Anonomouss sex chat
During my two days of training Heather, my mentor, named the four basic categories of men she encountered. I decided my own hours and avoided the commute to work in the ridiculous extremes of Massachusetts weather that threatened in some months to steam me alive and in others to freeze the breath out of me.
There were the kinkies, the sneakies, the boyfriends and the regulars. The job seemed interesting and at times amusing when I had Heather leading the way, but when my brief apprenticeship ended and my roommates left the apartment for their regular day jobs I was alone at a crossroads.
Phone would go back on the charger, caller’s notes and time went into my notebook.
Then back to my essay without having lost my train of thought because neither cornflakes nor sneaky required my full attention.
I imagined nondescript brown hair and friendly eyes.
An outfit of jeans and a sweatshirt spattered with the remains of toddler breakfast.
Men sending flowers to wives, mothers or secretaries would place their orders, then discreetly ask where I was from with enough horniness to drop their voices an octave and make me aware that I was on to something.
In the end, it was our daily pervert, the guy who dialled in repeatedly, who sealed it for me.
A woman from the call center gave me a number and informed me flatly that a customer was looking for a dominatrix – could I accept the call? I regretted not going to an adult bookstore to research domination as Heather had advised. She unleashed her full fury on him, emphasizing each pronoun and pausing dramatically between sentences while I prayed silently that the gods of all things sexy would help me get this guy’s rocks off. He was done after I had him painfully tangled in the rubber bands but before I could even get to the ice cubes. So we traded in the cacophony of Shona speakers taught English in America with Rhodie overtones for the soothing, internationally-valued English-flavoured notes of privileged children from a former colony.
You might have to wait longer than usual to get through to a counsellor.
If you need help straight away, it's better to call 0800 1111. Why not read other young people's Ask Sam letters for advice or post on the message boards.
It was just my luck that my first solo call was a kinky. Was I the kind of girl who could do this job or not? Maybe vacuum the rug in the living room and go to the library for a few hours. to go back to Zimbabwe, then Rhodesia, when I was an unusually vocal toddler.
Then, later, I could relieve my roommates’ anxieties over our nightly game of Scrabble by informing them that I had chickened out. The one thing my mother hated more than my drawling American accent was the clipped white Rhodesian twang my siblings were acquiring from their classmates at their recently integrated schools.