And at long last, something jolted me from my shallow priorities of phone sex profits. I simply wouldn’t compromise my fantasy persona to admit I was actually a skinny redhead trying to make a buck in Hollywood.Īs the AIDS headlines during that time increased, so did business. No matter what intimacies they had the courage to share about themselves, they got nothing of the kind in return, whether they knew it or not. Every orgasm of mine with a phone customer was earth shuddering, passionate, and entirely faked.
I only responded as my adopted character might. I held tight to the gravelly voice I maintained for our calls. Truly revealing myself, however, was an occupational hazard I never risked. Sometimes our calls ran long, as I gently led a faceless, suffering voice away from unexpected grief or embarrassed tears. Occasionally their patronage would end after news of a potential boyfriend - or resume when it didn’t work out. For those who didn’t abruptly hang up after the sex talk had reached its conclusion, our pillow talk afterwards sometimes featured their achingly honest hopes and dreams. They would recount their loves lost or found, the pain of isolation and their dreams of having a life with the right man someday. Our chats were a lifeline to many of my regular customers. Any of us can recognize that need, and the loving act we perform when we provide it to our partner. They wanted something bigger, more masculine, and better hung than themselves because it was their way of asking to be taken care of, to be released of their own worries and responsibilities and turn over the driving to someone else. They asked for what they saw in porn flicks, but it wasn’t what ultimately satisfied them. But I soon realized that these were surface interests. My clients wanted everything supersized, from muscles to dick to sexual prowess. I learned a lot about what makes gay men tick. Their requests were simple and almost touchingly mundane. Their desires were not so bizarre that they they had to resort to phone sex to speak of them. (Remember, this was the early 1980’s, which compared to the LGBT advances of today might as well have been the Old West). Some of them were in a straight marriage, but most of them lived in small towns and were helpless to locate male companionship. My customers were usually trapped in a life without a gay outlet. It was also, quite literally, a social anthropologist’s wet dream. It was amazing insight into the realm of fantasy, loneliness and desire. Some of them faithfully requested me every week, uttering secrets to me they had never spoken aloud before. Over the years of my vocation I spoke to thousands of men. After a few months learning the ropes I struck out on my own, and Telerotic was born. It helped if I could convince him that our connection was mutually mind-blowing to help ensure he would call again.Īs it turns out, I had a way with words. My job was to sound credible in roles ranging from cocky Venice Beach bodybuilder to volunteer firefighter to leather daddy, and manipulate the customer toward the prime objective within the typical call duration of thirteen minutes. Instead, men called an 800 number and used a credit card to spend $40 on the man of their dreams, who would call them back after the charge was approved.Īs a struggling young actor, I had begun this odd vocation by working for an outfit as one of their “fantasy callers.” The company called me at home with the name and number of the customer and his fantasy man description, and I would assume the desired character and call him back. This was long before Grindr or Manhunt, or even the automated phone lines of the 90’s. May is National Masturbation Month - Hurry, folks! Only a few days left to celebrate! - and I will admit to feeling smug, because I have more experience with gay men masturbating than anyone else I know.ĭuring my years in Los Angeles in the 1980’s, I owned and operated Telerotic, a gay men’s “phone fantasy” company.