Making Ends Meet: My Life as a Phone Sex Operator

We've all seen those ads on TV, usually around 1 or 2 in the morning. There are young women who are lonely as hell and just waiting for you, you fascinating and underappreciated hunk of male flesh, to give a call 'cause they're all just bored to death lounging around their designer apartments in their lingerie. And they're all beautiful and they're all single and they're all in your area. I know. I was one of those beautiful young women you might've talked to, only I was a 42 year old single mom struggling to make ends meet; my daughter was probably in her bedroom watching Fresh Prince reruns while we talked, and I was probably balancing my checkbook while I cooed and giggled in your ear and rolled my eyes as you described your most perverse fantasies to me.

I was working as a payroll technician, making $9 an hour to process checks for folks making 10 times that amount, and still trying to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up. I'd worked full time off and on for 23 years and so far I'd been an administrative secretary, medical receptionist, school district secretary, benefits analyst, international relocations specialist, classified ad representative and helped rent out storage containers. Very shortly after I became a payroll technician it became painfully obvious that there was no-way, no-how I was going to be able to support myself and my daughter on $9 hour in sunny, expensive Southern California unless I did something else to bring in more money. I wanted to support us in the lifestyle to which we had become accustomed, which means we'd gotten into this nasty habit of wanting a roof over our heads and food to eat. So, when a former co-worker knocked on my door and told me he was in charge of recruiting personnel for his company's latest venture, a singles hotline, I listened to what he had to say.

He explained that the position paid $7 an hour and because each "phone hostess" was employed as an independent contractor, that meant $7 untaxed dollars an hour. Reporting my income was my responsibility and a 1099 earning statement would only be filed by the company if I made $600 or more during the year. Each hostess was required to put in 15 hours a week. Because we were personal friends I could set up my schedule to suit me and, because he knew me, I wouldn't have to go through an audition. Actually, since it was a start-up venture, I would be doing him a favor as well since it was his job to recruit enough operators to make the system available 24/7. To become operational all I'd have to do is turn off my call waiting and phone into the system to start my shift. My calls were routed through the company's phone system and my home phone number was never revealed to callers.

So, throwing caution and my own personal values to the wind (I'd done worse, for free, was my reasoning) I entered the wonderful world of "phone hostessing." I'd go to work as the prim and proper payroll technician in my private little office from 7:30 - 4:00 each day. Directly after work I'd change into workout gear and do a 3-4 mile run, jump back in the car and return home. By 6pm I had become "Charlene," the phone sex operator and multi-tasker extraordinaire. I could talk dirty while I also ironed and paid bills and packed lunch for the following day. This became just a little tricky because I would do no hostessing unless my daughter wasn't in the vicinity. Fortunately, though I was on shift from 6 to 9 each night it didn't mean I was continually on the phone for that time. When there weren't any new messages nor calls to take I'd put on the speaker phone so I could hear any new calls which entered my queue and then go in and chat with my daughter or eat dinner or nag her to brush her teeth or pick up her room. And I could always refuse a call; it just meant that I was logged out of the phone system and would not get credit for the down time.

Now here's how the system worked: The hotline was set up so that women always talked for free; men received a trial membership of an hour or so, after which their credit card would be charged something along the lines of $3.99 a minute. Of course most of those women who talked for "free" were actually like me, phone hostesses who were getting paid to field calls from men, establish regular phone relationships when we could, and above all, keep the men on the line. Keeping our "regulars" happy and enticing new members to run up those credit card charges were our jobs. This, rather than the sex talk itself, turned out to be the sleaziest part of the gig. These men weren't talking to an "interesting single in their area;" they were talking to a panicky single mom living a hand-to-mouth existence who was willing to forego her personal values to keep the wolf from the door.

And believe me, there was plenty of sex talk. Phone hostess my foot! I might've been 42 years old at the time but I was a naïve 42 year old and honestly thought for a brief time that I'd have fascinating, intelligent conversations with the male of the species and get paid for it. Since I had no romantic relationship going on and since I like to talk, it seemed tailor made for me. It took until maybe my third phone call before it dawned on me that "phone hostess" was an optimistic euphemism for a PSO (phone sex operator).

Most of the males who called seemed to know this innately because, though the phone line was advertised as a way to "meet fascinating singles," their conversations and messages would usually be of the tell-me-what-you're-wearing variety.

