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How I became a 'call' girl - Phone sex is not the most obvious graduate career choice. But with no money in the bank and a novel to write, it seemed like the only answer for Helena Echlin.

"Uh." It was not the exultant gasp of orgasm that I had expected, but a tiny, involuntary grunt. The kind of sound you might make unscrewing a tight jam jar lid. He hung up without saying thank you. Some glitch in the computerised phone system meant that there was no dial tone, only a breathy silence, so I kept talking for a moment before I realised that he was gone.

I had earned my first dollar as a phone-sex worker. I poured some more wine and waited for another call.

I have a BA from Oxford and an MA from Yale. Adult entertainment was not an obvious career choice. In the summer of 2001, I was lucky enough to sell my first novel, Gone, to Secker & Warburg. So how did I find myself, three months later, turning my way with words to unsavoury advantage? The answer is simple enough: I was broke. Instead of sensibly sequestering myself somewhere cheap like South Dakota, I insisted on living in San Francisco, a city I've been in love with since I first visited it 10 years ago, but where the cost of living is exorbitant. I soon exhausted my book advance. And unfortunately, I could not have picked a worse time to move. San Francisco had been the centre of the dotcom boom, and now it was the centre of the slump. Ex-CEOs packed the internet cafes, scanning the online postings. The waiting rooms of temping agencies were as crowded as Broadway casting calls. But there were no jobs.

The ad, which quaintly described phone sex as "erotic conversation", offered $20 per hour or $25 per hour during the graveyard shift. It was substantially more than I would make as a temp, and I couldn't even get work as a temp. The man on the phone wanted to know if I had any acting experience.

"No," I admitted.

"Have you worked in the adult entertainment industry before?" he asked.

"No."

"There's no script," he said.

"That's OK," I told him. "I've got a very active imagination."

Ray told me I could say anything I wanted, as long as it didn't involve animals or children. When I wanted to work, I simply dialled the company number, entered my ID code and password, and logged on to the system. When I was done for the night, I called again and logged off. And that was it. My induction took five minutes. Since turnover is high in the phone-sex industry (many women find they do not have the stomach for it after all), it's hardly worth investing time and money in training employees. Besides, Ray's company, the discreetly named Stoker Productions, was a start-up. He needed me as much as I needed him.

Last September pornography was practically the only growth industry in the US. Although a few giants dominate the market, a small phone-sex business has a better chance of surviving than an independent bookstore. Start-up costs are low (all you need is a credit card payment system and a switchboard), and margins are high. Callers pay $3.99 a minute or more. The company thus rakes in nearly $240 per hour, of which about $20 goes to the "call" girl. As a result, profits from phone sex are now estimated at as much as $1bn a year.

With scholarly discipline, I attacked the literature. I read The Art of Erotic Talk (give your voice a "soothing, languishing quality") and skimmed The Encyclopaedia of Unusual Sex Practices (put "safety precautions" first). Finally, I prepared my persona. I was "Jade", with black hair, green eyes and 38DD breasts. I was Jade with no bra and a short denim skirt. The catalogue of my attractions was as exhaustive as a 17th-century love poem. I could discuss the relative merits of the Japanese Rabbit Pearl and the Pocket Rocket, and cater to fetishes from stuffed animals to cigars. My typed script ran to six eloquent pages. But the needs of my callers were disappointingly basic.

"You have received a call from Stoker Productions," said a dulcet voice. "The caller has requested a juicy housewife." I entered my password and waited for the countdown. Ten, nine... I scanned my notes. Eight, seven... I tried to remember the distinction between flogging and flagellation. Six, five... I adjusted the strap of my stiletto. (For my first few calls, I thought it would help me to dress for the occasion.)

"Hello?" I said.

"... "

"Hello there."

"Hi," said a very small voice. Was he whispering because he was a teenager in his bedroom, risking his parents' wrath at the phone bill? Or was he hunched in an office cubicle, hoping that I would do all the talking? I could not tell. His voice was very small. I wanted to ask him to speak up but feared it would destroy the mood.

"Would you like to know what I look like?" I ventured.

"Uh-uh." I couldn't tell if that was a yes. Jade talked dirty for a few minutes, then he made a distant little croak, and was gone. Her second lover might as well have been a frog at the bottom of a well.

For the next couple of days, I shivered when the phone rang. Each time I thought it might be a cruel and highly educated fetishist, the client for whom I would have to marshal every thread of knowledge I had gathered and weave them into a fantastic tapestry. But the customers rarely had recherché appetites. Sex, which had seemed so various, so academically challenging, shrank to basics. The clients were shadowy, diffident and unimaginative.

"Did you have any particular fantasy in mind tonight?" purred Jade.

"No," the caller mumbled.

"What do you feel like talking about?"

"I dunno."

"Where are you calling from?"

"Lying down," he answered.

Although once or twice I received a compliment on my "sexy" British accent, most of my callers made minimal input. They muttered, murmured and often, oddly, they chuckled. Jade could have been a psychic conversing with the dead.

In time I adjusted to this state of affairs. I favoured questions that could be answered "yes" or "no", which were convenient both for the shy and for those who feared being overheard. Instead of attempting conversation, I told tales, soliciting only the briefest sounds of encouragement. I learned that the erotic phone call can be used as a five-finger exercise, so to speak, in the art of plot construction. Narrative and foreplay had not been so intimately linked, I told myself, since Scheherezade seduced the sultan with her stories. But callers always hung up abruptly, sometimes cutting me short. I thought I must be doing something wrong, until I learned that the average erotic conversation lasts six minutes, and that hanging up was the mark of satisfaction.

Occasionally, a caller would ask what my fantasy was. My most cherished fantasy was simple: a reliable income.

Although like every other novelist I have struggled with self-doubt and narrative structure, for me, in the absence of independent wealth, the single most burning question about art has been a practical one: how to support it. Phone sex wasn't very sexy, but it seemed like the perfect job for a writer. I could work at home, and write my second novel in between calls. Perhaps, when sufficiently experienced, I could even write during calls. If anyone heard the tap of keys, I'd simply say it was the pearls rattling in my Japanese Rabbit.

Unfortunately, phone sex turned out to be just as gruelling as any other job. Once I sat down to do the mathematics, I realised that however many hours I logged, I could barely make enough to keep myself in lattes. Although $20 per hour sounds alluring, you only get paid for the time spent on the phone, not the time spent waiting by it. The typical six-minute call earns you $2. In order to make, say, $600 a week, you need to take 300 calls. And even if you were willing to endure that many calls, you are extremely unlikely to get them (I never received more than a couple an hour).

I stopped taking calls after a few weeks. Recently, I've been fortunate enough to make some more money from writing, but it won't last for ever. I haven't solved the problem, simply earned a reprieve. Meanwhile, I sometimes wonder if my boss grieved Jade's disappearance. But the last time I spoke to him, Stoker Productions was thriving. New video ads were bringing in customers and his harem numbered 74. I slipped out of the world of adult entertainment as easily as I had entered it, without a formal farewell - just like one of my callers.

· The names of Ray and Stoker Productions have been changed. Helena Echlin's first novel, Gone, is published on June 6 by Secker and Warburg.

Helena Echlin The Guardian, Monday June 3 2002
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Net sex addiction is on the rise!

More and more people are becoming addicted to sex on the internet, say psychologists.

At a conference on sexual addiction in California, experts said online sex addiction was creating a dangerous new compulsion affecting everyone from housewives to gay men and corporate executives... more

 

 
 
 
 
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