The Year I Spent As A Phone-Sex Operator

"Can I talk to you again?" he asked shyly, and I winced to myself.

by Kannan Feng

In 2006, I was twenty-five, working a third-shift tech support job that was slowly crumbling out from under me, and swiping office supplies to make myself feel better. After a time, not even the stolen binders and the reams of paper made me feel better, so I turned to writing, and eventually, to professional phone-sex.

Phone-sex seemed like the perfect match for my late hours and innate desire to overshare with strangers. The agency I applied to seemed to think so as well — after a phone interview and a faxed copy of my driver's license, I was hooked up and ready to take calls. To my surprise, it was incredibly easy. I had a handful of personas and fake accents; and pretty soon, I could clear between twenty-five and fifty dollars an hour on a good night. Independent phone-sex operators make more, but I didn't care to mess around with tracking down assholes who canceled their cards after a four-hour session.

I made sure to keep a belt on hand that I could use to smack my couch cushions.

Professional phone-sex was almost exactly what I expected. Most of the men who called wanted someone to moan along to their fantasies, and I was ready and willing to help out. For the more hardcore customers, I made sure to keep a belt on hand that I could use to smack my couch cushions, and there was always a glass of water nearby by for the odd caller who liked watersports. I also had a pair of battered high heels by my desk so I could cater to fantasies of a domme in five-inch stilettos. I was prepared for just about every kink someone could come up with, but it didn't take me long to realize that it wasn't the kinks I had to watch out for.

 

One of the first genuine surprises the job had in store for me was how often I'd end up acting as someone's Kink 101 teacher. Not long after I got started, I had a fairly tame call from a young man in Missouri who wanted to worship my feet. He called me "ma'am," and it didn't take more than some moans and a few descriptions of my feet on various parts of his anatomy before he was a very happy customer. I was telling him what a good boy he was when he sighed.

"I wish people did this in real life," he said quietly.

"Oh, but they do!" I blurted out, and for the next fifteen minutes, I told him all about how to get in touch with the various kink organizations in his city. He was hesitant, but I was firm; if he was as polite to the kinksters as he was to me, he was going to be fine. I like to think that he's out there having the time of his life with a woman in super-high heels.

One night, my sultry greeting was cut short, and an angry voice asked me if I had seen the film 300. I said yes, and was immediately treated to a seven-minute rant on everything that was wrong with the movie, from the portrayal of the Persians to the war rhinoceros, which, shouting, he said, "looked like machine barf." He ended on a particularly vicious note about people being too dumb to wear armor and how ridiculous the Spartans looked. There was a pause where I could hear him breathing hard, and for a second, it was just like a normal call.

"You all good?" I asked him tentatively.

"Yeah," he said after a moment. "I think so."

He hung up, and I shrugged and picked up my knitting again. I hadn't thought 300 was that bad.

 

I lived in dread of mixing up my phone-sex job with my tech support job. While a sexy laugh and a description of my breasts might have gotten me good results from retirees who needed their televisions fixed, I couldn't imagine it going over well with my managers. What I didn't realize was that that wasn't the way the mix-up was actually going to go.

The session itself wasn't anything to write home about. I told him all about how good he made me feel and how much I wanted him, and he was done in pretty short order. He was one of the ones who stuck around for pillow talk. More time means more money for me, so I asked him how his night was going.

"Well, after that, I'd be great all around if my fuckin' Internet worked!"

"Oh," I said without thinking about it. "Are you going through a router or are you plugged straight into the wall?"

As it turned out, he was using a router. One hard reboot later, he was back online, and I realized that my life was getting seriously weird.

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