In theory, you can make up to 40 cents a minute, but to get that you have to do at least 60 calls a week with an average call length of 10 minutes or more. I'm serious." "Of course I will," I promised.*** Sex lines, psychics and other pay-per-call services started in 1980, when the FCC ruled that phone companies couldn't put limitations on the content or ownership of so-called Dial-It services, where customers could call phone numbers (usually in the 976 exchange) for weather forecasts, horoscopes and other oft-updated information and have a per-minute fee added to their phone bill. I sounded a little stilted but Jay got the happy ending he sought and hung up just after I heard the telltale gasping on his end of the line. Oh, it must be cold in here - I'll remove my underwear too. Forsooth, that feels nice." And the Foley artistry. " "Because you deserve it, you stupid little bitch." All right, I can see where this is going. Fifteen minutes later he started building up to the climax of his story: he wanted to hear me say, "I'm a stupid little slut who deserves to be raped and strangled and have my tits cut off." That's what almost made me hang up at the start. There's a warped lesson on the value of perseverance.
If your calls average six minutes or less, you only make a nickel a minute and risk being fired. If I were looking for an actual second job, I wouldn't even consider this. Once businesses other than the phone company could run paid calls, there appeared almost immediately a service known as "dial-a-porn," where customers could hear recordings of women describing graphic sex acts. I pressed one again, and hung up after hearing more nothing. Press one for 18 or 19 and hold nothing back." What happened to 27? Phone sex is like the real thing, in that no woman's good her first time and if she says she was she's lying. The handbook says phone performers do better if they get into a fantasy. A successful call from Jay's perspective but a failure from the company's viewpoint, lasting only three minutes. The first time a caller wanted to hear me being spanked, all I could think to do was draw my knee up next to the receiver and slap it. I didn't hang up now, but I couldn't say that sentence. I spent several minutes trying to bargain out with less extreme variants. And I learned another useless lesson from the night's events: a sense of ironic detachment strong enough to sustain you through spanking your knee and fellating your fingers won't do jack to prevent a sadistic murder fantasy from scaring the hell out of you. There's a lot of paperwork required to claim your first and only paycheck from a sex chat line. No, I'll buy a dollar-store frame and keep it on my desk, and then someday - if God is good to me - an unsuspecting person walking through the office will say, "Why, Jennifer, whatever is that check?
I’ve been in a relationship for four and a half years now. I’ll be able to say some nasty shit, the girls on here, a lot of them like nasty shit. I remember one time she asked what I wanted for my birthday, and I was like, well, I told her I wanted to do some role-play stuff. Then she would be at the king’s ball, or something like that. I mean, mostly just because to see that something that you actually want sexually can happen, as much as the sex itself waking up the next morning and just being like, “Fuck, this is possible.
The whole sexual experience had completely dried up. Never give out any personal information, such as your real full name, your phone number, or your address. And at first she was like “Okay, what do you want to do? She started laughing right away, and she was like “Are you serious? I used to have a roommate, him and his girlfriend would go to a bar and then pull back with some chick from the bar; it would happen pretty regularly. What I want sexually, is possible.” You know what I mean? It’s kind of like when you transition to sex, when you’re both…
Cut-and-pasted version of my phone-sex story, which is tragically unavailable online at my paper since it got victimized by our "let's take all the articles down after two months" policy. I resumed normal breathing as I scrawled in my notebook: "Simon, hardcore sex call, came and went in eight minutes. "If you feel comfortable with that, go right ahead." "I don't feel comfortable at all," I said cheerfully. I signed on with a company that runs psychic hotlines and straight and gay sex lines for men. I let out my night's only genuine gasp, and almost hung up. I've long known sadists existed, but only in the abstract; I'd never actually talked to one.
To claim your trial offer chat line numbers, all you need to do is CALL.
(And you're only paid for when you actually talk, not the time spent waiting for the phone to ring.) But the deck's stacked so a high average is hard to get. Naturally, dial-a-porn inspired laws to shut it down on obscenity grounds until 1983, when the Supreme Court deemed such content bans unconstitutional. I got three more silent calls, and at I hung up to log out and in again. I pressed one and said, "Hey, it's Jennifer," for the fifth time in eight minutes, doubting anyone would actually answer. Jay expected my clueless virgin self to take command of the situation and I had no idea how, so I asked "What do you want me to do for you, Jay? Okay: I'm in a diner eating lunch with Billy Crystal. The next two callers were jokers; I actually heard the third guy's friends snickering on the line. After an hour I could stretch calls out for eight to 12 minutes, though my average was still pretty low: I hung up on one kid so young his voice hadn't changed yet, and 30 seconds into "press one for a 15-minute credit card call" I heard a beep and a metallic voice: "You have one minute left." By my routine, when sanitized, boiled down to: "Let me unzip you. It worked until I started laughing and failed to disguise that as passionate gasps. I'd spent the whole day in character uttering words I'd never said before, but I did. Finally, I managed to choke out the phrase and added, "But please, don't do that! " And I'll flash a smile filled with sunshine and innocence, and say "That's the cumulative lifetime royalties from my career in phone porn." Oh God, oh please, oh yes.
For example, you have to hang up if you get a call from a minor, but that means a five-second call bringing down your average. Now phone sex is a billion-dollar-a-year industry, and when the numbers come out for 2007 a couple hundred of those dollars will have been shelled out by guys talking to me.***While waiting for the chat line to process my application I implemented a half-assed training program: I watched the fake-orgasm scene in and read the sample scripts in my employee handbook. And between those two I picked up the phone to hear, "You are a mistress with a strap-on dildo." Like hell I am. Discouraged, I logged out after the third caller and e-mailed an update to my editor: "I am very bad at this, here." Good editors always respond with prompt encouragement and guidance. For imitating Clintonian acts I filled a small bowl with water, to wet my fingers when I needed to start sucking on them. He hung up.*** Not counting the disconnects and kid hang-ups, I took around 24 calls that day.
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