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Sign up for our newsletters Subscribe. For a year and a half I jerked guys off on the phone--a lifetime's worth of aural cum shots. Oh my god, doesn't that sound highfalutin? I won't reveal my real name because phone sex is looked down upon, it's just one step away from being a prostitute in most people's minds.

But I'm not ashamed of what I did. When I would talk about phone sex with people outside the business I started to realize that most people were still very old-fashioned. I would say to one of my friends, "Oh my god, I've got to tell you about this guy on the phone today.

He wanted me to pretend that he had a dick the size of my little finger Friends would think I had no morals, and I did have morals, because I felt bad taking money from those sad people on the psychic lines.

I actually started first as a phone psychic. I met a guy one night at Berlin, the nightclub on Belmont--I used to hang out there all the time. It turned out that he and his mom were both phone psychics. I was always asking him about it, so he gave me the number to call.

I thought it would be a great way to make money and have a really fun time. There are no tests. No, no, they just hire you on the spot. These people are con artists! There is no Miss Cleo. Don't you read the papers? I had a deck of old, beat-up tarot cards that came with a book of instructions, and I told them that. I got them at the Salvation Army.

They sent me the application, which verified that I had a phone and could speak English. As soon as they got it back they started forwarding calls to me. The callers don't bust you because they don't really want to know the truth, that's why they're calling psychic lines.

Believe me, they don't want to face reality. They want someone to tell them what they want to hear. I would usually do the cards, do a spread, and from there they would just fill in the blanks.

I didn't even know what I was doing: I would look at the little tarot card instruction booklet, it was that bad, and I would do the spread that was in the back of the book and as I'd flip it over, I'd say "Hm, this means I'd say "This is very, very interesting" while I was trying to find the page. OK, the phone rings and it's almost always a woman--usually a woman that's being dogged by a guy.

I'd say, "Hello, my name is Shelley, please give me your first name and the date of your birth. I'd repeat that very slowly, drawing out the syllables, "Yes-uh, Annn-dree-aaaa, and-uh you were born under the sign of-uh Saturn, which means blah blah blah" and by this time I've flipped over the first card and Andrea is telling me that her boyfriend Miguel just smacked her and walked out for the second time that week, taking the money from her hiding place under the vegetable drawer in the fridge.

These people were not skeptical, they were ready from the get-go. They would just give you information. So by now I've flipped to the page that says "Page of Swords"--because that's the card I've flipped over--or maybe I've just come across that definition by random in the book.

Maybe I've just lit a cigarette and dropped the book open to that page. It doesn't really matter because I'm going to tell Andrea exactly what she wants to hear--Miguel is coming back, he's going to bring her roses because he's going to win big at the gambling boat, and then he's going to take her in his arms and make mad, passionate love to her--for ten minutes.

I'm thinking all this out as I say, "Hm, interesting, it's the Page of Swords card, Annnn-dreee-aaa, that means that you have a cross to bear--but it's only temporary. At this point I'm beginning to add in little things like "He's done this before, I see the pattern here" and "Oh, it's been a difficult struggle"--shit like that.

You have to keep the caller anxious up to a certain point and then you offer them hope. You basically let them fill in the blanks. I would never really tell Andrea that Miguel is going to bring her roses and money--not in so many words.

I tell you, I'd be a rich woman if I didn't have a conscience. All these women are told by society that they're nothing without a man. You become a crisis counselor doing phone psychic work. Sometimes it would be about looks, but that would lead right back to male approval--stuff like "I've gained two pounds so now he won't touch me.

They were supposed to sound cheerful and happy by the end--because I was lying to them, giving them false hope. I started saying stuff like "You know what, he's beaten you up for two years, right? What makes you think that that's going to change? That's when I knew it was time to do something else. I was too good at my job! There was something about talking to strangers on the phone that just released me--not that I've ever been shy.

I just felt free and very childlike playing the Shelley character, but I couldn't stand the thought that I was ripping people off. I felt like Mrs. Judas taking blood money. So I opted for something where there's a fair exchange--phone sex.

