In college, I decided to take on a full-time job as a phone sex operator.   This was something that seemed like a great idea at the time.   I could easily work out of my dorm room, as long as my roommates didn’t hear me, which was the agreement when I took the position.   Although I know they secretly enjoyed it.

Photo courtesy of Jean Koulev

What wasn’t a good idea was that I was working the graveyard shift.   Midnight to eight am.   It was more profitable, and realistically the moneymaking opportunities seemed to be more present.   Typically there’s not much traffic on a phone sex line during the day.   The night shift, fueled with alcohol and loneliness, was the perfect recipe for success.

When I was hired, the woman asked me questions such as, “Are you comfortable saying words such as ‘pussy’ and ‘vagina’, and phrases like ‘Cum on my tits.’?”   She asked me this as if she were asking me what I liked watching on television, or what sports I enjoyed.   Being very nonchalant about it all.   Then she got into the real part of the job.

“You will have regular callers.   These people will probably attempt to forge relationships with you. People will call you with problems, looking for advice.   You are not allowed to exchange personal information with them or meet them outside of the hotline.   Most of the callers are from out of state, so it shouldn’t be a big issue. Others will be ‘cum and go callers’.   They will immediately hang up after they climax, but do not take it personally, it means you did your job.   You will most likely have a lot of emotionally needy callers, which is a great way to build up a base of regulars.   Any questions?” she asked.

“No I don’t think so.”

The job wouldn’t be completely easy regarding what we could divulge sexually with the callers.   We had limitations on what we were supposed to talk about.   No underage sexual fantasies.   No rape fantasies.   None involving animals.   None involving urination or defecation.   There were other phone sex lines for those kinds of specialties.   The one I worked for was “clean.”

I went home and prepared for my upcoming shift.   A friend had given me a headset for my landline, so I felt like a real pro.   I put it in on, clocked myself in and waited for the first wave of callers.   Then they started rolling in.

I received the “cum and go” calls.   The demanding men who wanted me to yell and dominate them.   The majority of the calls were oddly familiar in the sense that they reminded me of one of those after school hotlines you could call as a child back in the day.   There were a lot of lonely men who just wanted to talk about their days, their problems and if things got sexual towards the end of the call that was fine.   The dirty talk was far easier than the conversations I’d have with these lonely men about what was going on in their lives.   I did not mind giving advice and listening.   I felt as if I had become some sort of therapist, making decent money without having to shell out for a degree.

Photo courtesy of David Nestor

“Times are tough financially.   My mom isn’t doing so well.   I’m in debt.”   This was one of my regular callers who would call me up to three times a week, from an hour to three hours a call.

“Have you thought about seeing a therapist?” I asked.

“Oh, well I can’t afford that and I’d much rather talk to you.   Besides, you’re so much prettier. ”   That was another thing.   The callers could request the kind of woman they wanted to speak with.   He thought I was a 5’8 model with triple D breasts, blonde hair, blue eyes.   I was actually 5’6, brown hair, and green eyes, and only a double D.   My appearance never came up with this caller.   The conversations became purely platonic.   They went on for at least two months and then dwindled down to once a week, then he just stopped calling altogether.   I always wondered what happened to the clients like that, who seemed to evaporate after awhile.   Yes, I cared about his well being. I had no emotional connection to him, but I was concerned as a fellow human being would be.   I never knew what became of him.   I certainly hope he is okay.

I lasted as a “phone actress” for almost four months.   My sleep schedule was completely off considering I worked graveyard.   I started gaining weight and feared becoming a stereotypical phone sex worker who was overweight and eating on the phone all of the time out of boredom, which was on its way to happening.   Dirty talk, easy.   Playing therapist, not easy.   I was essentially helping some people through rough times.   My advice to them seemed to matter, as long as they kept calling back.

Photo courtesy of Audio Technica UK

Is phone sex considered cheating?

That’s a question that I was frequently asked.

I don’t believe it’s cheating.   There’s no physical contact-well there is with the person’s right or left hand, but not with the operator on the other end of line.   Who’s most likely faking it.   Dirty talk isn’t a turn on to ones’ self if you’re doing it 40 hours a week.

Yes, I had my fair share of callers who strictly wanted “therapy.”   I never once had a man tell me he wanted to leave his wife, or that he was in an unhappy relationship.   The callers who wanted a bang for their buck were the cum and go ones.   Not the emotionally invested ones.

We had a “no meeting clients” policy.   This was fine.   Most of the callers were from out of state and most likely trying to portray a different picture of themselves, just as we were.

I don’t believe phone sex is cheating.   It’s faceless, anonymous, and far less harmful than webcam, strip clubs, and escorts.

Do you disagree? Let’s debate and discuss.

Randi Newton lives between New York and Los Angeles.   She’s been published on Jezebel, Gawker, XoJane, TheFix and is a regular contributor on  TheGloss.com.   Follow her on Twitter @WorldOfRandi and visit her blog  www.worldofrandi.com.   She enjoys coffee, dry shampoo, and long walks on the beach.