Chat Line

Allow me to recall the time your humble narrator phoned a supposedly sexy chat line.

The plain people of cyberspace: “I’ve never called a chat line, sexy or otherwise and you are worse than Hitler for having done so.”

Me: “It was for research, okay?”

Lonely, horny research.

For those of you too decent to ever try calling a sexy chat line, this entry may be of especial interest to you. For instance, let me explain who these things normally run:

You are invariably presented with two main options: you can engage in live chat with a floozy of your choozy; or you can listen to a pre-recorded story about what Tart A got up to with the window cleaner or what Tart B did with the greengrocer.

Tart B’s story is markedly distracting. One is left wondering about the poor old lady who ended up purchasing that cucumber.

On this occasion, I decided to listen to a story. I imagined that talking live would leave me in an awkward position of saying things like “Yes, I would like to see your dirty pillows” or “Yes, my sausage is twenty-two inches long” and feeling like a bit of a wazzok. Also, I remember hearing something on the radio about call centre girls feeling offended when the callers abruptly hang up at the end of the conversation. But I imagine it must be difficult to sign off non-chalant when you’re scrabbling around in desperate need of a tissue and the queue for the phone box is getting longer and longer.

So I dialled ‘2’ for stories.

I was presented with a plethora of options for what sort of monkey business I should like to hear about:

“If you’re the sort of gentleman who likes Bristols as big as yer noggin, dial ‘1’ now,”

Well, who doesn’t like Bristols as big as yer noggin? I’m sure I could plump for something more adventurous though so I waited for further options.

“If you’re the sort of gentleman who likes men’s bottoms, dial ‘2’ now,”

Now, I like men’s bottoms as much as the next man but a chat line story about them might denigrate into depths I have little interest in. Poopy depths. So I held the line.

“If you’re the sort of gentleman who likes to be spanked on the gulliver with a wet haddock, dial ‘3’ now,”

Everything is sexy for someone. I have no interest in being spanked in the gulliver or anywhere else with a wet haddock. Only a nice petit sardine would hold my attentions. I’m not a pervert.

“If you’re the sort of gentleman who likes to hide in the credenza and watch John and Caitlin kissing by the rubber plant, press ‘4’ now,”

Strangely specific, this one wasn’t really for me. I didn’t know who John and Caitlin were and I don’t have a credenza. It also struck me though that the sort of person who would normally phone a sexy chat line would be precisely the sort of person who likes to hide in a credenza and watch other people kissing. They would have done well to make this Option 1. A woeful lack of respect for the caller’s time.

But of course they keep you on the line for as long as possible, don’t they? They want your money. I’d been on the line for two minutes already at a cost of five euros a minute and I’d still not been taken through to the good stuff. I was still in the reception area. Whatever the next option, I would have to go for it.

“If you’re the sort of gentleman who likes kissing ladies’ front bottoms, dial ‘5’ now,”

Yes! Who doesn’t enjoy kissing ladies’ front bottoms?

I dialled ‘5’.

What followed was a strange narrative from a girl who apparently got the horn from talking to “intelligent brainboxes” like me.

This was all well and good but I’d phoned up to hear rude words, not to be complemented on having two science degrees.

It continued in this vain for quite a time. She kept going on about how nothing floats her boat like brainy, clever boys like me and that nothing put dew on her daisy like boys who liked hanging out in libraries and had read a lot of books.

A childhood friend once told me that he’d phoned an utterly vanilla chat line once and had been put through to a woman who wanted to do a wee on him.

I began to suspect that a similar mistake had been made today. I’d wanted to hear about kissing ladies’ front bottoms: not to be plunged into a fit of hubris.

On the other hand, perhaps the psychological profile of the man who likes to “venture south” is one of an intelligent, affected person who cares about other people’s pleasure as much as he does his own. Perhaps this wasn’t a confusion but rather a highly responsive means of giving the caller precisely what he wanted to hear without his even knowing it.

Only the deep sea diver would want to forgo complements on his superior trouser snake in favour of complements on his superior intelligence.

Ooh, the telephone sirens. This was going to cost me a fortune.

Perhaps a more honest service could be set up where people respond to advertisements placed in ‘Psychology Today’ or ‘Genius Gazette’ or ‘Reader’s Reader’ or some other egghead magazine in order to be given ego puff points.

“You are so clever, I just know you could calculate Pi to at least thirty places!”

“Talk Latin to me, big boy!”


“Memor impetro bill payer’s permission pro vos planto is dico.”

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