I saw an ad in the paper for phone sex. It was a local number, and I figured "How hard can it be? A woman answered my call and asked for my address and sent me an application. I filled it out and mailed it back to a post office box in Chicago, and she called, asking, "Have you done this before? She said, "The guys don't know the difference, the stories are all the same.

It gives you a guideline on what to say to them, how to do certain things. At first she coached me: That amazed me at first--who would give out their phone number? I got the second phone line because sometimes the client calls you. Some girls use their original phone line, but mine was listed and I didn't want guys to know who I was.

The second line was unlisted. They often start you off with a three-way call--that's the only way they can listen in. They want to make sure you're doing OK. Mostly, though, you're on your own. The local calls you pay for, but the long-distance callers would call you or you could get reimbursed if you called them. They would have you send in your phone bills--you would take a black Magic Marker and wipe out the information that you didn't want them to know about you.

They would recognize the numbers that were for the business. It's different with each service because there are some that operate on an number, like internationals.

There are some girls that have worked for services all across the country, but I figured I just wanted to pay my rent. This wasn't a career, I just wanted to make ends meet. I needed time to go to school, I needed time to do my schoolwork, and I knew that working in a coffeehouse wasn't an option because it wouldn't bring in enough money to pay the rent and I knew that I was a shitty waitress. But I am a good talker, a fast talker. I had no help from my parents putting myself through school, so this seemed like a great option.

All I ever wanted in life was to be an artist, but that doesn't mean I don't have other talents or that I don't like other things. I'd established that I had a conscience and now I wanted to see what this was all about. This would be like an acting exercise--I'd dabbled in that at one point, and it was kinda cool.

Marcia was the owner of the first line that I worked for. She was very fair. She'd let you work for other services at the same time. It worked like this: I went up to see her to get my checks; I was always behind in my rent. She lived in a very nice condo in Uptown. A very generic, middle-class looking place--you know, pastels, hunter green, very tasteful.

There were always a bunch of toy dogs and kids running around the place. They were other operators' kids, not Marcia's. She was enormous--you know, you see people like this on Jerry Springer, they have to cut half the house away to get them out.

She was approaching pretty unhealthy--way over pounds. She'd always be on the water bed when I came in to get my check: She was always eating takeout Chinese--just scooping it in--dozens of those little white boxes floating up and down on the water bed with her eating and talking on the phone. My checks always smelled like plum sauce. I liked her, but I knew I couldn't stay with her--I was going broke waiting to talk about sex! I was brand-new, so I'd get like three calls in eight hours.

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Visit yahoo help yahoo japan users - please visit yahoo help to learn how to add your email address. League of women voters of glenview is in the political organizations business view competitors, revenue, employees, website and phone number. Oh my god, doesn't that sound highfalutin? I won't reveal my real name because phone sex is looked down upon, it's just one step away from being a prostitute in most people's minds. But I'm not ashamed of what I did. When I would talk about phone sex with people outside the business I started to realize that most people were still very old-fashioned.

I would say to one of my friends, "Oh my god, I've got to tell you about this guy on the phone today. He wanted me to pretend that he had a dick the size of my little finger Friends would think I had no morals, and I did have morals, because I felt bad taking money from those sad people on the psychic lines.

I actually started first as a phone psychic. I met a guy one night at Berlin, the nightclub on Belmont--I used to hang out there all the time. It turned out that he and his mom were both phone psychics. I was always asking him about it, so he gave me the number to call. I thought it would be a great way to make money and have a really fun time. There are no tests.

No, no, they just hire you on the spot. These people are con artists! There is no Miss Cleo. Don't you read the papers? I had a deck of old, beat-up tarot cards that came with a book of instructions, and I told them that. I got them at the Salvation Army. They sent me the application, which verified that I had a phone and could speak English. As soon as they got it back they started forwarding calls to me. The callers don't bust you because they don't really want to know the truth, that's why they're calling psychic lines.

Believe me, they don't want to face reality. They want someone to tell them what they want to hear. I would usually do the cards, do a spread, and from there they would just fill in the blanks. I didn't even know what I was doing: I would look at the little tarot card instruction booklet, it was that bad, and I would do the spread that was in the back of the book and as I'd flip it over, I'd say "Hm, this means I'd say "This is very, very interesting" while I was trying to find the page.

