Sex
Sexual healing
As a phone-sex operator, I talk to people about their emotions as much as I help them have orgasms.
My main motivation was money. Don’t get me wrong — I’ve got a good career and a decent income. I also have a knack for living beyond my means, and often find my paychecks spent before I get them. I needed a second job, something with flexible hours requiring little concentration. Something I could fit in between my other duties and perhaps even enjoy. Something like being a phone-sex operator.
I admit it, I’ve called those lines before. In the wee hours of the morning when my girlfriend’s out of town (or when I’m between girlfriends), I’m not above picking up the phone and dialing one of those 900 numbers to have my ear sweetened by a strange feminine voice.
Ah, but to be at the other end of the line? That, I must say, had never occurred to me — until the day I saw an ad in a local alternative newspaper: “Phone Actors and Actresses Needed,” it said. “Get Paychecks Weekly.”
Actors? As in men? Was this something I could actually get paid for? To be honest, of course, I had other motives as well. I like talking to people. I love reaching into someone’s psyche and opening it up like a can. I enjoy the interaction of two human beings passing in the night, the strange scintillating challenge of holding another’s attention as I would an exotic vase. At heart an adventurer, I am frequently drawn to new and untried things — and what terrain could be more treacherous and enticing than sex? The truth was and remains that I can think of few more pleasurable ways of spending my spare time.
So I filled out the paperwork and sent it in. I returned a contract stating the rules (basically, Don’t talk to minors), as well as a copy of my driver’s license and Social Security card.
And so came the night, a few days later, when I found myself logging on to a phone network based in Anaheim Hills, Calif., but open to the voices of the world. You can log on anytime, day or night, I’d been instructed. I simply called an 800 number, giving my special code and stating that I was open for business. Then the calls started rolling in. It’s not how many you get, the service told me, but how long you keep each caller on the line — at 15 cents a minute, time in this business is literally money.
“Hello,” my first caller, a sweet-voiced 26-year-old woman from South Carolina, said tentatively, and I was instantly in love. “Is this the Stanley I was talking to before?”
My ardor drooped significantly. “Well, no, I don’t think so,” I said, “but I’d love to be the Stanley you talk to now.”
“No,” she said, “I was talking to another Stanley and I was hoping you’d be him. We talked for 45 minutes. We talked about everything.”
“Ka-ching!” the cash register in my head chimed in. Let’s see — 45 times 15 — ka-ching! Before I could finalize my call-keeping strategy, however, the woman was gone. “Well, I’ve really got to go and find the right Stanley,” she said sweetly. “You have a nice night, ya hear?”
The truth is that many of my callers are men. Being heterosexual I had wondered, of course, what that would be like. For a straight boy, I am pretty open-minded. What the ad had sought, after all, was actors, so I would simply have to hone my craft.
And so I have. Suffice it to say that I mastered the male counterpart of an art that comes naturally to most women — faking orgasm. I’ve found that it’s not difficult at all: Simply close your eyes, think sexual thoughts and uuuup you go.
I now have telephonic boyfriends all over the country. One 19-year-old in a small Ohio town where he owns the only restaurant says that he wants to spend his next vacation staying at my place in Southern California (fat chance). A guy in San Francisco can’t stop calling me “Darling.” And a good ol’ boy from Texas likes to call me while taking a bath with his dog.
In each case I listen to their concerns, attempt to glean what they want and finally try to give it to them on a platter. Sometimes it’s a sexual experience; in other cases, just a friendly voice.
The calls I most look forward to, however — the ones in which I can most be myself — are those from females. Lately there seem to be lots. Like the woman who called because she had just caught her boyfriend in bed with her best friend. “He hurt me bad,” she said, “and I want to hurt him back.” At first we tried having phone sex, but it quickly became apparent that what she really needed was a friend. So we spent half an hour talking about her relationship, mine, love between the genders, sex, courtship, romance — and the bastards that men can be. When it was over she said the venting had helped and she thought that she finally could sleep. I felt like a therapist who’d done a good deed.
Another woman had me stay on the line while we “watched” a movie together, and a third wanted to chat while changing her baby’s diaper.
And there was the young woman who called because she did want phone sex, though not the “wham, bam, thank you m’am” variety of erotic entertainment to which she’d become accustomed. No, what this woman needed was to be emotionally cuddled, sweet-talked and verbally romanced. What she craved was a whisper on her pillow, an anonymous and safe masculine voice lulling her into sexual surrender by being the creation of her fantasy, the seducer of her reticence. Like a wise psychic companion, I probed for the keys to her floodgate.
I won’t say that the experience didn’t turn me on. As her excitement swelled, so did mine, fueled by the challenge of flying by instruments alone, of gradually bringing her to the brink of completion without the benefit of sight or touch but solely through the power of imaginative suggestion. After two orgasms — possibly, I guessed, among the first of her life — we talked for a while like lovers sharing a smoke. Her satisfaction was immense, as was mine, though for me it was more emotional than physical. It was a tremendous rush to have risen, as it were, to the challenge of making her come with my words. Then she was gone, invisible once again in the vast ether of the time and distance that are our lives.
Later I thought about the moment we’d shared, that brief synapsis of connection we’d sparked in an otherwise uncaring world. And I began to realize the truth of what I did: not just the gross and lusty exchange of forbidden fantasies minus bodily fluids — the safest sex there is — but something more, something deeper, something significant.
