What's up buttercup? Operator15's FAQ

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Do You Want To Know What I Do When I'm Feeling A Little Kinky?

Sometimes, not often, but every once in a while, when I'm feeling a little bit freaky, I talk about thinks that have nothing to do with sex.

I've started a Blog over at MySpace for those days. You can find it at http://blog.myspace.com/operator15

Go.. Laugh... Be my friend.

Please?

If this doesn't work out for me, I can always be a Foley Artist

Phone sex isn't always the easiest job. The easiest job I think would be oh, I dunno, ethics advisor for George W. Bush. It's not like you'd be called on to do anything.

I probably should'nt have gone there huh? You didn't come here for partisan politics did you? No, you didn't. I'm not a polite person and if you wish to spank me for my insolence, perhaps we can arrange something.

Anyway.. phone sex. It's not the job for a brainles slut who has nothing to recommend her beyond a sweet voice. Oh sure, there are a lot of us out there who are sluts, and most of us have sweet voices, but the brainless ones don't tend to do very well.

The most important skill a phone sex operator will use is not a naturally pleasant voice, but the ability to read people and decipher what callers want without the benefit of body language and few, if any, spoken clues. Beyond that, the ability to quickly spin engaging stories based on ideas never before heard or thought of is mandatory and last but not least, the ability to convincingly simulate noises associated with those stories.

What is they sound of one hand clapping? Well, it's similar to the sound of testicles coming in contact with flesh as the result of a forward pelvic thrust.

In other settings, my vibrator sounds amazingly like an electric toothbrush and my friend has one with a pulse setting that sounds just like her cell phone set to vibrate.

Those are the easy sounds to make. But there are times it's not so simple.

A lot of guys are into golden showers, and after a long shift of drinking coffee, they can be a real blessing, but there's obviously a limit to how many you can do during a twenty minute phone call and for the guys who want brown showers or rainbow showers (if you can't use your imagination to figure out what they are, you may be at the wrong blog,) it can be nearly impossible and distinctly unhealthy to do such things on command. (Did you know that satifying a belching fetish for a half-hour call can make a person vomit? Now you do.)

Thankfully, we ladies of the line need no longer resort to pouring water from cup to cup or letting ice plop into a beverage as we blow razzberries until our phones are covered in saliva. Thanks to the blessed internet, and a few people with too much time on their hands, we have recorded resources!

Kevin Kelm, a man with a distinctly scatalogical sense of humor has devised both a virtual vomit site that simulates the sites and sounds of a queasy stomach using the foods and settings of your choosing, and also the Robodump, a robot he left in his office men's room which convinced his coworkers that a man with severe intestinal distress had spent and entire work day in the first stall.

The few vocalizations in the recordings sound rather male, so female operators may want to listen to the recordings a few times and carefully time when you pause the files, but you gentlemen in the business have it made.

While you're there, take a look around his site. He also has the phrase "I have lard in my anus" translated into the languages of the world. You never know when that may come in handy.

My Own Oddest Jobs List

Because someone asked, and because I don't have much else to write at the moment, here's my own personal list of oddest jobs, adapted from Carerbuilder.com's America's Most Unusual Jobs list.

Here's where I made the list.

A) Actor for haunted house: Once upon a time I was a make-up artist and, in that life I did special effects make-up for a haunted house. While I was there, I took a part as a victim in a freakish laboratory experiment.

J) Jelly donut filler: It was one of my duties when I worked in a donut shop as a teenager.

P) Phone Psychic: A lot of phone sex operators also work as phone psychics at one time or another. Many of the skills are the same, listening and being understanding. I did it briefly.

To my profound surprise, I quickly saw there was something to all that paranormal stuff. The more calls I took though, the more I understood that what there is to it would be the natural inclination of the converted to believe they find confirming details in vagaries. Once I realized it was too often a placebo for real problems, I had to move on. The few weeks it took me took between my realization and taking up another job was the only time in my life I've ever felt like a whore.

It shouldn't surprise you that many of the same companies that have phone sex lines also run psychic lines. After all, they already have the system in place. I once worked at a call center that had phone psychics on one floor, phone sluts on another, and yet another floor full of people taking catalog orders for mail order companies. The break room was always an interesting mix of people and conversation.

V) Voice over actress for movies: OK, I fudged on this one. I did commercials.

I got the job through my work as a make-up artist. While working with a fashion photographer, I answered his office phone and it was a guy trying to track down an actress who was late for a job. She wasn't there but I was.

I ended up working for the caller on and off for the next seven years. Along with commercials, he also contracted me to do a series of pseudo-sexual recordings. The scripts would be something that sounded explicit until you got to the last line like "Oooooh, it's so big. Please be gentle, I've never had anything so big in me before. Oh please, do it fast... oh, oh, oooooooh. Thank you for taking that splinter out doctor."