OK, the phone rings and it's almost always a woman--usually a woman that's being dogged by a guy. I'd say, "Hello, my name is Shelley, please give me your first name and the date of your birth.

I'd repeat that very slowly, drawing out the syllables, "Yes-uh, Annn-dree-aaaa, and-uh you were born under the sign of-uh Saturn, which means blah blah blah" and by this time I've flipped over the first card and Andrea is telling me that her boyfriend Miguel just smacked her and walked out for the second time that week, taking the money from her hiding place under the vegetable drawer in the fridge. These people were not skeptical, they were ready from the get-go.

They would just give you information. So by now I've flipped to the page that says "Page of Swords"--because that's the card I've flipped over--or maybe I've just come across that definition by random in the book.

Maybe I've just lit a cigarette and dropped the book open to that page. It doesn't really matter because I'm going to tell Andrea exactly what she wants to hear--Miguel is coming back, he's going to bring her roses because he's going to win big at the gambling boat, and then he's going to take her in his arms and make mad, passionate love to her--for ten minutes.

I'm thinking all this out as I say, "Hm, interesting, it's the Page of Swords card, Annnn-dreee-aaa, that means that you have a cross to bear--but it's only temporary. At this point I'm beginning to add in little things like "He's done this before, I see the pattern here" and "Oh, it's been a difficult struggle"--shit like that. You have to keep the caller anxious up to a certain point and then you offer them hope.

You basically let them fill in the blanks. I would never really tell Andrea that Miguel is going to bring her roses and money--not in so many words.

I tell you, I'd be a rich woman if I didn't have a conscience. All these women are told by society that they're nothing without a man. You become a crisis counselor doing phone psychic work. Sometimes it would be about looks, but that would lead right back to male approval--stuff like "I've gained two pounds so now he won't touch me.

They were supposed to sound cheerful and happy by the end--because I was lying to them, giving them false hope. I started saying stuff like "You know what, he's beaten you up for two years, right? What makes you think that that's going to change?

That's when I knew it was time to do something else. I was too good at my job! There was something about talking to strangers on the phone that just released me--not that I've ever been shy. I just felt free and very childlike playing the Shelley character, but I couldn't stand the thought that I was ripping people off.

I felt like Mrs. Judas taking blood money. So I opted for something where there's a fair exchange--phone sex. I saw an ad in the paper for phone sex. It was a local number, and I figured "How hard can it be? A woman answered my call and asked for my address and sent me an application. I filled it out and mailed it back to a post office box in Chicago, and she called, asking, "Have you done this before?

She said, "The guys don't know the difference, the stories are all the same. It gives you a guideline on what to say to them, how to do certain things. At first she coached me: That amazed me at first--who would give out their phone number? I got the second phone line because sometimes the client calls you. Some girls use their original phone line, but mine was listed and I didn't want guys to know who I was.

The second line was unlisted. They often start you off with a three-way call--that's the only way they can listen in. They want to make sure you're doing OK. Mostly, though, you're on your own. The local calls you pay for, but the long-distance callers would call you or you could get reimbursed if you called them.

They would have you send in your phone bills--you would take a black Magic Marker and wipe out the information that you didn't want them to know about you.

They would recognize the numbers that were for the business. It's different with each service because there are some that operate on an number, like internationals. There are some girls that have worked for services all across the country, but I figured I just wanted to pay my rent. This wasn't a career, I just wanted to make ends meet. I needed time to go to school, I needed time to do my schoolwork, and I knew that working in a coffeehouse wasn't an option because it wouldn't bring in enough money to pay the rent and I knew that I was a shitty waitress.

But I am a good talker, a fast talker. I had no help from my parents putting myself through school, so this seemed like a great option. All I ever wanted in life was to be an artist, but that doesn't mean I don't have other talents or that I don't like other things. I'd established that I had a conscience and now I wanted to see what this was all about. This would be like an acting exercise--I'd dabbled in that at one point, and it was kinda cool. Marcia was the owner of the first line that I worked for.