There was also plenty of opportunity to indulge any multiple personalities I might have lurking around my psyche. In order to maximize our potential for regular customers and maximize our earnings, thereby making ourselves more valuable, we hostesses were encouraged to maintain more than one audio profile in the hotline's phone system. The ability to adopt different accents added to our value too. Mr. X might not want to speak to a brunette from southern California but might love to speak to a blonde from southern Mississippi. I think at one point I had three different profiles going at once, including a gal from the south that'd just relocated to California. I was also a 5'8" auburn haired gal with a great figure. I don't believe I was ever really myself which was a 5'2", 118 pound rather flat-chested Mexican woman with an impatient streak a mile wide and a smart mouth. I didn't lounge around my designer apartment in lingerie but I did stomp around my little upstairs hovel in my baggy sweats. Not too sexy, is it? No wonder I need the alter egos.

And some of the calls could be a little funny. Though I had no problem passing myself off as a twenty-something gal, I had a very hard time relaxing my speech patterns. I'd been working in offices since I was 19 years old; I had my professional work voice down cold and, since this was work, I unconsciously lapsed into work mode. I kept getting accused of being a school teacher or a librarian. If I was being the young Mexican gal during a shift, I was accused of sounding "too white." One time I had persistent phone messages from a couple - a man and woman - who had listened to my audio profile and liked what they heard and wanted to get together for a threesome. There I was, fielding x-rated phone calls for money, getting offended 'cause their messages were "sick." If that isn't the pot calling the kettle a perv, I don't know what is!

My career as a phone hostess/phone sex operator lasted a little over three months. The money I earned made it possible for me to have a little more financial security when I desperately needed it. I didn't have to go to bed at night wondering whether I'd be able to make the rent the following month. I still couldn't afford to buy new clothes nor take my daughter to Disneyland, but I could buy her the occasional meal at Burger King or McDonald's. Little indulgences that probably meant more to me to be able to provide than it meant for her to receive.

And if I told you I would do it again it would be the truth. If I were in the same situation, desperate for cash and desperate to provide for myself and my daughter without assistance and if I had no romantic relationship to honor, yes, I would do it again. Desperate times call for desperate measures. There was simply no fat left to be trimmed from our lifestyle and it was sink or swim time. I learned how to swim in dirty water.

And if I told you I enjoyed it or was proud of my experience it would be a lie. Just when I'd thought there was nothing left to my sense of values and personal standards, my conscience reared its head. Not because of the nasty talk; if I'm an adult and the caller's an adult and he wants to talk and I'm willing to listen...why not? More power to me 'cause I'm getting paid for it.

But no matter how I sliced it and no matter what sense of desperation motivated my actions, the system I worked for did its fair share of duping men by raising their hopes of meeting a Miss Right or at least a Miss-Right-Now, all for only $3.99 a minute. I bought into and helped perpetrate the dupe. And the stupid cliché was right: I had a hard time dealing with the face in the mirror and it turned out I just wasn't the hard pragmatist I always thought I was. And so, in a dramatic argument with my former co-worker I'm sure was staged by my subconscience, I quit the biz. The company's venture into the singles hotline business folded shortly thereafter.

I wish I could tie up this little story in a nice moral bow for you but I can't. One of the thoughts which occurs to me is this: Life is full of compromises. Everyday can hold things on which we settle for less than what we need or want. Every life may hold a little taint and we each might get our hands a little dirty at one time or another for what we feel is a greater cause or higher purpose. When that happens it's important to remember that one bad move or one compromise to our integrity doesn't necessarily define us as a person. I can easily write, "My Life as a Phone Sex Operator." I can also write, "My Life as a Loving Mother," or "My Life as a Faithful, Loving Wife to a Faithful, Loving Husband." I could even write, "My Life as a Child of God." One does not preclude the other.

The phone sex operator opportunity came at a time when I really needed it. It provided for me and my daughter and in the end it gave me with a little keener insight into myself than I would've had otherwise. I could even attempt to legitimize it further by saying perhaps it was sent by God to put me on notice that the person I started out to be - honest and hard working and filled with integrity - still existed in me somewhere and I'd better get busy digging her out. Or maybe I'm just trying to rationalize something which is long over and I'm still chasing after my own forgiveness. Who knows?