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September 2004: PAUL SMITH’S DEVIANT’S DIARY - Dial ‘Oh!’ for Orgasm - The film Hitchcock never made.
There’s a band I rather like called Corky and the Juice Pigs. Don’t worry if you’ve never heard of them, they’re not very mainstream. Their biggest hit to date was ‘I’m the only gay Eskimo (in my tribe)’ which I think Tenacious D might have recorded a cover of with Wyclef Jean. I mention them because they perform a song called ‘Phone Sex Girls (are not pretty)’, and that’s the subject I’m trying to rugby tackle this month: Phone sex chat lines and whether the girls who man them (oxymoron) are pretty. Or not, as the case may be…
I’m off to a very good start with Lana, a 30-year-old Lithuanian living in Buckinghamshire. She’s resigned now but for about a month she worked on a ‘live 1-2-1’ service. She claims it was just for a bet and given that she made less than £30 from the experience it’s probably true. I can only hope she made some more money by winning the bet too. With fine features, natural elegance and grace, wonderful skin and an almost Jessica Rabbitesque cartoon figure - 32FF and all natural - she never needs buy herself another drink if she doesn’t want to. Yes, she probably will read this and yes, I would like to sleep with her. So far I’d say Corky and his Juice Pigs don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. After I got her half a lager shandy and myself a diet coke we went to sit on the decking before I began vigorously pumping her for information.
It worked like this: She’d call into the service, log-on with a controller and record a brief “Hi, I’m Jenna and I’m lots of fun. Call me and find out just how much fun I can be!” message. She’d stay connected until she logged out again and found 5am-7am and Sunday afternoons the most productive periods, perhaps because of the lack of competition at those times of day. While working she had to be careful to just answer the phone with a neutral “Hello?” and slip into something more seductive if it wasn’t her mum. I believe other companies use dedicated phone lines or a system that makes the phone ring with a different tone if it’s a ‘business’ call. I describe this as my ‘Channel 4’ research method for information gathering. And to think my ex said I was wasting my time watching Eurotrash. I had tissues with me because I was still upset and missing Lolo, ok?
Anyway, rules included not handing out any personal information, which might be regarded as common sense advice. If a guy wanted Lana’s picture she directed him to a photo on the firm’s web site. She still has no idea who the picture was of. There was a sliding scale system that meant the longer the client stayed on the line the more money per minute Lana earned. She was paid on ‘average call length’, which meant any Phone-And-Hang-Up calls she got severely knocked her rate down. She remains suspicious about this, as after every long call she took she’d always get one or two PAHU’s. Clearly as a system it was wide open to cynical abuse.
The general routine was to take the callers name (a disproportionate number of Johns, I imagine) and then describe her body, clothes and surroundings in minute detail. Some subtle cold reading was employed to match her description to the unspoken desires of the caller. Another directive was that she couldn’t hang up on a customer unless he was very abusive or the call had reached an hour and a half. I assume the time limit was put in to ensure employment rules weren’t being broken. Isn’t there a law about how long you can be expected to work without a break? That reminds me of what Hitchcock had to say about the endurance of the human bladder and the length of films. On the other hand a cordless ‘phone and a caller with certain tastes… It’s important to have a unique selling point, right?
Lonely men just interested in a chat made up a significant proportion of Lana’s clients, no doubt because of her soft feminine voice and seductive accent. (Aha, still hopeful) She only reached her 90 minute maximum with two callers and they were both of the ‘where did you go on holiday’ rather than the ‘fetch the baby oil and a cucumber’ variety. Her favourite experience was when she was suffering technical problems and called the service’s help line. Another woman working for the firm phoned her back to check the system was working again and the call resulted in the best phone-sex she’d ever had! I suppose it’s always nice to work with a fellow professional.
