Keeping all the euphemisms straight wasn't easy. Adding to the challenge was the necessity to remember the names and possible positions of up to eight callers who could be on the phone at any given time. This wasn't hard because by some strange coincidence they were all usually named John. The real challenge to phone sex is keeping a straight face. This absurdity was just part of a day's work for which I would be paid $6.50 an hour. The up side was, if I worked out, I would get the chance to work on the "hardcore" lines.

There were a few differences between the "party lines" and the "hardcore" lines. On the hardcore lines I could say anything I wanted, the caller would be charged about four more dollars per minute, and I would make an extra 50 cents an hour -- lucky me.

With my list of euphemisms, I was brought to a large, windowless office that was divided into several small cubicles with 5ft. partitions. Each cubicle had a phone with no numbers (so you couldn't dial out) and a short stack of porn. For the second part of my training, I was to watch how it was done by an old pro. I listened and took notes as she seductively purred dirty talk like she was discussing something as mundane and predictable as Califorina sunshine. She described herself as a 5'8" 110 lb. redhead with a golden tan and a 38" bust. In actuality, she was closer to 5'2" and 240 lbs.. I tried to be nonchalant when she told the caller that her "roommate" had just gotten out of the "shower" at our "beachfront condo" and was dying to talk to him. I stumbled at first, as she passed me the phone, but made a quick recovery. Apparently, I passed the test because she left the room and I was on my own from that point on.

If you have ever spent eight hours talking, moaning and screaming, you know the kind of sore throat you can get by the end of the day. I quickly had to find a way to pace myself or get the hell out of show business. By some strange stroke of luck, the FCC crackdown ended the era of the "party line" by my third day. Now I only had to talk when the phone rang instead of cooing the phrase "Is anyone there?" or reading bad porn all day.

My favorite calls would be the really short ones. Often I would simply say "Hello..." and my long-distance beau would let out a small whimper and hang up. I received my first reprimand when I was told after my fourth day that I wasn't keeping the callers on long enough.

The novelty of this job was short-lived and I got really bored. By the end of the first week I began to entertain myself by subtly mocking the callers. If a group of college boys called, I would coo, "What's the matter boys, nothing to do on a Saturday night? Why don't you boys have any girlfriends?" I guess I should be glad they were spending Dad's money on phone sex as opposed to jumping some tipsy sorority girl. If some guy called to discuss the valor of his oversized member, I would do my best to stifle laughter. Soon, this lost its appeal because all I could do was picture the lonely, pathetic soul on the other end of the line. As ridiculous as they sounded, I couldn't help but think of them as sad losers with no social skills who wouldn't know the first thing about starting a conversation with a real woman. All they really wanted was someone on the other end of the phone who would listen and act like she cared. They were just a bunch of poor, misunderstood fellas. My empathy waned, however, when I would get callers who wanted me to pretend that I was 12 years old and being tied to a bedpost. Others wanted me to be their dream girl who loved to be beaten senseless. Increasingly I found it was best if I didn't think about what I was doing at all.

I tried everything to keep my mind off my job. I would sneak in books, crossword puzzles and newspapers. I had to hide them behind the porn I was pretending to get material from. After my second week, I was reprimanded a second time for falling asleep with the classified section on my lap. It was time to admit that my logic behind taking this job was a little twisted and my view of men was really beginning to suffer. My judgment was clouded by paranoia. I began to think that every man I met was just another pathetic loser on the phone. It became difficult to tell people what I did for a living. I guess I was partially embarrassed and partially sick of the reactions I was getting. Most people thought phone sex was much more interesting than it really was, especially the men. I had to be careful who I told what I did for a living. I found myself lying and saying I was a customer service representative to avoid unwarranted, unwelcome attention.

I thought phone sex might be entertaining, a sort of sociological experiment. I'd do feminist textual analysis while I moan on the phone, not to mention the easy money. Surely I'd quit as soon as I found something else. The fact is, any job that promises lots of money for practically no work is simply too good to be true - no exceptions.

The argument can be made that phone sex is a safe outlet for aggressive sexual behavior and it's not like anyone had a gun to my head and was forcing me to do it. This was not the easy money I thought it was.

Unlike many jobs in the sex industry, you are forced to use your imagination. This is not to say that stripping or appearing in adult videos is not difficult work with its own set of challenges. I've had friends who were strippers who led really tough lives. I wouldn't have traded places with them for anything. Many would agree that phone sex is different because it exploits your psyche as opposed to your body. It's impossible to close your eyes and block out what you are doing. I don't think it's healthy to spend eight hours a day doing something you have to try and block out of your mind.

One day during my third week, a "roommate" came into my cubicle to give me a bathroom break. Without thinking about it I passed the bathroom, walked quickly past the Credit Card Processing Center, and straight out the front door. I returned a week later for my last paycheck with a different job and a new lease on life. My jaw dropped open when my boss asked if I was feeling better and when I was coming back to work. I had done my time and felt sorry for the new girls waiting for an interview. I wondered if they would last as long as I did. You never know who would have the will to stay on the job for more than a couple of months to become an old-timer, or who would walk away from the sex industry with some rent money and a long list of euphemisms.