Hi, I'm Genevieve. I work at a phone sex chatline. I monitor for "quality" and kick off people who are too dirty. Because there is a line. I enforce it.
Dirty people call in. Some aren't as dirty as others. These are their stories...
2001:November:6
Tonight, the role of My So-Called Phone Sex Life will be played by My So-Called Coat Check Life:
He gets me the job. I need the money. My first shift is Hallowe'en. I wear my leopard print top and matching hairband. I put my hair in little "ears".
I paint on whiskers and a nose with mascara and that crappy dollar store make-up. I forget I am wearing it when I put my bike helmet on. Shit. I have to touch-up when I get there.
Them:
"Hey pussycat, nice tail."
Me:
"I don't have a tail---oh."
It is starting already.
Them:
"Are you being a good kitty?"
Don't lose your ticket, I hiss. I pass tickets and collect change. I covet most of the coats. Boas tucked in sleeves, tweed, wool, nylon, butterfly, mandarin collars. I imagine they are callers. All lined up, hanging. Queued and ready.
"Hi, I'm from Club Monaco, I'm midnight blue with a lambs wool collar. My lining is silk and I'm looking for a nylon windbreaker to rock my world."
He comes with curry on rice to rescue my grumbling belly. And perhaps to check I'm not going mental. I'm not. He runs for change from the bar.
"London Fog seeks 3 1/4 length suede with belt."
I wonder if any of these guys call the line.
They must. They all sound familiar.
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