She was very fair. She'd let you work for other services at the same time. It worked like this: I went up to see her to get my checks; I was always behind in my rent. She lived in a very nice condo in Uptown. A very generic, middle-class looking place--you know, pastels, hunter green, very tasteful. There were always a bunch of toy dogs and kids running around the place. They were other operators' kids, not Marcia's. She was enormous--you know, you see people like this on Jerry Springer, they have to cut half the house away to get them out.

She was approaching pretty unhealthy--way over pounds. She'd always be on the water bed when I came in to get my check: She was always eating takeout Chinese--just scooping it in--dozens of those little white boxes floating up and down on the water bed with her eating and talking on the phone.

My checks always smelled like plum sauce. I liked her, but I knew I couldn't stay with her--I was going broke waiting to talk about sex! I was brand-new, so I'd get like three calls in eight hours.

It just wasn't enough. I told Marcia I was going to sign up with another service and she was cool with that. Marcia told me to call Estelle--she was the owner of this other service. I think maybe Marcia had worked for her at one time or something. At any rate, Estelle had run her business for like 20 years and she barely left her house, which was on the south side, in the Bridgeport neighborhood. She had buried three husbands; a couple of them were Chicago cops.

She never had children--she hated kids--but she had little rat dogs. She had a parrot at one time that I think she got at Woolworth's. She had a Furby collection--tons of them. So you're getting this, right? Dogs yapping, bird screeching, phones ringing off the hook. You'd never know that she owned a phone sex business to look at her. But her favorite word was "cunt," so what does that tell you? Estelle liked to go to little old lady brunches on Sunday, to what?

Kvetch with other little old lady phone sex line operators? Estelle said that you couldn't work for another phone sex place because she wanted you exclusively.

I agreed to that stipulation. By the time I started working for her I knew pretty much what I was doing. She would just kinda say in her little old lady voice, "OK, he likes that you're a little girl, little Catholic girl in the uniform, about 15 with the kneesocks, got it? Most of the services are a sink or swim kind of thing--you either got it or you don't. Either you can fast-talk or you can't, and because there's such a high rate of turnover and because there's so much money that comes in through the phone, if you don't get guys to ask for you, you either just don't get calls or the person in charge like Estelle just stops sending the calls your way.

You want the guys to call back and request you because that means money. Your boss wants that, too. We'd get like half of that. She says, "Hold on, the girl will call you back. And she's got the guy's credit card number. At the end of the calls, you check in and say, "I'm done. She didn't take taxes out but I'd get a With the phone sex, I could. My time on the phone varied depending upon my school schedule. Estelle always needed people during the day because guys would call from their offices.

Often I'd hear a knock on the door and the vast majority of these guys would slam down the phone in panic. But there was an exception to this rule. This guy would calmly whisper "Hold on," and someone would come into his office and have a business conversation with him. That was always my signal to rattle off a line of filth--it guaranteed me repeat business. He'd love that--the daring, the nerve. His, not mine, of course. Way up high on the 56th floor, Mr.

Big Stuff is deciding the fate of some third world country and getting off at the same time. I really liked those calls at first--it allowed me to fantasize about these men's lives. Would anyone ever know how many times they were calling up Shelley?

Did their wives have any idea what they were up to? Did they talk about it with the other guys after their racquetball games? How did they hide these bills? I always imagined that it was written off as a business expense--"services rendered" and all that. Phone sex is erratic, even more than waitressing. The more you're available, the better. You make more money. You could have calls that lasted 30 seconds you still charge 'em for 20 minutes , and then drunks that would be on the phone for hours.

The longest call that I did was six hours--he's talked longer to other girls--but I just couldn't do any more.

I thought I'd kill myself! I can laugh about it now, but my god! That guy was really into control--there was a point where it wasn't even about sex, it was about how long he could force you to keep talking to him.

I seem to remember discussing the weather--six hours with a stranger, where else do you go? You would feel out the caller to see how long you were going to keep him on the line. There was a girl who stayed on the phone with a drunk who passed out--he was sleeping, snoring away--for like eight hours. I couldn't do that. I'd lose my voice and watch my money fly out the window.

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