X) X-mas tree decorator: I once had a summer job working for a company that decorated malls and mansions for Christmas. (There's actually so much to be done, they have to begin in the summer getting things together.) It was there I enjoyed hearing America's most unusual quitting words when a man who had struggled all day with a garland finally stormed off in frustration saying "fuck it, I have to believe little elves do this."

My absolute most unusual job though, was not listed and it wasn't even phone sex. It was working for one of those old fashioned photography studios where they take sepia toned pictures of people in period costumes. I was the wardrobe person who helped people get in and out of thier costumes. When there was a long line waiting, I could strip a man of his chaps, gun belt, and tin star faster than you can say "cheesy old west gear."

I beat out the other applicant for the job because I was tall enough to reach the hats on the top shelf without needing a stool.

Was That An Orgasm Or Do You Just Have A Weak Heart

I was seventeen, fresh out of school and still relatively innocent. He was a British photographer, too old to date jailbait, but too reckless to care. It was late and we were on the phone together, watching TV.

Star 80 was airing. If you're unfamiliar, it's about a Playboy centerfold who was killed by her estranged husband. As the film told her life story, we watched her as a young woman, about my age. Her future husband was taking the pictures which would start her career as a nude model. It was a titillating scene as the actress smiled, blushes, and began to strip.

My boyfriend and I lay in our respective beds, watching with nearly silent phones pressed to our ears. The parallel between the film couple and ourselves seemed evident, and I couldn't help but imagine myself being seduced into baring my young body for his camera. No doubt, he was thinking the same.

His voice was soft and husky when he spoke. "Are you randy?"

I blinked. "Um... no, I'm Dani." We'd been dating for three weeks! How could he not know my name?

"No, no, no. I know your name. I mean... Well, are you.. excited?"

"Excited?" I repeated dumbly.

"The movie," he explained, clearly reconsidering the likelihood of my seduction, "is the movie making you feel sexy."

There was the faint sound of a penny dropping.

"Ooooooh, I get it. You want to know if I'm horny!"

"Horny? What an awful word for it! Horny. What kind of word is that to describe it?"

"Don't ask me, I didn't make it up. But at least you can see where it might have come from. Who was Randy and why the hell did he get a state of being named after him?"

"Oh, never mind."

We fell back into silence as the movie continued. Sometime before the distinctly un-sexy murder/suicide ending, things turned steamy again. And again, my boyfriend tried to initiate a pointed conversation.

"So, what do you think of the movie so far?"

"Well, it's not exactly Casablanca, but it's ok,"

"Perhaps not, but Casablanca didn't have sex scenes."

"No, a great kiss though."

"So do you like them?"

"Who?"

"The sex scenes."
"Oh."

"Aren't they getting to you at all?"

As dense as I'd been to this point, I understood by his tone that there were distinctly right and wrong answers to this question. I answered weakly, but correctly.

"I suppose."

"What are you going to do about it?"

TA-DAH!!! Danielle, welcome to your first phone sex call!

The next twenty minutes were spent with me talking as little as possible, not knowing what to say. I listened, not quite believing my dignified, mature boyfriend was actually doing all the things he described in such explicit detail. But as his breath became harder and his creaky bedsprings became audible, I began to believe. I listened in a fascinated state of arousal and discomfort.

Suddenly, and seemingly without warning, there was a loud, sharp gasp. Then a snort and grunt followed by a sort of squeak and another snort. At last, there was complete and frightening stillness.

I waited a few seconds, desperate to hear breathing.

Nothing.

'Oh my G-d,' I thought, 'he's had a heart attack!' My mind raced with panic. 'I have to call the police! I have to call an ambulance! Oh shit, I DON'T KNOW HIS ADDRESS!'

I quickly formulated a plan. I would have to put the phone down without hanging it up and race to the nearest pay phone. If I called the police, they could trace the call to his address.

My eyes widened as I pictured the police breaking down his door hours later only to find him in his bedroom, dead and already stiffening, one hand on the phone, the other on his penis.

I held the phone tight to my ear, gaping in horror. My mother was gonna know what I'd been talking about!

I looked at the phone’s cradle, weighing my options. If I hung up, there was always the possibility his roommate would get home in time to revive him.

'Oh, G-d' I thought, 'I'm going to Hell.' I'm Jewish, we don't even believe in Hell, but I was willing to bet I was on my way anyway.

Finally, after seemingly endless seconds wavering between humiliation and damnation, my redemption came in the form of a weak and happy voice floating up from the receiver.

"Dan? Did you cum?”