lolita film

I had only been a phone sex operator for two days when I got my first call from a pedophile. I knew it was a possibility. One of my NiteFlirt accounts did, after all, have a ‘barely legal’ line. But I didn’t expect it to happen so soon, and I absolutely did not expect that I would be getting at least one pedophilia call every other night or so.

The gentleman on the other end sounded nice at first, and that was maybe the most unsettling thing about the whole call. He sounded nice and normal (how can someone sound normal, you ask? I have no idea, but this guy did) and asked me how old I was and whether I was in school and all the normal things one would ask a young woman who was, to the best of your knowledge, eighteen. He told me his first name, that he wasn’t married, where he lived, and that he was an accountant. I dared to hope that this would just be a nice chatting call with no actual phone sex. I had already done one of those and had a surprisingly good time.

“Do you do role-play?” He asked.

I laughed, “Of course I do role-play. I wouldn’t be much of a phone sex operator if I didn’t.”

“That’s good,” he said. “You have a good voice for this, it’s very youthful.”

Just as he was about to lull me into a comfortable sense of total complacency, he dropped the bombshell.

“…Can you be six for me?”

I hoped I had misheard, that perhaps he had said, “Can you be sexy for me?” But I was pretty sure I knew exactly what he had said. I was so  shocked, there was nothing I could say besides, “What?”

He repeated the question, “Can you be six for me?”

I froze. Not only was the idea completely disgusting to me, it was also against the rules of my company to talk about such things (and I had no idea whether or not the calls were actually monitored). I couldn’t say yes. Not only was it wrong, it could also be disastrous! So I told him the truth.

“Sorry sir, I can’t be six. That’s illegal, immoral and disgusting and I won’t even pretend.”

I hung up the phone before he could protest and promptly turned off all my lines for nearly an hour.

I hadn’t expected to be quite so disturbed. It wasn’t as if I went into phone sex with the idea that there would be no creeps. In fact, I was very much aware that there was likely to be a higher proportion of creeps on the phone than almost anywhere else. However, there was something so horrible about hearing this man who sounded so normal–so friendly, who had talked to me like an actual person rather than nothing more than a voice–ask me to pretend to be a little girl. I felt sick to my stomach.

For the first two weeks or so, I simply hung up on the men who asked me to pretend to be a child.

It wasn’t long, though, before I started wondering if that was the best possible option.

Yes, the idea of pretending to be a child was repulsive, but what if these guys used phone sex lines as a harmless way of working out their urges? What if they knew exactly how wrong their attraction to children was and had found that this was at least a somewhat successful means of scratching the itch? What if they went out and found a real six year old because I had hung up on them?!

I didn’t want anyone to go breaking out the old white van on my account, but at the same time I also really, really, really didn’t want to pretend to be six (six was the most common age, I found. It was closely followed by ten). I wasn’t even sure how one would pretend to be a small child in a sexual situation, and I didn’t have any interest in figuring it out. Because I wasn’t independent, I couldn’t just turn off the barely legal line. Beyond that, I wasn’t really sure what to do, so I kept hanging up.

I was polite about it. I even came up with a series of stock responses to trot out based on my mood and how polite the man had been in his request.

“Sorry sir, I don’t talk about that,”

“Mr. Humbert, sir, I’m sorry but if you’re looking for Lolita role-play you should search elsewhere,”

“That’s disgusting. No,”

“Sir, I think you’d be better served by talking to a therapist than by calling phone sex lines.”

The reactions were as varied as the responses, but there wasn’t any way to predict whether the man would respond with cheerful acceptance or flat-out rage. It didn’t matter. After I said my piece, I would always hang up immediately, but it was strange to me how impossible it was to predict how the caller would respond.

As strange as the variation in responses–and as disturbing as the request for underage role-play itself–was the fact that none of these men seemed to have the slightest sense of shame. They seemed unfazed by the fact that their tastes were nestled comfortably in the top five most disturbing sexual predilections known to man. They liked little girls, so what?

The closest thing to shame I ever encountered were the men who would sneak pedophilia in and hope I didn’t notice. It was awful and I’d never see it coming. They would start off fairly normal, and then devolve into talking about ‘little girl pussy’ and hairless bodies. The first time I got an undercover pedo, I almost threw up. After that, I started to turn their fantasies around on them. I may not have been very good at dirty talk, but I certainly knew how to paint a vivid picture of violence and horror. I started off just describing myself, or at least the six year old I had been tricked into playing, biting off dicks left and right. But that eventually got boring, and I decided to get really creative. I would develop vagina dentata and describe castrations in vivid, sickening detail, the blood spraying everywhere, the gnawed-off broken head of a cock lying on the ground. I was always sad when they hung up. There was so much more harm I could inflict on them. I always wanted to make one of them cry.

One could argue that my behavior was unfair, cruel even; pedophiles are people too, of course. They may have never touched a child in their lives, they might be constantly consumed with shame they’d learned to hide. I know my savage turnabouts were certainly little more than my way of working out my own bitterness on them, when I would have been better served by working out what was truly wrong and pruning the parts of my life that were making me so unhappy. But in a way I still feel as if they were asking for it, particularly the tricksters, the undercover pedophiles who coerced me, and probably many other women in my position, into doing things they did not want to do.

One of the most difficult parts of working in one of the more fantasy-based channels of the sex industry is the way it exposes you to the darkest aspects of male lust. It can be hard, sometimes, to remember that not all men are horrible, that they don’t all want to eat shit or fuck children or ask you if you’ve ever fucked a dog and then try to convince you that you absolutely should fuck a dog. For me, at least, that was the most difficult part of working as a phone sex operator. I was already lonely, isolated, and bitter and this private view into the most secret desires of sick men… wasn’t helping.

Cathryn Berarovich is a bit of a renaissance sex worker; she’s currently employed as a stripper (and writer) but has held numerous interesting jobs in the industry. Each week, she shares her stories in Harlotry.

Picture via Stnaley Kubrick’s Lolita