the last time i worked as a phone sex operator it ruined my life.

18 years old and i didn’t want to get a real job. i was far too busy being either drunk or hungover to work in an office, and had a feeling that if i ever took a bar job i’d end up drinking the stock. so when my good friend alex, a veteran sex shop and evil business worker, told me i gave good voice, the answer seemed neon flashing dollar-sign obvious.

so jenny, the buxom 18 year old redhead from oxford who’s turn ons included candlelit baths, lacy underthings, sleepovers with my of course nubile and often naked girl friends, and having the sex of the butt was born. but of course.

however, i’ve never been a talker. when i am in my den of iniquity, committing carnal sins with any number of people, i have never been known to express the worshipping of my counterpart’s cock, for example. i’m not the kind of girl who’ll shout a list of ten-step instructions on how to get me off. it’s just not my bag.

so i entered my new profession with just the tiniest amount of trepidation. my pay was based on how long i could keep mr. a. nonymous on the line and not shooting his sad little gravy brown trickle of a load to the sultry sounds of my voice. no pressure.

day one, i sat in my room with a bottle of dutch courage and some of the finest cigarettes money could buy. dialled the number of my reputable employer and logged into the system. hello there is the phone ok i have to pick it up and get some disgusting little piggly wiggly dicked little man up lets try not to get sick while i’m doing it alright?

“hiiii… i’m jenny and i’m so wet waiting for youuuu”. breathy voice: check. checking of inhibitions at the door: check. total lack of self respect and a latent sense of nausea: ch-eck.

it wasn’t all that bad really. for the most part my clientele were completely silent, bar that pathetic little escape of breath, well known by all you ninja silent wankers out there. i’d be having a great time, running off a string of filth from my most rosebud mouth while painting my nails or balancing my chequebook. in the six months i worked there i was never more fucking organised in my life. i, or shall i say jenny, was very popular, especially with what seemed like men of a certain age. which is a nice thought really isn’t it. one loveley gentleman even offered to pay me “one hundred english pounds” for a used; underline, pair of my unmentionables. as tempting as i am sure you agree that is, i politely refused. besides, it was against company policy despite the fact that money would have come in handy but i'm not bitter or anything oh no.

enter my then boyfriend, who shall be referred to hereafter only as G. now G was a nice boy. he was nice looking, had a nice job, nice family. he was just. so. damn. nice. i shouldn’t have a nice boyfriend. i’m not a nice girl. i drink too much and i smoke too much and all the musicians i like have died from massive drug overdoses while having orgies with 15 year olds or something.

in my experience nice boys generally don't like it when their lovely trying to be girly girlfriend who they introduced to their parents not last weekend shouts out.. things.. in bed. things that would perhaps be more fitting coming from the mouth of a six foot pre op transexual hooker at four in the morning. things that, due to her recent employment, their girlfriend has become more comfortable and also more prone to saying.

there is no silence in the world like the silence that follows a verbing of a noun. like a noun of a noun inside my noun. what an adjecive noun. i'm going to verb your noun so hard you'll think i'm your mother.