I Got What You Need

"Hey Anus Boy, can I fondle your Ball Sack?"

by Carol Steele

I really needed a different job. I had only been living in Seattle for about three months and my job at the Off Ramp was becoming unbearable, as well as turning me into an alcoholic. Also, I hated my boss. The ad in the paper said there were positions open for telephone actresses. I called the number and left a message.

The next day I got a call from a woman named Iris. She asked if I would have a problem talking to men on the phone in a sexually explicit manner. I told her that I would try it out but that I might start laughing during a call. I found out later that most everyone says that. She asked me to come in early the next morning and then gave me directions to the office.

The "office" was actually part of a house. Iris lived in the other part. The house and the operation itself were owned by a bigger company that occupied the building next door.
I walked into the house/office. Inside the main room were a couple of computer terminals being used as switchboards and two women working as operators. Behind them was another room which was closed off, but it had a big plate glass window so you could see into it. This room was divided up into cubicles with a chair and a phone in each one. Two other women were sitting in there with their backs to the window.
One of the operators led me into the inside room and handed me an application. I sat down in one of the cubicles and started filling it out. I was halfway through when the phone in my booth rang. I picked it up and it was one of the operators saying that she needed somebody to take a call and that it was a woman. Panic set in. No one had told me what I was supposed to say and now I had to try and pretend to be a lesbian! I have no lesbian experience whatsoever, and I was so freaked out I used my real name.
See, you have to use a fake name because some of the callers are psycho and will try to find you. Actually, everything about it was fake. The morons who called really believed we were hot women lying around at home all day in lingerie, masturbating. They paid $30.00 for a ten-minute call.

Anyway, I made it through the first call and decided that it wasn't so bad.For $7 an hour plus bonuses, I could handle it. The part about no dress code appealed to me as well.

If a caller called back at any time and requested a certain girl, the girl got an extra $1 bonus added to her check. This could add up to a lot of dough by the end of the week.
According to federal law, I wasn't allowed to initiate the sexual conversation. But all they had to do was say one thing about sex and I could let loose. Usually the guys who called didn't know this and/or were too stupid to just tell me what they wanted. Most conversations started like this:
Me: "So, what do you want to talk about?"
Guy (usually in a bad attempt to affect a sexy type of voice): "I don't know,what do you want to talk about?"
Needless to say, it could get very frustrating trying to get these idiots to start talking about sex, which was why they were calling in the first place. Duh.
A few subjects were off-limits: incest, rape, bestiality and pedophilia. If the caller wanted to talk about any of these things, we were supposed to steer him off the subject. It didn't happen too often. Mostly they just wanted to hear how I was going to "suck them off." I hated the Southern white trash with the really heavy accents. They were like, "How big are yer titties?" Pretty repulsive, but laughable at the same time.
A couple of days after I started, I did my first domination call. I quickly realized I had found my specialty. Basically, the guys who called and asked for domination wanted to be verbally humiliated. They wanted to be my slave. My dominatrix name was Mistress Sultana. I got that name from when I was 14 and in my first drug rehab. There was a girl in there named Sultana. I always liked that name.
I would call the fuckers all kinds of names, make them slap themselves and shove ice cubes and various other objects such as hair brush handles up their ass. I could pretty much always tell if they were doing what I told them. You can't fake the noise a man makes when he shoves an ice cube up his own ass. I still crack up sometimes at the things I used to make them do.

One good trick I thought of was to make them stick their dick into a glass of ice water. It made them go limp instantly and they'd have to call me back if they wanted to get off. This usually worked.

Another thing I did was rename the caller. Something like "Ball Sack" or "Anus Boy." When they called back and I asked who it was they had to use their new name. If someone called you and said their name was Anus Boy, you'd laugh your ass off.
Sometimes I'd make them sing me a song while they jacked off and even got a couple of them on tape, which I'm saving for a possible sample later.
A big drawback to this job was that it burned me out quickly. I'd talk to 60-plus guys in an eight-hour stretch some days, and it could be mentally draining. Since I was talking about sex 40 hours a week, I didn't really feel like having any in real life, which is unusual for me. I would have to quit for a few months and then go back when I needed the cash.
Eventually I became assistant manager. Part of my job was to teach new girls how to do the calls. I was surprised at how many of them didn't like to do domination calls. They said they felt weird about it. I truly despised most of the guys who called, so it was no problem for me to treat them like shit. No problem at all.

Some of the "girls" were actually gay men. They did really well and seemed to enjoy the job a lot more than the women did. The best part of that was the fact that the callers had no idea they were talking to a man and probably would've been totally pissed if they had known the truth.

Here's how my fabulous career in the phone sex industry ended: The company, which was shady to begin with (they got raided by the FBI the year before for tax evasion), sent us a memo saying that wages were being cut by $2 an hour (except for management, which included me). The company said it was going through some changes and didn't have enough money. They promised to raise the pay back up by a certain date. I felt terrible about it, but waited to see what would happen.
The date to raise it back up came and went and nothing happened. People were getting pissed. I was pissed and, even though my pay wasn't affected, I felt like shit. I felt like a hypocrite for making so much more money than my friends, who did nothing to deserve the treatment they were getting. The company had lied to us and we had believed it all.
We called each other daily, and we began talking about what to do. If some of us had a day off, we'd call the booths directly from home and shoot the shit with our friends who were working, tying up the line and making them unavailable to paying customers.

Finally nine of us decided to quit. I left solely on principle. We waited until we were all working the same shift and walked out halfway through the day,leaving them with only four people to work. We all went to Dick's for burgers. Over the next couple of weeks we stayed in touch and helped each other get jobs.

We met again on payday to go get our last checks together. The first thing the new assistant manager, my replacement, said was: "They mailed your checks." I told her to call upstairs and tell them to cut us new checks and void the ones that got mailed or I was going to kick her ass. I have to use the "I'll kick your ass" ploy once in awhile.
So she calls upstairs and five minutes later the manager comes downstairs with our checks in hand. Seems they didn't mail them after all. We got our checks and - with one final "fuck off" to my former manager and co-worker - we were out of there.

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Contents on this page were published in the February/March, 1996 edition of the Washington Free Press.
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