Annie, 25, from the north east of England worked for several ‘Callback’ services over a two-year period as Jayne. Again pay was ramped up over time. £20 for a full hour, £9 for half an hour and so on. Often the punter had prepaid for an agreed length (fnarr) and then the incentive was to get them off as quickly as possible. Off the line, I mean. She became disillusioned with the job because she was pressured by her regulars and management to be available all the time, even though she was studying for her degree at the time. That meant being stuck at home, alone and it’s a well know fact that Annies are very social animals. Keeping them in captivity just isn’t fair. She got out before it became too much but many of the other girls working the service turned to drink and drugs to get them through, she told me. Of the clients, many wanted to talk to a mature woman and although she was only 22-24 at the time she often claimed to be anywhere up to 70+ without any questions. Now, I can’t imagine anyone getting turned on by someone else’s fake recollections of rationing and doodlebugs but as my mum always says, “It takes all sorts to make a world”. Typically the guys wanted a long sexy story that needed to be different yet contain the same ‘trigger’ themes every time. Coming up with new scenarios for an age-regression role-play fan was the final straw that gave Annie the hump. Despite the fact she was making double-bubble calling mobiles (which the company was charging £120 per hour for) it was time to leave the industry.
With rates typically around 100-150p per minute it’s hardly surprising many of the adverts boast you’ll ‘only last 30 seconds’. It’s probably the only way to get tight-fisted blokes to call. (Fnarr, again.) Beyond vague promises of near instant gratification and flimsy guarantees of explosive satisfaction, the general business ethic seems somewhat ‘shady’. PO Box numbers instead of proper addresses hint at the secrecy that surrounds this industry. You can see Fern Britton handling knobbly toys on live TV but this end of adult entertainment is still a somewhat taboo trade. Despite dozens of e-mails and numerous phone calls (Note to editor: business expenses claim form on its way) I couldn’t get anyone in a management position or an owner to speak to me. Perhaps they have something to hide? Perhaps they’re too busy? Perhaps they’re on a yacht in the Med?
From that raw £1+ per minute price tag you need to deduct advertising costs - Gents top shelf magazines being the prime location - and the girl’s modest ? fee. Then there’s BT’s cut and general operating expenses. But with a PO box as a business address there’s no need to have an office in a posh block with free typing. Even with all these overheads it’s fair to suggest there’s a bit of money to be had… I wish I had more to tell you. I tried to get a proper interview, I promise. I wanted to tell you about staff turnover and quantify profits. I wanted to talk ethics and examine attitudes. I really wanted to talk to more women about their various experiences. Slowly. I could make something up I suppose, but I’m not like that. I don’t want to give journalists a bad name. Ahem.
To avoid being accused of having an irrational fear of the bald one from The Simpsons - that’s Homerphobia - I should point out there’s whole lot of gay and bisexual chat lines out there too. I wanted to go the full ‘Louis Theroux’ and get myself a job on one for a day but like the public enquiry into the death of Diana, I hit a brick wall. Without the imposing bulk of the BBC behind me I was fucked. Bizarrely I’ve just had a great idea for a musical with an all male cast based on gay chat lines. I’ll call it simply ‘Ring’.
This is nearly the end of the page and traditionally by now you’re probably wondering what the future of 1-2-1 sex lines might hold. I’m clearly no expert (sorry!) so I really couldn’t say for certain. However I predict it’ll involve closer links with the Internet. Already any firm worth its salt has a juicy web site with pouting lovelies and it’s a small step from there to web cams, wireless hands-free microphones and bluetooth earpieces. Or perhaps you’ve already spotted a potential ‘Corky and the Juice Pigs’ problem there? Back on the phone, specialisation is already a clear theme with nuns and nurses, anal sluts and young cumlovin’ whores being promoted alongside more traditional ‘hear me do it’ sort of numbers. I can only see further subdivision into pigeonholed predilections. I think if you specifically want to talk to a 28-year-old bi-curious Asian mother into the smell of Petrol, nipple torture and pissing in gimps’ mouths then you should be able to. Give the customer what they want, I say. Whatever the direction this fringe (I didn’t put them there. They put themselves there!) adult industry heads in you can be sure Daily Mail readers will still disapprove of it and someone, somewhere will be getting richer and richer. On the subject of sex and money, what do you call an accountant into threesomes? A double-entry bookkeeper.
Paul Smith is still free to a good home. Kinky Job offers to info@snapsandbytes.co.uk please.
1700ish words on a very closed world Dale. I’ll keep banging away at it… :-D
Paul.