You’ve spent the last three months working at a phone sex
hotline. It’s grueling, tedious work
producing a facsimile of the intimacy you’ve shared with men and women during
your three decades of life, but it pays the bills and when most of your former
occupations feature the term “disgraced” in front of them, your options are
limited.
It might’ve been less frustrating for you if you weren’t so
damn good at it. Your voice radiates sex
and sensuality, and your mind, infinitely perverse, can generate scenarios to
curl toes with only the flimsiest knowledge of your co-conversationalist to go
on. You’re like an artist who almost
exclusively makes filthy phone calls.
People call in in the hope that they’ll catch your line, and many of
them hang up immediately and try again if they don’t, racking up excessive
first minute charges with each additional call. They still call back, time and time again,
proudly relating the tale to you, telling you, “you’re worth it.”
It’s like hearing you’re the prettiest whore in the
brothel. The swell it puts in your heart
twists your stomach. You’ve had trouble
sleeping, had trouble with binge eating, had trouble getting off when you’re
actually having sex, which isn’t terribly often since you’re not the prettiest
of ladies and not the happiest of people which means heading out to find a
hookup is a harrowing experience.
But today all of that’s going to change. Your rampant success as a phone sex operator
has been recognized by the shady company that pays you to talk off men, and
they’ve decided that you’re wasted in a phone bank. They want to put you in a place where you, or
at least your voice, is more visible: they want you to do a commercial for
their phone sex service.
When you arrive at the sound stage you’ll be greeted like a
hero. The director will sit down with
you and go over the script line by line like it’s a god damn rendition of
Hamlet, not just you talking men through their jack off process. You’ll feel like a princess. That is, until you see the heroin slim blonde
they hired to be the face of the commercial.
They’ll explain.
“Jackie here will be lip synching your words. You’ll be the voice of JackChat, she’ll be
the face.”
She will indeed be the woman most of your customers dream
of: no visible scars from where her mother poured boiling water on her torso,
slender, obedient eyebrows. She’ll have
a desperate sexuality to her, a radiant aura that informs everyone in the room
she’s in that if she doesn’t get a cock inside her in the next twenty minutes
she’s done for.
Looking at her, your heart will break. But when she introduces herself to you, her
shrill voice, like a bird raised in Brooklyn, will make you feel better.
“Ahma bigfan,” she’ll proudly announce with an outstretched
hand. “Bigfan!” she’ll say again. “Hahdyavoicebefowah.”
You’ll smile and thank her, reassured that even if your body
is covered in old burns, even if your nervous twitches sometimes drive men
away, at least you can open your mouth without making the balls of every man in
the room recede. As you’re lead into the
sound booth where your dialogue will be recorded, that knowledge will make your
heart swell. That knowledge, and the
fact that you’re about to make the equivalent of four months salary with a
single night’s work.
Congratulations Smokey Voiced Woman!
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