While Indian phone sex call handlers will happily play the part of the sexy, scantily clad, sex-crazed, sorority girl- we couldn’t help but wonder what it’s actually like to be on the other end of the line. An anonymous writer helped clarify by sharing some of her story.
First of all, I’m not sexy. I don’t mean that in some self-deprecating, 90’s chick flick sort of way, where all you have to do is give me better clothes and shave my unibrow to make me into the hottie next door. I mean that in the “I’m a 48 year old, overweight, single mother of two, with a face that couldn’t romance a shovel and chubby fingers that switch between incoming calls, internet porn, and potato chip bags with a deftness that is a little too practiced” sort of a way. It’s not without trying. For a long time I tried to lose weight and attract men – as well as even attempted to find a normal job- but there’s not much of a place for widowers in India, so I relied on the few natural born skills I possess – a sexy voice, vivid imagination, and strong stomach.
I’ve been working in this job for years and – thankfully – the job itself has changed a bit as technology has improved. When I first started working as an Indian phone sex operator, it was an incredibly awkward setup. I worked out of a cramped and slightly sweaty cubicle, in a sea of cramped, slightly sweaty cubicles- all filled with fat, middle-aged, or shockingly old, women. I felt really out of place amongst the grainy overhead fluorescent lighting and the crusty, stained industrial carpeting. I mean, I was still overweight, but I wasn’t old. The women that I used to work with were mostly all well into their 60s, if not beyond. Luckily, in-between listening to them moan, bark, and make weird schlepping noises with their mouths, in an awkward attempt to imitate bodily functions in a sexy way, these women did what all older women do when infiltrated by the younger generation: they took me under their collective wing and showed me the ropes of being a highly sought after Indian phone sex peddler.
Let me tell you, there is nothing more horrifying and endearing than having a short, fat, and hairy Indian woman, who could easily be your grandmother, explaining to you how to best pretend to be a busty farm girl, ready to sensually milk a lactating animal. Or how to train your mouth to make a realistic squelching noise that sounds like you’re rubbing ghee all over the supple body that you only pretend to have. Most of these women were uncontested masters at their trades, and in being masters, they were absolutely thrilled to have me as their protege. I’ll never forget one particular woman, sauntering up to my cubicle in a ratty sari that could have been easily confused with a circus tent, brandishing several video tapes with all sorts of porn that was obviously fuzzily recorded contraband. The tapes had everything from poorly recorded late-night television programs to torrid and tantric sex acts I was sure were absolutely illegal to view.
Through these shocking and grainy images of hairy and heavily mustached 1970’s porn, these women became dear friends of mine. Hours would be spent, drinking coffee and gossiping about our lives while awaiting the dispatcher to send us our next caller. There’s a special bond created among women who spend all of their time learning new ways to verbally create images of lusty ladies, dripping with the excitement of their forbidden tete a tete with whomever felt the need to call that day. It became a game to find inventive ways to discreetly flag down coworkers when you got stuck in a fantasy narrative, all the while trying not to laugh at the sexually suggestive mime they were attempting to act out wordlessly, so as not to be overheard by the caller. After a few years among the odd comradery of Indian sex phone operators, our bosses finally embraced new technology and decided it was quite a bit cheaper to have us work from home.
It was pretty easy for me to tell my children that I worked at a call center during the day without them catching on to what I really do, but once my office was moved to my home and my children got older, it became more and more difficult to convince them that I was just your standard tech support for some mobile phone company. The day my eldest walked in on me, bleating into the headset like a raped goat, was a tough one to explain away. “I was just doing a sound check. They needed me to make loud noise so they could make sure their speaker was working properly while they were also struggling with service issues. I guess a goat noise was the best I could come up with…” While I was pretty proud of myself at the time, I’m pretty sure now that my son didn’t buy it for a second. Another issue I have is being able to find and view my “homework”. While viewing pornography on the internet (provided it’s not child pornography) is perfectly legal in India, I still couldn’t get past the worry that someday, some vigilante watchdog group would come busting down my door because I had to brush up on my fantasy narrative about senior BDSM. Some of the narratives that clients ask for are absolutely nuts. It’s no wonder why people prefer to use Indian phone sex as an outlet for their sexual fantasies as I know of very few women, even prostitutes, that would happily engage in stuffing sponge cake into their lady parts or pretending to be a poodle in heat.
It’s not all crazy stuff though. Sometimes callers genuinely just want to chat, they are lonely and don’t have anyone else in their lives. I like these calls in a completely separate way. The outrageous callers are great for funny stories to tell friends, but with the “lonelies” you start to feel like there’s a real human connection there. I mean, by the end of the call, I’m still listening to them cum sloppily into their receiver, but it’s with more of a maternal pride. Like, instead of recoiling from my headset so I don’t have to listen to the pleasure some men get from thinking they’re actually fucking their nubile sister, I just kind of sit there and congratulate myself on making some lonely guy cum with nothing more than some lovingly cultivated naughty talk.
Occasionally callers will want to meet up, or worse, have me send them trophies of our conversations, like used panties. I’m deeply against this. Not only because should they receive my sweat crusted parachute panties that would double as a bivvy bag, they may discover my secret life as a serial McDonalds diner, but also because the thought of meeting up with any man who has decided he loves me for the naughty things I say is more than a little disheartening. The thing is, when you’re an Indian sex phone operator, you’re never truly yourself. You’re only ever exactly what they want you to be.
