That's Not London Calling
by Rachel Benjamin

With everything set-contract faxed back, name and character created and caller ID code memorized-I called and signed in for my first shift. There were some problems on the phone lines, so Tanya was pinch hitting as dispatcher and answered when I signed in. "It's Rachel…signing in." I stuttered through the four words with unbridled nervousness. "Katie…You're Katie. Remember that. The other dispatchers won't know you if you use your real name-remember that you're Katie." I hung up and repeated my new character name to myself over and over and felt a bit of anxiety bubble inside me.

It was after midnight on November 21, 2001, when Tanya called me with my first set of call instructions. I'd been working on a project for a class and was knee deep in research about the Krispy Kreme doughnut corporation. Sketched models of the doughnut production lines and notes taken by my classmates were strewn across my bed. It was late at night-my cats sacked out on different corners of the bed, and I was trying to make my borrowed financial calculator square my roots and project my costs. My messed hair was mashed into a clip to keep it from my eyes. Glasses replaced my contact lenses and my face was covered with bright pink pimple cream.

When the phone finally rang, I stared at it as though it were a foreign object. It was work calling-literally. My mother's voice echoed in my head, encouraging me to start a new job on the right foot. Something told me that she wouldn't be happy to know that I was finding her words helpful in this line of employment.

The only thing between me and the lurid professional underworld was answering my ringing phone. I pictured men in dingy white undershirts with stick-like legs peeking out of oversized boxers calling me to breath lustfully into the phone, excited to have a sexual outlet. I was the nice girl on the other end who would hear their heavy panting and talk them through their unfulfilled sexual desires. I didn't want to admit it, but I was curious to see what this world was like-the world that I'd written about and for-and I was about to get some feedback. Plus I had mortgage payments to make and tuition to consider. I picked up the receiver and said hello to my new boss.

" Hi, Katie? I have a call for you." Did Tanya really know what she was doing? Should she really trust me? I was panicking and I reviewed in my mind whether or not I'd told her that I had no professional experience doing phone sex. Sure, I'd had real sex for years and phone sex with boyfriends, and I'd been writing about it, but I really wasn't sure that, when put to task, I could carry it off. Shouldn't she have trained me?

Years before, I worked at Miracle Ear hearing center, and before my pasty-faced boss put me on the phones to make sales calls, I spent a solid two weeks listening to another woman doing pitch work. I'd sit in the cube next to Maureen and listen to her cold call senior citizens to schedule appointments for free hearing exams. Maureen's voice was so gentle and soothing that a few times my boss found me asleep. She'd sharply poke my upper arm with her chubby finger and hiss, "You're supposed to be listening and learning, not sleeping." I had no such training for phone sex.

Tanya continued the conversation as if I were a non-English-speaking third grader. She spoke slowly, as to take all the guesswork out of the process. "Listen, Katie….write down this phone number and name. Your first call will be seven minutes and he can extend. No special instructions." I tried to quickly translate these directions into something that I could understand, but I was new and the jargon was still foreign to me. Extend? What was he extending, and wouldn't it already be 'extended' when I called, or did I also have to 'ensure its extension?' And then special instructions was a bit mystical sounding-what sort of special instructions could she be referring to, and if there were none, did that mean that it would be easier?

She was about to disconnect and when she hung up, I would only have three minutes to call this client and start my conversation with him. I needed to stall. I wasn't ready to do this, and suddenly I became nervous, as though I had something at stake other than a part-time job. My mind raced as I tried to come up with questions for Tanya to stave off the inevitable. "What do I say to him?" was all I could blurt out to keep her on the line with me.

"Give him a little suck, fuck and moan a lot. You can do this, Katie." There was the name again; she was getting me used to it. "It's not rocket science. Didn't you read the guidelines? Just get him off." I said yes through every sentence and felt like an idiot-I couldn't figure what to say to a stranger who I had no stakes with. She continued in an annoyed tone, "You have to call him back now-it's been over three minutes. Call me back after when you're done." And with that, Tanya sent me on my way to call Ray Something in Jersey.

My notes for the Krispy Kreme project went flying across my Pottery Barn duvet when I rushed into the bathroom. Through fingerprint-smudged glasses, I examined my face and wiped all the pink blotches that had covered my pimples from my nose and chin. I pulled the clip from my hair and fluffed it out haphazardly, using my finger as a comb. There was nervous electricity running through to me and I was jumpy.

I was about to do something dirty, something that a good Jewish girl like me would never do. Working on a phone sex line was something that I couldn't write into the class bulletins from high school and college and nothing that I could tell my family. Being a phone sex operator was the complete opposite of how I was supposed to act. Even though it wasn't illegal, it just felt wrong. None of my friends from college or graduate school were peddling themselves on phone lines. I was the woman who knit baby blankets for expectant friends, took design hints from Pottery Barn catalogs and spoke to her parents at least five times a week. I was not the kind of girl who should be talking dirty for money. Instead I should have had an internship at an investment bank, or something that I could list on my resume, but it was about to happen. I was about to go to a place where I never expected to go.

