I’ve always had a vivid imagination. As a kid, I loved to play pretend. One day I was a schoolteacher, another a doctor or a clerk at an office supplies store. Later in life, when I became a phone sex operator, a much more mature evolution of that passion for make-believe paid off—literally. My clients loved the elaborate scenarios I could create to fulfill their fantasies with just my words.
I blame my curiosity. I’d seen the help-wanted ads for “phone mates” on Craigslist and wondered what a side hustle in dirty talk might be like. I had no problem getting vocal in bed with my sex partners, but could I do it with a total stranger?
Deciding I was game to find out, I messaged one of the phone sex agencies and asked them for a job. I was already working part-time and attending school. Making ends meet was tough and I figured some extra cash would help. And besides, I thought it could be fun. Although I assured the woman hiring that I possessed an unapologetic potty mouth, the agency wanted me to do a trial call with one of the regulars. He asked me to tell him about my first girl-on-girl experience.
At that point, no such thing had happened, but I went with the flow and described a fictional teenage sleepover with a friend, a thunderstorm, and slipping into bed next to her when I was scared. I added rich details about the feel of her track pants as I slid my hands down into the waistband, about the way my cheeks burned and the wetness I felt in my panties. In just six minutes, after much heavy breathing and sounds of his vigorous stroking, the phone went silent for a moment. “You’re good,” he said. “You’re a natural.”
Over the next few months, I talked to dozens of men anxious to get their rocks off as my alter ego, Cindy, an adventurous, petite, 22-year-old blond attending art school with a boyfriend who couldn’t fully satisfy her. (Meanwhile, I was a 37-year-old, Rubenesque brunette going to journalism school.) Those details changed often depending on who and what the clients wanted me to be, whether it was the next-door neighbor who always wore very short Daisy Dukes while washing her car or an anonymous stranger adept at seduction in unexpected places—a Ferris wheel, a changing room at the mall, or perhaps on a golf course. I did calls with men all over the world, from a soldier in Afghanistan to a senior living in a long-term care home in Dallas. (That was what they told me, anyway. They could have been pretending, too.)
I was good at role playing and pushing sexual buttons by listening carefully and tailoring my words. I kept a spreadsheet listing each caller so I could remember pertinent details, like how I physically described myself, their turn-ons and preferences (like lingerie color), and any fantasies we played out when we spoke. Slipping up and not being consistent with something as simple as bra size would be enough to destroy the illusion for returning clients.
Working as a phone mate ramped up my libido big time. When I wasn’t talking about sex, I was thinking up scenarios my clients might enjoy. While some jobs were of a standard suck-and-fuck nature that didn’t affect me much—sometimes I’d do crossword puzzles while on the call—others left me wound up. Over the six months I was doing phone sex for a living, I masturbated about three times more than normal.
JP*, my boyfriend at that time, also benefited. I recall one guy with a deep, sexy voice that got me going. He sounded like an experienced, talented lover by the way he described foreplay—it was the neck kisses that made me melt. I could feel the lips of my pussy swell and slicken the longer we talked.
I waved at my boyfriend sitting in my living room and beckoned him into the bedroom. I pressed my fingers against my lips, letting him know he had to stay silent. As he heard the caller talk about pinching my nipples and licking the small of my back, JP would act it out on me. I eventually pulled down his shorts and grabbed his cock, urging him toward me. I rolled my panties down and kicked them into the hallway, then pointed to my pussy. He got the message. As I spoke to the caller, JP fucked me slowly and deeply, listening in by speaker phone.
The caller finished before I did. I was on the clock, after all, and trying to provide him with good service—it wasn’t supposed to be about me. But after hanging up with Mr. Sexy Voice, my boyfriend drilled me hard and fast. I worked my clit until he let me know he was close and we came together in a collective shudder. Just another day at the office!
Nothing, however, compared to the call I did with a woman on one rainy Sunday afternoon. She was my first female client and her voice struck me right off the bat. It was a touch raspy, yet buttery. Her sexuality seemed to ooze from every syllable she uttered, even when we were just making small talk at the beginning. Then the conversation shifted.
She began talking about what we might do on a first date together. (All virtual, of course, I never met clients IRL.) The men I spoke with mainly just wanted to get down to business and left it to me to coax them to a satisfying climax. With this woman, it was different. She took the lead and began vividly describing what she would do to me. It was clear her turn-on was giving and pleasing. I was happy to play along.
For our “date,” she was taking me to a movie theater. We sat near the back and when the lights went down, her hands began probing my curves. Fingers poked through the gaps between buttonholes of my blouse, a light sweep over my nipples and under my skirt. She was in no hurry, each movement sensuously detailed and accompanied by her little groans. No stranger to faking moans and squishy sounds (thanks to copious amounts of hand cream) to make my clients believe I was grooving right along with them, I could tell her moaning was primal and real—and that got to me.
Soon I was letting out quiet moans of my own as I stretched out on my bed listening intently to her. This woman was pressing all the right buttons for me with her slow approach to sex. She described her lips—full, especially the bottom one—before she got into kissing me. Barely grazing my lips before diving in with her tongue, she teased my mouth as her hands roamed over my breasts and the nape of my neck.
By now, I was in full-blown, let’s-get-it-on mode. I reached over to my nightstand and pulled out my favorite vibrator. She heard it at the other end of the phone. “Not yet,” she told me. She was going to make me wait. She described pushing my thighs apart as I sat in my seat in our virtual theater, then putting her index finger inside me while her thumb did circles around my clit, cueing more breathless moans from the both of us.
“Okay, now turn on your vibrator,” she said. “I’m getting mine.” Our toys hummed in unison as she described kissing and fucking me with her fingers. When she told me she was close to coming, I was relieved. I couldn’t last much longer and I could feel my clit throbbing. We moaned loudly together one more time. My toes curled and a rush of warmth flooded through my body. I couldn’t speak. I felt weak and my body was quivering—I’ve never had an orgasm quite like that.
Her voice roused me from my afterglow. “That was fun, huh? Thanks, hun. Take care of yourself.” And with that, she was gone. I never heard from her again. Though disappointed, I still replay that phone call in my mind often while I masturbate.
I’ll never forget the sound of her voice, her delicious groans and how she flipped the script. She, the client, took charge of the conversation and created an erotic fantasy that left me quaking. Maybe I should have paid her!
*Name has been changed.