on the wall. Motivational messages and inspirational quotes on colorful banners were hung from the ceiling. This office seemed more like an elementary school classroom than what I thought a phone sex office would look like. More than likely, I borrowed clothes from my mom for the interview, something I thought would look professional, but everyone there was in a T-shirt and jeans. Even the young woman leading the interview, who introduced herself as Gina. A pretty, dark-skinned, and heavyset woman, she looked busy, as if she had a lot of responsibilities. I thought the interview would be the normal one-on-one that I’d grown accustomed to before being thanked for my interest in the position only to never hear from the interviewer again, but this time I sat down with two other women much older than I was who were also being interviewed to be phone sex operators. I remember silently praying that I would have it figured out by the time I was either of their ages. I felt better about being there because I was still only twenty-one and had time to turn it around. I remember listening to their voices and thinking that neither of them sounded very sexy.
First, we talked numbers. I learned that this particular company had been in business for about fifteen years and was one of the more successful lines. The talkers made a base pay of seven dollars an hour, but if you were a good talker, you could potentially make up to fifteen dollars an hour in commissions. Commissions usually broke down to about ten cents a minute for every phone call. After ten minutes, though, commissions doubled to twenty cents a minute and tripled to thirty cents a minute after thirty minutes, and so on. There were other ways to boost commissions. If you were a good talker and a caller liked you enough to request you by name, you made two dollars before you even said hello.
Then we learned how to “talk.” The interview turned into a forty-five-minute workshop about what to say and what not to say to a caller. Tips on how to answer a caller’s questions included: the caller will tell you what he wants you to say and all you have to do is listen and then say it. For instance, if the caller says, “Are you wearing something sexy?” the answer is “Yes.” He told you by asking the question that he wants you to say you’re wearing something sexy. Gina informed us that phone sex isn’t about getting the caller off. It’s about stalling the caller so you can make money. You don’t want to just pick up the phone and start moaning so the caller gets . . . done and then hangs up. A good talker makes the caller forget he’s paying to talk to you. A good talker makes her answers as long as possible to keep the money rolling in. “Are you wearing something sexy?” “OMG! I am! It’s new, too! I went on a shopping spree with my roomie yesterday! We’re the same size in panties, but my boobs are bigger than hers, and I borrowed a bra from her and stretched it out so we went shopping for more bras, and I saw this super-cute lacy teddy. It’s red with black bows on the bottom with these straps that hook to my panties and OH! So these panties make my butt look like a heart when I bend over! They’re black satin with lace around the sides, and the seat of the panties is mesh, and you can see through it so . . . if I open up my legs! But I’m wearing a silk robe over my teddy because I just had a visitor. My weird neighbor knocked on my door to ask to borrow milk. Really? Milk? He’s like obsessed with me. It’s so weird. What are you wearing?” Okay, so I’m jumping ahead here, but see what I did there? If that guy’s not already coming or whatever, he might want to know more about that roommate. He might want to know more about those panties and maybe even that weird neighbor. If the caller is freaky, he might want to know more about that milk.
Gina told us what we shouldn’t say to a caller, too. That there were FCC rules and regulations that meant we couldn’t discuss certain things on the phone. We couldn’t mention anything of a sexual nature pertaining to anyone under the age of eighteen. We couldn’t talk about drugs of any kind, prescription or illegal. No weapons of any kind, no blood or guts or gore. A lot of men would call and say, “My stepdaughter is eight,” and the talker had to say, “Let’s keep the party for people above the age of eighteen. I won’t talk about anyone under that age of eighteen.” (Talker tip: repeat yourself whenever possible to keep those minutes up.) Some men would then say, “My stepdaughter is eight . . . teen.” Creep. But just so you know, there is more than likely no stepdaughter at all. No wife. Every call is about a fantasy. However gross and upsetting it may be, it’s almost never real. If a caller wants you to stab him or he wants to stab you, you politely decline and make him aware of the rules. You can scratch and spank, but no wounds and no bleeding. Some callers want to be choked to death. You offer to choke them until they pass out, but they are to remain alive.
Another rule was that you, the talker, were not allowed to be any race other than good ol’ American WHITE! The average caller is a white male. After oppressing the rest of the world all day, that white dude wants to go home, call a phone sex line, and talk to girls he’s seen in porn or on TV. The average porn or TV actress is white. According to what I had already seen at this particular company, the average talker was a plus-size black woman. That’s right, white dudes! You might think you’re talking to Megan Fox, but you’re actually talking to . . . well . . . ME! The majority of callers expect you to be white, but there are times when you get to be other races.
There are times when you get to act out any and every fantasy. Phone sex is like Netflix for the horny! And it’s all got a label:
Barely legal: Talker is to be eighteen to nineteen years old. She’s horny.
College girl: Talker is between eighteen and twenty-one years old. She’s also horny.
Dom girl: Talker is a dominant mistress who orders the caller around and makes him do embarrassing things like wear girlie panties and laughs at the caller’s tiny penis. Weird thing is, she’s horny.