Moaning is your last resort. The trick with a good pay-per-minute phone sex call is not to make the caller cum, but to keep him on the phone for as long as possible. It’s what the dispatcher taught me during my only phone sex training session
You moan and the call is as good as over: he’s going to cum.
“Hi, this is Violet, who’s this?”
“John.”
“Where are you calling from, John?”
The Johns would say, “My bedroom…in Arizona.”
or
“The office bathroom.”
or, while sounding frustratingly close to cumming,
“I WANNA HEAR YOU MOAN!”
My first phone sex job started in 2004 when free Internet porn was already easy to get. So, apparently, was my Monster.com resume. “Phone Actress Needed” popped up in my inbox and I laughed hysterically at the euphemism. But hidden in my “ha-ha-ha” was a deep fascination. I was woefully sexually inexperienced for a 22-year-old and this was a way to poke sexuality without the risks of face-to-face contact or the difficulties of finding and maintaining a relationship.
“What do you look like?”
Keeping it close to real was easier to remember, but I’d tweak features like: “My long strawberry blonde hair is brushing down over the top buttons of my dress.”
John would respond, “I bet you look good in a dress.”
or
“What’s it look like?”
or
“How short is it?”
I’d ask, “Do you want me to make up something super-sexy or do you want the truth?” Callers usually wanted the “truth.” I’d make it up anyway, but the “truth” was a different flavor of lie. “Well, it’s short but it’s not that short. I mean, it keeps me covered when I’m walking around, but I shouldn’t bend all the way over in public, not when I’m wearing theses heels…might be a little too [giggle]…obscene? ”
When describing an imaginary garment to a cross-country stranger sitting in some Holiday Inn with his cock out, I became a fountain of scantly suggestive bullshit.
“What color is it?”
“Mostly white. Sometimes I have to wear a camisole under it because it’s cut a little low and it’s pretty sheer if the light hits it right.”
Then John would then ask, “Are you a little slut? Do you like thick cocks?”
or
“Do you read a lot?”
or
“Have you ever been with a woman?”
Apparently, yes to all of these things. My arts camp improv class frequently came in handy. Improv people constantly talk about “Yes, and…” Basically, agree with whatever another person says or does in a scene and then build on it. It was particularly useful when I got a call that made me feel…uneasy.
“I want you to be an older woman, a mother-like figure, and I’m younger, and you catch me masturbating, and you scold me.”
I swallowed my discomfort, and he stayed on the line until he ran out of minutes.
My most brilliant improvisational ingenuity came one of the times I was cleaning my house as a call came in.
“I want to hear how wet you are.”
“Oh, GOD, I’m so. wet.”
“No, I want to hear it; I want to hear that pussy.”
By the grace of the God I just lied to about being so wet, at that exact moment I was using a wet Swiffer on the floor of my bathroom. I held the phone to the floor and slapped and squished the Swiffer against the tile. It sounded like cartoons fucking in Jello.
“Holy shit, you really are wet!”
That was my proudest lie. The truth always risked crossing over from playing a character to being myself. As long as I used cartoon noises, none of it was true. My phone sex persona and I might both be wearing white dresses, but what if we have the same favorite sexual position? The same wants? The same experiences?
My most regular “regular” caller spent hundreds of dollars on our conversations, which rarely progressed to full-blown phone sex. He’d call me on business trips:
“…at least when I’m alone at home I’m more comfortable and I have things to do. If I’m wide awake in a hotel room…”
“I am more interactive than Pay-Per-View.”
“Ha ha, well, yes. I like talking to you, too. ”
I think people call a phone sex line looking for more than quick gratification; they want human connection without fear of judgment. If, on top of that, they get to jack off, $1.69 a minute is a bargain.
“If I was there, I’d take you out. I’d come to your door with flowers and a small wrapped package. And I’d kiss you.”
“And I’d kiss you back. You’re so sweet. I’d run my hands down your back to your waist…”
“And I would…”
Most of my life, I needed the layers of pretense. I needed an alter-ego to carry my sexuality because I was ashamed to be sexual. It was many, many years after that first training session that I had actual phone sex with an actual boyfriend.
He started in like the Johns did: “And I like it when you…”
But I was determined to enjoy myself this time, to not fake anything. I listened to him cum on the other end, but I wasn’t there yet. Things started to drag and now he was running late for an appointment. Still, if I faked it or just hung up, this would be too much like all those paid calls. It took a bit of time, but I came. A real, genuine orgasm via phone sex with my boyfriend. Triumph! I thought…but something about that call bothered him. He wouldn’t talk about it until a week later when I finally saw him.
“Sorry, I’ve been really busy at work.”
He always made time for me before. But he never said anything about the phone sex and I never confronted him. I’d stripped back my own layers of pretense—did he not like what he saw? Was he ashamed of himself? Maybe he was looking for more “sexy” than “the truth.” Being honest was not a mistake, but I wish I’d had the nerve to talk to him about it.
It’s so much easier pretending to lie, talking to strangers. Admitting something real is a terrifying, satisfying, relief. I like hearing and telling stories. I like playing with…versions…of myself. And everything is true.
Mara Sigman makes things with words, wallpaper, yarn, googly eyes, and random crap from the dollar store. When possible, she sells vintage home décor in an online shop. She is exceptionally grateful for the dogs in her life. Some humans, too.
