At least once I did burst out laughing. I do my greeting, the guy sounds confident, and I'm like, "So, what are you up to?" He says, "I'm just here at work, and I have a few minutes, so I thought I'd have some fun." And once we get into it a bit, I hear a loud knock and a very high-pitch sort of yelp. "Gotta go!" he says, followed by the abrupt hang-up of a guy whose boss has just caught him with his very non-metaphorical dick in his hands.

BrianAJackson/iStock/Getty Images
"You know those spammers, sir. Always trying to sell me large bananas."

This was North Miami. So I was surrounded by a dozen or so street motherfuckers talking all tough to each other between calls. Then they'd get on the phones and turn into glorious sissy boys, purring like pussycats. Were we doing accurate imitations of what gay people really sound like? No, but it didn't matter, because the callers seemed to dig it. And the more you did it, the better you got, and the more you'd lose yourself in the role.

Besides the advice of my peers, I had another resource at my disposal: a never-ending supply of gay porn magazines. The place was stacked with them. At first I'd spend my time in between calls thumbing through whatever comic books I had in my backpack, but my supervisor reminded me that Marvel wasn't work-related, and if I needed something to read, I had to grab a porno magazine. Had to. Early on, one of my co-workers noticed my exhaustion at looking through the stuff and said, "Don't worry, I got you," as he passed me a Hustler from his own private stash. Straight porn is only slightly more entertaining when you're already tired of sex, but I appreciated the gesture.

Hustler
Any lingering enthusiasm disappeared with the words "Papa Roach."

I had a girlfriend at the time, and she found the idea of me getting guys off with my voice to be equal parts delightful and hilarious. (My mom, on the other hand, wasn't quite as amused, but lying to her would have been inconvenient.) I'm engaged to a woman now, and we have a daughter. But when you have guys getting off at the sound of your voice, it's great on your ego, and it's easy to lose yourself in the role. I wouldn't call myself bisexual. But months into the job, I found myself becoming more and more ... let's call it "heteroflexible."

We had the two main phone lines: the credit card line (an 800 number) and the non-credit card line (a 900 number). For the 800 number, people used credit cards, and that was anything goes. You could say whatever you wanted, limited only by your own creativity and the desires of the caller. Then there was the 900 number. People calling that line were charged directly to their phone bill, which meant the line was regulated by the FCC. It was still a phone-sex line, but strict rules forbade the use of all sexually explicit or implicit language.

No "shit," "fuck," "ass," "dick," "pussy." Also, no "penis," "anus," "butt," "hole," "nipple." Everything was codes and euphemisms. "Blowjob" was out, but "tongue bath" was OK. "Sex" was a no-no, so we'd call it "wrestling." Instead of asking, "How big is your dick?" I'd ask, "How tall are you lying down?" I slipped up once and got in trouble because I used the word "anal" in reference to "anal lube" -- the caller then revealed that he was one of my bosses, testing me.

lolostock/iStock/Getty Images
"Yes ... Test ..."

Meanwhile, the actual callers could reply with the most uncensored, filthy stuff they could think of. It was our job to roll with it, and a good amount of the time they didn't even notice. A little moaning and flirtatious giggling goes a long way. It was a goddamn ridiculous system, but these are the kinds of ass-backward things that come about when members of a mostly puritanical society decide to start making money off of each other's orgasms.

My main "generic hot guy" was Alex -- that's Alex Summers, who you might know as Havok from First Class. He sounded like me but had more confidence because he was so good-looking and secure. He was tall and blonde and muscular. Most of my callers spoke to him. Then there was Kurt (Kurt Wagner, Nightcrawler). He was my sissy boy, my bottom. He was a little shorter, 5-foot-7, brown hair, very thin. He was more submissive and sensitive. I used him plenty as well.

20th Century Fox
Don't worry, BBM fans. I got one for you too.

Then we had Storm. She was a vivacious drag queen. She was funny and confident and fabulous. Master Colossus was the dominator type. For his calls I got to use a little delaying trick I picked up called the "clap your hands" technique. I'd say something like, "YOU HAD BETTER NOT BE TOUCHING YOURSELF WHILE I'M TALKING TO YOU, YOU PIECE OF TRASH," and he'd be like, "Of course not, mistress, of course not." To make sure he wasn't lying, I'd tell him, "CLAP THOSE HANDS! I WANNA HEAR YOU CLAPPING SO I KNOW YOU AREN'T TOUCHING YOURSELF!" And sure enough, he'd do it.

There were a few others (Magneto was my "daddy" type), and then there was Logan. He was my straight guy. I needed a straight guy because, occasionally, I'd find myself on a "couples call" with a random lady from the office, and we'd either pleasure the caller simultaneously or he'd just listen to us act out a sex scene. After a while, we started to recognize the voice of whoever we'd be paired with, and we'd meet by the water cooler afterward for a quick debrief. Our conversation was always strictly professional, even though we'd been faux-orgasming together minutes before. It was just like any other office conversation, only instead of discussing subscriber accounts or the recent merger, we'd be giving each other professional pointers on how better to simulate a throat-job.

Siri Stafford/DigitalVision/Getty Images
"Have you heard of Tibetan throat singing?"