My Purpose: Entertain, Inspire, Be Happy, Free Hugs!
 

And That’s How I Became A Phone Sex Operator. Almost.

My Terms and Conditions text reply …

•Payment in advance

•Paypal: mailto:findme@wingmam.com

•US$500/hr; min 1hr fee charged

•US$125/15 min after 1st hr 

•(65/70/75min=$625; 80/85/90min=$750)

•By appt—24hrs; limited availability on weekends

•If you call w/o an appt & I answer, time & 1/2

•Text only to make appt

•No personal questions about me 

•No naughty comments directed to me

•No recordings

•No photos

•I don’t participate, but I will facilitate

•(I can encourage or act innocent.) 

•No stories about animals, children, elderly, invalids, aliens!

•No violence or gore

•I can end a call at any time if I feel uncomfortable (one warning given)

•I can end or modify this agreement at any time for any reason (credits refunded)

•I can write about it if I choose 

•Any questions?

So how did this intercourse, er, I mean text communication exchange come to be? 

He called me last month. I answered my phone because it said New York, New York, on my call display, and I thought Broadway producers who had likely heard of my riveting performance in L.A. a few months ago were scouting me for their next big production. 

Alas, no, it was this guy with a nasally Brooklyn accent.

Maybe you can help me out, he says.

I want to tell him to email me to book an appointment, but he doesn’t wait for a reply and launches into a story about how he’s rich and good looking, but his wife left him because he’s too short for her now—5’6”—but her best friend doesn’t seem to mind—

she’s been trying to seduce me, sending me photos of her breasts—oh my God, they’re gorgeous, full, round mounds, my wife has no chest

I interrupt him with, She’s a member of the itty bitty titty club?

What? he says, startled to hear my voice, a voice, any voice on the other end of the line.

I get the sense that he’s been in his own naughty reverie, and I’ve interrupted the fantasy. 

I repeat my refrain, The Itty Bitty Titty Club.

A pause and then a surprised laugh: Yeah.

Another pause. 

I’m amused, so I say, Do go on.

After another slight pause he does. 

Occasionally, I interject with advice—

If you look around, you’ll see a lot of short guys with girlfriends.

Insecurity about height is less attractive than being short.

What kind of woman has a BFF that tries to seduce her ex-husband? You dodged one there.

You like big boobs, but that didn’t stop you from loving your wife at the beginning.

And boundaries—

Sorry, no personal questions about me.

—when he tries to cross a line by asking about my height preferences.

Every time I interrupt him with a #JustTheTip quip, he seems startled that I’d interrupted his story-telling and I get the sense he's expecting me to end the call. 

In the end, I tell him to get some confidence and stop playing with fire—his ex-wife’s best friend.

A few weeks goes by, and I get a call from New York, New York.

Usually, I don’t answer unscheduled calls, but something makes me curious. I answer it. 

The voice of the man on the other end is familiar, and I’m thinking it’s this Shorty Pants Man, even though he’d given me a different name. 

Just in case, I ask him, Didn’t we talk a few weeks ago?

No. No, I don’t think so. 

I’m not convinced, but I let him continue: Oh, okay. Your voice sounds familiar. How can I help you?

Well, you see, I was at this event the other night, and there was this woman across the room from me wearing a backless dress

I interrupt: Wait, are you 5’6” and divorced? 

Him: No.

Do you live in New York?

No.

Oh. Okay, carry on.

Pause. I’m giggling inside because I’m sure this is the same dirty dude that call a few weeks ago. I look through my notebook and find Shorty Pants Man’s phone number.

Meanwhile he’s saying, …so she turns around and looks at me—

I can’t restrain myself: A-ha! It is you! You said you were divorced, and your wife’s best friend was hitting on you and—

Click.

He hangs up. 

I’m laughing and more than a little titillated, myself. Hmm, that’s interesting. *raised eyebrow*

But I’ve got his number.

I text him:

Listen, if you want to tell me your pervy stories, you'll have to pay up front per session, make an appt and know that I'll blog about it. :) Anna

A few moments go by, then I get the reply:

That's interesting ... how involved are your blogs?

I tell him where to go—right here to naughtypottyblog! A few more moments go by, then:

How do we do this?

I reply:

I need to determine the parameters and cost. You'd be my first ;) My regular coaching rate is $250/ 30 min. (As per details on wingmam.) I'll get back to you tomorrow. I have appts the rest of the day. Want me to send details by text or email?

Text.

I’m busy for the next few days, but he follows up diligently. I tell him I’ll contact him on the weekend. 

He becomes impatient:

Do I have to beg or get naked for you to reach out lol

It's not the weekend yet and if you ask again it's a no + I'll block your #

The weekend arrives, and I send him my Terms and Conditions. 

I never hear back from him again. *sad sigh*

And that’s how I almost became a sex call operator. 

What have I (re-)learned?

  1. Sex sells! Even if it’s only fantasy sex.
  2. Sex doesn’t sell if it’s over-priced. Damn.
  3. My morals are more like murals—colourfully painted but lacking depth.

Homework. Embrace loose morals, branch out, rebrand, spread the love? Ah, fuck it, I’ll just keep blogging.

xo AJ

P.S. Guess my wingmam dating coach website is being found far and wide—woohoo! #openforbusiness

 
 
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