And so it begins...

I found the notebook I use to record all the calls I receive as a phone sex operator in the garbage.

Well, to be more accurate, I found it in a cardboard box by the street corner , with a bunch of shitty novels. Whenever some leaves a box of books they don't want on the street, I always have to rummage through it like a bag lady. Books do that to me, books are my crack.

Anyways, while I didn't find any new and exciting reads, I did find a brand new notebook, to log all the phone sex johns I get. It's a Cirque de Soleil notebook, with a quote on the front that proclaims , "Everything is Possible."

The first caller I get is a guy from Brooklyn named Joe. He sounds like a character out of a Martin Scorsese more from the 70's or 80's. He calls under my listings in "Women home alone" and "Anal", so, I have a pretty good idea of what's coming.

Joe is an ass man. He's always loved "the ass" he tells me, but, recently, he's taken his obsession to a whole new level. He's been fucking this new "broad" and she can't seem to get enough anal action, and it's made his appetite for the act grow.

Discussing anal is always kinda tricky on the phone sex line. The company I currently work for doesn't allow for any talk of shit, or "scat", which I must say, I am eternally grateful for.

l don't know how to make shitting sexy. I just don't. It's completely beyond my capabilities as a woman, a sex worker, and as a human being. You could throw glitter on a turd, wrap a feather boa around it, and it would just be a turd with a boa on. How can I work with that? Why would I want to?

I know scat is a "thing" for some people, but, all I know about the subculture is that some eat the shit, some don't. If you eat it, you have to blink to signal you are full. That might be an urban myth.

That's all I know, other than that scat lovers must get sick a lot. But, to be fair, that is just conjecture on my part.

Anyways, back to Joe: he inevitably ends up using words like "poohole" and saying he just loves to "clean a girl right out".

The rest of the conversation involved some skilled maneuvering on my part, where I had to struggle to keep Joe on the line, so I could get his money, and possibly acquire a new customer, yet keep him from venturing too far into the brown side.

I was successful. He's the sort of guy who yells so loud when he cums that I have to hold the phone away from my ear. He yells like someone just stamped on his bare foot with a steel toed boot.

After wards, Joe asked me where I lived. Montreal, I lied. He asked me why I don't have a French accent. I tell him because I'm not French Canadian. The rest of the conversation was spent on my enlightening Joe about the Quebec Separatist movement, the 90's Referendum, and the Parti Quebecois.

Another caller on my first day was a guy named Patrick, who claimed to be 6'5. He told me a story about how one night his wife and him went out and invited their Uber driver to come up to their hotel room with them.

The driver went for it, and Patrick and his wife took turns blowing the driver together, which is something they like to indulge in. A sort of couples hobby. A cock built for two.

Patrick said that he jerks off over phone sex lines now because his wife is currently pregnant and doesn't want to have sex.

That's why I'm here, Patrick...that's why I'm here.