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"  Phone sex, it turned out, was exactly like being on stage, and when you&amp;amp;#146;re on stage you don&amp;amp;#146;t think, you just do. The pressure I&amp;amp;#146;d put on myself to be creative was completely unnecessary; clients supplied me with a character and plot points to hit over the course of the conversation. Most of them introduced themselves with fake names in their natural voices while giving me the rundown of what they expected of me. They only hid behind affectations once I&amp;amp;#146;d accepted, adopting lower voices, falsettos and lilts, and all manner of foreign and regional accents. My own adeptness at accents made me popular; I was most often asked to be Spanish or French, but occasionally British, Chinese, or German. I was once even asked for &amp;amp;#147;African American,&amp;quot; and that was the only time I ever refused a request. It sounds a little daunting, but the rule of thumb was to not over-think it. Callers came in three major categories. About 10 percent were high-powered executives who called during what I termed &amp;quot;business lunch.&amp;quot; These were almost always 10 minute calls and required very little from me. They were the ones who fed me lines. They were also the only ones who alluded to their true identities. It wasn&amp;amp;#146;t necessary for me to know exactly who they were, but it was important that I know that they were very important. It didn&amp;amp;#146;t matter that establishing their dominance meant embracing every Wall Street clich\u00E9 ever heard. &amp;amp;#147;Does my power turn you on, Violet?&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;It scares me, Bob.&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;Yeah?&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;So much.&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;I. Make. And. Break. People. Violet.&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;I know.&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;Do you?&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;I&amp;amp;#151;&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;I... will... wreck you... Violet.&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;Oh.&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;I will fucking wreck you!&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;Ok.&amp;amp;#148; &amp;quot;Now... you tell me my dick is so big.&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;Your dick is so b&amp;amp;#151;&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;Tell me my dick is so big, NOW.&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;Oh, god, your, di&amp;amp;#151;&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;Say it again.&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;I&amp;amp;#151;&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;Say it LOUDER.&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;YOUR DI&amp;amp;#151;&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;Tell me you want me to cum on your tits.&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;I&amp;amp;#151;&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;TELL ME THIS IS ALL YOU EVER WANT.&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;Th&amp;amp;#151;&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;Ok, thank you very much.&amp;quot; Click. These were always the most intense foley sessions, and, despite the simple plot lines, these were the guys who got the most graphic. They wanted to hear me giving a blow job, something I initially accomplished with an oral suction assault on my hands and arms, but soon found a much simpler and more accurate solution with popsicles. When men requested evidence that my pussy was &amp;amp;#147;soaking wet,&amp;quot; I performed a thorough dental sweep with two fingers between my lips and my gums. I did a lot of slapping my own legs and scratching carpets. It is easier to deceive the ears than the eyes, and that&amp;amp;#146;s probably why this job is modernization-proof.  The second group was the vast majority of callers, about 85 percent, who called because they could only be satisfied by something illegal or physically impossible. The inhabitants of the darkest recesses of the internet, for whom there is no live action porn. Among the roles I played for these clients were a murder victim who spoke post-mortem; a 500-foot-tall woman ravaging the city, crushing buildings with her feet; a woman who reneged halfway through a boyish haircut; a French maid who was caught embezzling and was turned into a balloon; a sentient foot; much of the animal kingdom; and many, many rape victims. While these all feel like fodder for an advanced class at The Actor&amp;amp;#146;s Studio, they really weren&amp;amp;#146;t. Although some could make for great B-movies. &amp;amp;#147;Oh, no.&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;What&amp;amp;#146;s wrong, Violet?&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;My car won&amp;amp;#146;t start.&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;But you&amp;amp;#146;re out here in the woods, all by yourself!&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;I know, oh my God, I&amp;amp;#146;m so defenseless right now.&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;Anything could happen!&amp;amp;#148; &amp;amp;#147;Oh, God, what am I gonna do?&amp;amp;#148; Usually get raped in a car. Usually by a human, but once by a bear. That&amp;amp;#146;s what I&amp;amp;#146;m gonna do. It was overwhelming, the number of men who, under cover of anonymity, wanted to act out a rape fantasy. These were not playful; they were not, &amp;amp;#147;Oh, please, don&amp;amp;#146;t, please, stop!&amp;amp;#148; (although I did plenty of that). These were police blotters. They wanted me to plead, they wanted me to sound scared and scream for outside help. Some of them even wanted to hear me cry. Some of them wanted me to reveal it had all been an elaborate tease in the end, that I had actually wanted it the whole time. Others, admittedly a minority, ended the call with me beaten, helpless and broken. I accessed my own memories of violent sexual assault on these calls. The callers were not privy to my past, but I could hear them jerking off. It never gave me catharsis or nightmarish flashbacks, though, and I&amp;amp;#146;m honestly not sure why. It did start to make me look at men a little differently. What I&amp;amp;#146;d rationalized as isolated incidents of sociopathy could actually have been isolated incidents of lack of restraint against a latent desire in half the people around me. I made a conscious decision to ignore my fears; my super-objective was to not take this job home with me. The third group, the remaining 5 percent, was the stuff of urban legends: the people who call phone sex lines just to talk. In the back of my mind, I did fear that someone would call me as a last ditch effort to be talked down from suicide, but luckily most of my time as a bit-rate therapist was devoted to people who suffered from social and developmental disorders. One caller spent two hours talking about what dreams we&amp;amp;#146;d both had recently. He never got to anything remotely sexual, he just needed to work out his nightmares. Well, I guess they all did, but he did literally. Everyone who called me seemed significantly older than myself. I&amp;amp;#146;d say they all fell into the 45 to 65 age range, which makes sense. Phone sex is expensive, and my generation has the internet. Otherwise, my clients weren&amp;amp;#146;t from any one group. I couldn&amp;amp;#146;t say, &amp;amp;#147;Oh, this is what happens to sad old weirdos who&amp;amp;#146;ve seen wars and &amp;amp;#145;been to the mountain.&amp;#039; They say weird shit to my face on the street and then they go home and call me and say more weird shit.&amp;amp;#148; It just as easily could&amp;#039;ve been young normal guys on the phone. It really made me want to start surveying people, but I&amp;amp;#146;m sure I&amp;amp;#146;d get nowhere. One thing I was surprised by was how sweet and honest a lot of my clients were. They seemed ashamed at their proclivities and were looking for a judgment-free place. They were people with lives and jobs and maybe significant others, who for some reason could only be sexually satisfied by crustaceans or sinking into quicksand or paralysis, and it made them feel weird. They felt like monsters in the closet, but they weren&amp;amp;#146;t (for the most part). Some of them even asked me about my hobbies, let me know they read my blog, and clearly wanted to get to know Violet. I often lied, because I always wanted them to be speaking to Violet, not Julia, but I always tried to provide a compassionate voice. This job was turning me into a sort of unlicensed therapist, I felt like I wouldn&amp;amp;#146;t flinch at anything. Well, almost anything.  Julia Hebner is a Brooklyn based writer and filmmaker, and is currently developing her phone sex experiences into a film. This article is part two in her series. Read the first one  here, and come back next week for the third installment. Photo Credit: Getty Images "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.cosmopolitan.com/sex-love/advice/a5469/my-life-as-a-phone-sex-operator-2/>