For what I was doing was providing windows in the fog, tiny portholes through which to expand one’s view. Some of us need the touch of another human being to get through the night. Sometimes even the voice of a stranger can make darkness tolerable — especially, in some cases, the voice of a stranger. In a world in which intimacy can involve major risk, who could argue that the need for intimacy disappears? But reduce the danger by offering anonymity, and suddenly intimacy, even if fleeting, becomes possible.
So call me a master of anonymous intimacy. There are many of us in the naked city — we serve the insomniacs, the sexually frustrated, the lonely, the distressed. We have prevented illicit affairs, I’m sure, and perhaps even inspired a few. Mostly, we have kept people focused during long, otherwise fuzzy nights.
In the final analysis, I think, we are public servants doing our bit — to coin a Jesse Jackson-like phrase — for the sanity of humanity. Thank us if you will. Just don’t forget that 15 cents.
Stanley Simon is a pen name for a writer in Southern California. More Stanley Simon.
Massage therapists rubbed wrong by sex talk
A Jennifer Love Hewitt show and the Travolta allegations have masseuses tired of being confused for sex workers
(Credit: iStockphoto/sybanto) Joe, a licensed massage therapist, knows what it’s like having a famous client who expects something extra. He had an Academy Award-winning actor begin gyrating on his massage table before raising his hips in the air to show off his erection. “He was hoping that I would play with him in some shape or form,” he says.
Needless to say, Joe isn’t surprised by allegations by two masseurs that John Travolta got handsy during massages. (Travolta’s attorney has denied all the allegations, and called them “ridiculous.”) “It happens all the time,” he says, and not just with celebrity clients. He frequently encounters men who try to fondle him, usually while he’s working on their glutes or lower back and their hand happens to be level with his crotch. “They think they’re so original, but they’re all so much the same,” Joe says, his voice rising. “They all use the same tactics, the same body movements, the same gyrations and grinding my table, the [heavy] breathing.”
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
A night at the vibrator museum
Early vibrators were hand-cranked, two-person jobs -- and prescribed by doctors. How far we've come since then
(Credit: Antique Vibrator Museum) I can now say that I’ve used a turn-of-the-century vibrator — on my hand, but still.
The silver, hand-cranked contraption is usually kept behind glass at Good Vibrations’ Antique Vibrator Museum in San Francisco — but staff sexologist Carol Queen made a rare exception. “This is very special,” she whispered, unlocking the case and carefully pulling out Dr. Johansen’s Auto Vibrator, a relic from 1904. The “auto” part is not so much: It was a two-person job, with her having to crank the device’s handle to get it thrumming. Pressing my finger tips to its inch-wide circular platform of pleasure, I was pleasantly surprised by its power.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Maggie Gyllenhaal on sexual liberation
The beloved indie star tells Salon about her "vibrator movie" and why she loves playing transgressive women
Maggie Gyllenhaal (Credit: Reuters/Mark Blinch) When I met Maggie Gyllenhaal about six weeks ago, she was enormously and gloriously pregnant, stretching out on a sofa with her shoes off and feet up in a Manhattan office building. (Since that time, Gyllenhaal and husband Peter Sarsgaard have welcomed their second daughter, Gloria Ray, to the world.) We were there to talk about “Hysteria,” the charming, lightweight feminist farce from director Tanya Wexler that explores a key event in the history of female sexuality: the invention of the vibrator by Mortimer Granville, a Victorian doctor who was seeking to cure the mysterious “female malady” that lends the movie its title.
Continue Reading CloseMother-daughter sexperts
Susie Bright and her daughter, Aretha, make parental talks about sex look easy -- and fun
Most parents loathe talking to their kids about the birds and the bees, let alone pubic hair grooming, faked orgasms and “water sports” — but most parents are not legendary “sexpert” Susie Bright.
Better than talking about these things, she penned an advice column in 2009 with her daughter, Aretha, then 19, for the ladyblog Jezebel. Their answers to questions about everything from porn to Paxil were unflinching but playful, and at times controversial. Now the pair have collected those columns into a new e-book, “Mother/Daughter Sex Advice.” Together, they read as an irreverent version of “Our Bodies, Ourselves” for the Internet age. The mother-daughter team also reflect on what the experience of writing the column was like, and it turns out it wasn’t as weird as many would think: For the most part, it was just a continuation of conversations they had been having throughout Aretha’s life.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
On the rack: A cultural history of breasts
Did breasts evolve for lactation or to enhance sex appeal? A new book explores why they matter
(Credit: iStockphoto/NadyaPhoto) It’s hard to be boobs. Sure, breasts are cherished as givers of milk and the pinnacle of sex appeal, but the modern world hasn’t been good to mammaries.
As Florence Williams writes in “Breasts: A Natural and Unnatural History,” they’re the most tumor-prone organ in the human body. They “soak up pollution like a pair of soft sponges,” and transmit environmental toxins to babies through breast milk. “Breasts are bellwethers for the changing health of people,” she says. While we’ve “genetically modified our crops to be able to protect them from the ill effects of pesticides,” Williams writes, “we haven’t yet figured out how to modify our breasts.” Aside from using saline and silicone, of course.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
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