It was silly to stand in the mirror, primping-as though Ray Something would be able to see me through the phone. I stopped because I realized that he wouldn't, and he wouldn't know my name, where I was calling from and wouldn't care about my anxiety over getting the doughnut project done before the end of the Thanksgiving break. He wouldn't know because who I was didn't really matter-it wasn't part of doing my job effectively¾and he wasn't calling to talk to me, but rather talk at me or listen. My job was to make strangers orgasm on the phone-nothing more than that, and anything less wasn't necessarily my fault. Thankfully, women were the 'chosen gender' when it came to multiple orgasms.

For seven minutes, I would carry out Ray's fantasy and since there were no special instructions, I could start out saying whatever I wanted and just see how he responded. Tanya had said something about 'sucking and fucking' but I don't generally just give blow jobs away like candy. I supposed that I could talk about fucking but could I describe it? Should I pull out files of porn stories that I'd written to refresh myself with the language, in case I got nervous and forgot the words.

I quickly devised a strategy, which was to moan a lot and wait out the seven minutes. I curled myself into a corner of my bed and started dialing Ray's number. Midway through pressing the digits, I wasn't sure if I blocked my caller id, so I hung up and redialed. While the phone was ringing, I hid my face behind my hand and a young 20-something voice answered the phone. I was surprised for some reason, expecting to hear a huskier, older voice on the other end, as I figured that men who sounded younger than me would be out cavorting and getting the real thing.

My first mistake was sounding a little too perky when he answered the phone, but I was so nervous that even I was surprised at what came out of my mouth. Given the nature of the business, it is safe to assume that the typical client wants a sultry, seductive voice and not sound like 'I just had five cups of coffee and I'm ready to go!" And mistake number two was the pregnant pause that I allowed before the conversation got started. Asking how he was doing didn't seem to be appropriate-I could sort of guess how, and more specifically what, he was doing. He threw out the first question, which was a lifeline to me-"what was I wearing?"

I looked down at my terribly sexy self-my flannel shirt of choice and navy blue sweatpants that, because I'd tried to shorten with only scissors, met my leg mid-calf instead of my ankle. I described instead the women in the last photo set that I'd written porn copy for earlier in the week. My cozy flannel shirt turned into a tight white tee-shirt and my sweatpants disappeared completely from the description along with my sensible Gap underwear, which turned into a sexy mesh thong from Frederick's. His responsive grunt seemed to indicate his approval of my outfit.

Ray, once again, threw me a bone to pick up the conversation-what would I do to him if he were here, he wondered. My initial reaction was to ask him how good he was with numbers and if he had any experience in manufacturing, because I was having a hell of a time making sense of this Krispy Kreme production schedule. My voice got quieter and I realized that I had to say something, but my mind was blank except for the thought I was being paid for a sexual service. I gulped hard and bit back the instinct to laugh and make a joke of it.

Words-any words-tumbled out of my mouth, like water spilling down my chin. I wasn't really sure what I was saying, but as long as my voice remained low and seductive, and I talked about sex-any kind of sex, or sexy words-that I could get through the last three minutes. My mind was elsewhere-anywhere-and I talked about some of the porn stories I'd written and referred back to my strategy and moaned a few times. I did everything that Tanya told me to do. I thought I was doing ok, at least I was making the time pass and that was all I was concerned about. And just as I hitting stride with the moaning, Ray Something slammed the phone down and it was over. I was surprised and confused.

"Hello?" I asked into my black cordless. I heard no voice, just clicks. I hadn't heard anything before he hung up, and I had had sex enough times to know that climaxes don't generally pass silently. As directed, I redialed Tanya and explained what had happened. I was about to apologize, but instead she told me that was fine. Some guys, she explained, didn't want to have post-orgasm chatter and once they were done, I was of no use then. "He didn't call back to complain, so I'm sure that it's fine."

My mind wandered back to the conversation, and I replayed my phone interaction with Client Ray in my mind. He didn't ask my name, didn't know who I was and in seven minutes I made nearly $4 for just talking and listening to a stranger. I didn't expect to, but oddly, I felt used and insignificant; that was the nature of the business-I likened it to selling a product and then being surprised when all the samples are gone-it was probably supposed to happen that way. On the other hand, I was in this for money and feeling used, or not feeling used, really had no part in that-I'd made $4.00 with no effort and that was the point to focus on. I pushed my glasses back up against my face and reorganized my schoolwork. I wondered when the next call would come in.