Confessions Of A Phone Sex Operator

ATLANTA (TNA) – Ring! The dispatcher at the phone sex company is on the line.

“I have a call for you from Stanley. He wants you to be an 18-year-old high school cheerleader. Be blonde, 105 pounds and bubbly.”

Never mind that I spent more after-school hours in the high school library doing research for the debate team than cheering on the sidelines at football games.

No problem. All Stanley needed was a pretty slut, and it doesn’t take a varsity letter to get a guy hard.

Things were going swimmingly as I cooed, giggled and told Stanley all about showering in the locker room with my hot girlfriends. Then he asked me to do a cheer.

“Oh! A cheer?” I stammered, losing some confidence.

“Yeah, sweetheart, do a little cheer for me.”
 
“Um ...” I stalled while quickly Googling. The search phrase “slutty cheer” didn’t turn up the desired results.

Finally I blurt out, “Stanley, Stanley, he’s my man…” And before I could finish…CLICK!

I’ll never know if Stanley got off or just gave up, but it was the first time I was paid for phone sex.

It wasn’t a bad gig, either.

A guy would call the service and deliver a very detailed list of requirements. The service then called whichever operator was next on the list to receive a call and told her who she was going to be for the next 5 to 35 minutes.

So how did I become a fantasy girl-for-hire by the minute? Probably a bit differently than many of the housefraus who aurally jerk you off while the kids are at school.

I was 23 years old and had just started graduate school when my exhibitionist streak got the better of me. I started a sex blog, then a podcast. My experience in radio helped make the podcast sound professional, but my willingness to record my screaming orgasms drove most of the traffic.

I’d been maintaining my online endeavors for more than a year, and my readers and listeners kept telling me I should take my taste for recreational phone sex, which I wrote of frequently, to the marketplace.

But I wasn’t ready yet to get on the phone with the readers that knew the intimate details of my sex life. So I started with companies that would send me the calls and allow me to be the client’s pure fantasy.

The next service I worked for specialized in adult baby and infantilism calls, and I had a regular character to play: Phone Mommy Cathy.

Now there are some differences between (the fictional) Cathy and me. She was a MILF, and I’m only 26. Cathy’s favorite movie was “Titanic,” whereas I am generally not moved by maudlin sentimentalism.

But the biggest difference is that Cathy loved changing the poopy diapers of grown men. Me? Well, I faked it, and spent the time between calls brainstorming a new vocabulary to describe shit.

Gooey, stinky, squishy. I had flash cards.

I also had a job that turned my stomach from time to time. So I decided to drop the characters and just be myself on the phone.

Nowadays I work for myself. And I don’t do much cheerleading or diaper changing. In fact, the clients all want one thing: They want to hear me (the actual me) get off. Turns out I had a real talent for sounding impeccably gorgeous while having an orgasm all along.

Because the clients read about my life before calling, they sometimes want to hear my boyfriend with me. Of course, I charge more for this privilege, and split the money with my man. He doesn’t seem to mind, since we divvy up the cash. And we only perform based on special requests.

Phone-based threesomes, while often tricky to navigate, can be quite rewarding. I focus on drawing the caller into the fantasy while he gets to hear me getting fucked much harder than I can muster with a toy.

It might sound complicated, but this is actually what Bluetooth headsets were designed to do.

Doggy style is our trusted position. It puts me in the frame of mind that I really am double-teaming two guys, and makes my filthy mouth much filthier. Tell your wives and girlfriends that tits down and ass up isn’t just fun for you – they can take phone calls more easily. Multitasking!

Getting paid to masturbate or have sex is pretty much my dream job. But it isn’t a job that comes without some level of mystique. You can’t introduce yourself as a phone slut at a dinner party without some raised eyebrows and a whole lot of questions.

The first question is always about the money – Is it good? Well, there are two ways to look at it.

Imagine your typical 9-to-5 workday. Now imagine that you’re paid by the minute; but you are only paid for those minutes that you’re actively working on making your client completely happy and satisfied.

Depending on how productive you are, it could be a pretty dismal earnings projection.

Of course, the flipside is that you can count up all the minutes you spend masturbating and some of the time you spend fucking your significant other. I get paid for those. I also get to write off dildos and lube as a business expense. 

So yes, the money rocks. It didn’t when I was playing the cheerleader or changing diapers (I could have made more as a telemarketer). But nowadays I have no complaints because I set my own price.

After fees from the call processing, I pocket $1.25 per minute if I’m working solo. Add a dollar if I’m gracefully talking and being shagged at the same time. Not bad for a job with no dress code, commute or sexual harassment policies.

The next most common question is whether I really get off. “Are those orgasms real? Do you actually touch yourself when you’re on the phone?”

In short – almost always. There are a few reasons.

I like sex. No, actually I love it. Talking about it and getting people off is going to be sexy to me. Does that mean every single one of my clients is sexy? I have no idea. But being an exhibitionist, having a willing and eager audience is enough for me.

Don’t take any of this to mean my job is easy. I’m a whore and a mind reader at the same time.

It isn’t always easy to pick up the phone and catch up with a man who’s been looking at pictures of me in my lingerie for the last half-hour, and already has his cock in his hand by the time I get on the line. But I usually rally and grab my boyfriend or tax-deductible vibrator and make it work.

Then there are the silent ones. They have some very clear expectations and desires, but they don’t want to tell me about them. Instead, I get to tease them out.

Dragging the kinks out of them can feel like a chore, but discovering them is like winning a prize. If a guy uses a certain word or breathes faster when I mention a particular act, there are a variety of ways I can work with his feedback. My cunning is usually rewarded with a regular caller.

But I’m most impressed by those that really want to explore and aren’t afraid of offending me with their requests. They read up on me and like the idea of a phone girl with an advanced degree. So they place their fantasies in my hands.

Those calls are the most intense – connecting with another pervert, and all the sticky mess and heavy breathing that come with the territory. These trusting clients are my favorites.

Honesty is prized among sex workers. Knowing that I am being genuine and really getting off is important to my clients as well as to me. But there have been times when a white lie was appropriate.

Recently, I was happily narrating a lovely blowjob while strumming away at my clit. My client was clearly in a great headspace, putty in my hands. Then we were interrupted by a retching noise.

One of my cats had chosen to vomit, loudly, for at least 30 seconds, right next to the bed. And while I have no doubt there are people out there with a cat-yacking fetish – this client was not one of them.

I quickly considered saying, “Ooh baby, now I’m rubbing this cat puke on my wet pussy,” but dismissed the idea out of hand.

These are the times when the professionalism of the phone sex worker is challenged.

So I raised my voice, stifled laughter, and explained that I was shuffling through my sex toys looking for something to fuck myself with. He seemed satisfied with the explanation and quickly got back to his wanking.

I would never dream of disappointing him with the mundane details of domestic life. After all, I am a professional.

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