TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 2004
SEX ON THE HILL
THE UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN
7B
For a good time, call someone else
My friend Shawn was a regular renaissance woman. An artist who had earned her bachelor's of fine arts in painting, she was paying her rent by selling small paintings that she showcased at coffee houses, singing a few times a week at local nightclubs and running a successful phone-sex business with a couple of girlfriends she knew from college. Her artwork graced the walls of the coffee house where I was working and I got to know her rather well.
One day she mentioned she was looking for someone to cover a phone-sex shift for one night, as she and her partners were all otherwise engaged. I'm embarrassed to admit that I volunteered, despite the fact that I had no prior experience in the fields of telecommunications or adult entertainment. I had once dated a guy who was particularly fond of "aural sex" and I figured that rendered me a qualified candidate.
Three days later I arrived at Shawn's apartment for a brief training session before I took over for the evening. It was my first time over and I was amused just thinking about the debauchery that had certainly taken place within the confines of this unassuming, pre-war apartment with hardwood floors and crown molding. We sat down on her couch in front of the coffee table where she had set up my workstation: a cordless phone with caller ID, a stopwatch, a tape recorder "just in case," a credit card machine, credit card slips (I could only accept Visa or Mastercard) and a thick stack of girlie magazines for me to reference when I was asked what I looked like, what my measurements were, etc. She told me it was easier if I established my name, hair color and bust size ahead of time rather than on the fly, and also informed me that most callers preferred blondes. Ever the businesswoman, she informed me that all clients had to be pre-approved for fifty dollars before the call commenced and any calls lasting more than fifteen minutes had to be approved again for another fifty. She said that if for some reason the call went beyond thirty minutes (which almost never happened) they had to be approved again every fifteen minutes and that. The tricky part was
ANDREA SUMPTER correspondent@kansan.com
I took a deep breath and answered in a register that was a good octave below my normal speaking voice. The caller immediately asked me if I was a "tranny" and informed me that he wasn't "into no freaks."
entering the card number, accurately without the client noticing a break in the action. If for some reason the card was declined I was to end the call as sweetly as possible because most clients tended to be repeat customers and she didn't want to offend anyone. She offered to do the first call so that I could listen and take notes, but an hour later the phone hadn't rung and Shawn had to get to her club gig. She assured me that I'd be fine and then she left me alone to deal with all potential pleasure-seekers.
Less than five minutes after Shawn walked out the door, a call came in. I checked the caller ID and saw that it was from a motel. I took a deep breath and answered in a register that was a good octave below my normal speaking voice. The caller immediately asked me if I was a "tranny" and informed me that he wasn't "into no freaks." Stifling a laugh I raised my voice slightly and informed him that I was "100 percent woman." He asked me what I looked like and I quickly answered that I was a blonde who sported a double-D cup size. This seemed to satisfy him and he gave me his Visa number. I ran it through and much to my surprise it was approved. I started the stopwatch and asked him what he liked. He told me that he liked it rough. In a more authoritative voice I demanded that he take his pants off. Suddenly he began speaking as if he were a child and begged me not to hurt him. I obliged his fantasy and told him that he'd better do what I say or he'd be very, very, very sorry. I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do to make him that sorry but thankfully he didn't ask. We soon established a game of him begging me not to do stuff and me telling him that I was going to do it anyway. After about ten minutes he started to cry like a baby and pleaded with me not to pee on him. I felt my stomach turn over and paused for a moment. In the three days leading up to this moment I had rehearsed countless sexual scenarios in my head, all of which I considered to be utterly raunchy and not one of which had involved urine. Apparently I was far greener than I realized. In a panicked voice he asked if I was still there. I swallowed hard and told him that I was going to pee on him anyway. He started sobbing and implored me to stop, at which point I glanced down at my stopwatch and realized that it was time to recharge his card. I began frantically punching numbers into the credit card machine as he continued to cry. He asked again if I was there and I assured him that I was still peeing on him. The credit card machine beeped and told me to "contact card center." Shawn had failed to mention the contingency plan for this scenario and my figurative bladder was empty anyway. In the sweetest voice I could muster I informed my caller that his time was up and that I hoped he'd call again soon. He immediately returned to being the man who "didn't want no freaks" and I felt the blood return to my face. Evidently I had successfully managed to hide my incompetence in the urine department because he informed me that he'd enjoyed my company. He also said that he hoped that he got me when he called the next time he was in town, and did I by chance know of any good restaurants in his area that delivered.