Sex hang-up

In phone fantasy biz, keeping callers on line is what boss wants


Rating: NNNNN


I work as a phone fantasy operator. Most people say “phone sex,” but I don’t like to accentuate the word “sex.” Fantasy is how I like to think of it, because it sounds more like an art form.

Art is powerful, it forces people to think. But I’ve been thinking, lately, of quitting.

It’s becoming pointless to de-emphasize the “sex” part, when most men fantasize about having a dick the size of a table leg.

…So, John, you say you got lotsa “females” after ya? Why aren’t you bothering them for sex? Where’s your wife? After all, she’s right there and she’s free…. OK, go ahead and impress me. How big’s yer wang?

Every guy has at least 9 inches. Well, it’s their dollar, er, $4.99.

The people who work here are bold, bright, battered. A woman once came to work with a black eye. Her glare said, “It has nothing to do with running into a door, but don’t you dare ask.” Poverty-class single mothers and minorities earn the company its profit.

“Luscious,” who sits beside me, describes herself to her callers as “mixed-race.” A lot of the black girls tell the men this. Luscious says she gets a better hold time that way, and therefore keeps her job.

If your callers consistently hang up before five minutes, you’ll get fewer shifts. She says men are only good for two things: money and sex, and she loves both. But it’s always hard to love the men.

So, Larry, have you ever been with a woman of colour before? No? Well, if I told you I look like Halle Berry would you know who I’m talking about? No? OK, Vanessa Williams. No? Fine. Janet Jackson. Yeah? Good.

…What colour is my pussy!? It looks like everybody else’s, they’re all the same, Dick! Whaddaya mean, it tastes like sardines? That’s probably your own breath coming back at ya! …Hey, watch it, you’re talking to a lady, yo! I’m a fucking lady, you motha-fucka!

…What colour is my pussy!? It looks like everybody else’s, they’re all the same, Dick! Whaddaya mean, it tastes like sardines? That’s probably your own breath coming back at ya! …Hey, watch it, you’re talking to a lady, yo! I’m a fucking lady, you motha-fucka!

I enjoy listening to these women tell the men off, even though the supervisors forbid it and it can mean a cut in shifts.

…It’s as deep as the fucking Grand Canyon! What kind of a question is that, “How deep is my pussy?” How deep is your asshole? Jesus Christ, you men ask the stupidest goddam questions! Don’t worry, it’s deep enough to take your 4-and-a-half-inch cock, awright?

It may sound harsh, but there’s a certain justification. For example, once, during a grand orgasm, I said, “Holy Jesus!” and my caller yelled at me for taking the lord’s name in vain. Meanwhile, he’d spent most of his time calling me “bitch.”

Brandi, the girl on the other side of me, works on the orgy line, which means she has to keep track of and entertain up to 10 guys at once.

Now, who wants to fuck me? OK, the guy with the biggest dick goes first. Twelve inches? Yeah, right. You and 11 of your friends! Who has the biggest one for real? Five and three-quarters inches? That’s some detail. You pay a lot of attention to your dick, don’t ya!

Christ, one’s too big and one’s too small. Whose dick is just right? Nine inches? Do I hear 10 inches? Ten inches! Going once… going twice…. Twelve, who said 12? Sold! To the guy and 11 of his friends!

Christ, one’s too big and one’s too small. Whose dick is just right? Nine inches? Do I hear 10 inches? Ten inches! Going once… going twice…. Twelve, who said 12? Sold! To the guy and 11 of his friends!

There are banners hanging above our heads that say, “Attitude is a little thing that makes a BIG difference!” and “Practise good housekeeping… a place for everything and everything in its place!”

Snacks are forbidden in our cubicles except for Tic-tacs, because they don’t leave wrappers. Certs and gum are not allowed. At one time there was a threat to prohibit drinks, because coffee was spilled on a phone accidentally.

I don’t think they’d actually ban them, it’s just a warning to keep us all afraid and obedient. The room temperature is always appropriately hot and fosters our submission. Most of the time I feel like I’m in Hell.

I work on the one-on-one line. Generally, the guys who call me are lonely, misogynist, emotionally wooden Mike Harris voters. I envision the caller sitting in his Lazy-Boy and getting a blow job while eating a bag of chips.

Hey, pal, I bet you have a dickdo. That’s when your stomach sticks out more than your dick do!

It’s odd to hear a caller accuse me of being politically incorrect. Once, during a domination fantasy, I used the term “little faggot” as part of the humiliation spiel.


Pink lingerie

(My experience has been that heterosexual men who call to describe the pink lingerie they’re wearing — well, aren’t they good to themselves! — are asking to be emasculated and tend to get off when I refer to them by this “f” word.)

Politically incorrect. Well, duh! I’m sitting here telling men to suck my cunt, and you want me to be politically correct? Hey, if you want “politically correct,” go listen to CBC Radio One!

Words no longer have the same meaning for me that they once did.

This morning when I got home, I cried and cried. I work nights. I hyperventilate for eight hours. I go home exhausted. The kink in my neck won’t go away. I work so hard, yet this week I was given only three shifts as punishment for a low hold time.

That’s barely $250. So, yeah, sometimes I’m a bit sassy to the callers. Anyway, men enjoy a war.

The preposterous experiences shared with “the girls” on my shift bond me to them and are part of why I stay. Whatever the individual reasons are for each of us ending up here, the only important thing is that we have families to feed, rent to pay, clothes we want.

Sitting hunched in a line, talking on a line, putting our souls on the line, we are keeping ourselves alive.

Instead of the staccato pandemonium of machine guns, there are the bullet sounds of “Yes, yes, yes!” striking from all sides.

It’s a musical cacophony of groans, sucking noises — ah, ah, ah… what year were you born… oh, oh, oh…. You forgot my name? Then get yer dick outta my snatch!… mmmmmm…. kid, you’re going to strain your voice trying to sound like a grown-up — all happening at once. I’m in a whispering, moaning cocoon that’s strangely absurd, erotic, dismal, lulling and numbing.

So much for “art.” Phone fantasy? Phone sex? Who cares. Things would be different if I could make some serious money at this, but the only people benefiting are the owners of the trenches. They drive to work in Cadillacs.

Unlike Luscious, I hate money and — oh, dear — I’m starting to hate sex.

Sorry, guys, this pussy is closed for renovation. I quit.

Penny Nickels is a pseudonym

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