It's been exactly one week of taking calls and I've learned a few things: never ask permission questions, never asked if they're married, and hot girls aren't bored. So when the phone rings, I immediately snap into character. I lower my voice almost to a whisper. I finger the lace of my bra—Agent Provocateur—and then run my hands up my stockings. I know some people can do this job while they're washing the dishes, or mopping the floor or something, but for me, I have to be all in. I can't multi-task. I think it should feel authentic, and wearing the heels and lingerie instantly gets me into character. I even turn down the lights. I find that the darker the room is, the more I can focus on the voice on the other end of the line.

I answer the call and sit back on my bed. I whisper in a soft, sultry voice. The secret is to keep your voice smooth as a stick of butter. "Hi, this is Misty. Who am I speaking with?"

I hear a man clear his throat. "Mike."

I wait for more but it doesn't come. "That's my favorite name for a man," I purr, urging him on. "You sound strong and handsome."

"You can say I'm strong. I work construction—concrete pump operator."

"Oh that's good because I could use a few pumps of your hot concrete. I'm so glad you called. My neighbors have been fucking all day and listening to them has made me so horny…"

"That makes two of us," he says.

"And I've got a secret to tell you. I'm not wearing any underwear."

"Is that right?" he replies, and I can almost hear a smile in the way he asks.

"I've been so horny. I can hardly stand it. I haven't had sex all day and it feels like forever. I have myself so worked up and hot that I'm lying in front of a fan, and the cold air is making my nipples hard. Do you like hard nipples, Mike?"

"Mm hmm," he mumbles, and I continue.

"What kind of girls do you like?"

"Young, blonde, and busty," he says without hesitation.

"Well, you're in luck. I'm 18, and I have long, blonde hair that goes down to my tiny waist. I wish you were here with me right now," I say, just above a whisper, and Mike lowers his voice as well.

"What would you do to me?" he asks, as if it were a shared conspiracy.

"Oh Mike, I'd make sure my lips touched every manly inch of you. I'd start by nibbling on your ear—playfully, but then I'd get more serious and move my lips down to your neck and I'd touch your strong chest—I can tell you have a strong chest just by your voice. And I'd run my tongue over your nipples, circling them a few times."

"And what else?" he asks.

"I'd let my mouth move down your body even further, my tongue resting in the deep V above the waistband of your pants. I can even taste the salt on your skin and it leaves me wanting more—so much more."

"Is your pussy wet?" he asks.

"Oh yes, you make me so wet. I'm soaking wet—it's your voice, your body—you have me so turned on, Mike. My pussy is throbbing for you. I'm in the mood to fuck."

"Cut or uncut cocks?" he asks.

"I love all cocks."

"What would you do to my cock?"

"I'd unbutton your jeans after you've had a hard day at work, and I'd slip my hand over your cock. Both of my hands would work their way up and down your shaft until you're nice and hard and then I'd place my lips on it. First kissing the tip, and then slowly basting it with my warm, wet tongue, moving up and down your manhood."

"Mm hmm, I like that," he says.

"But I wouldn't stop there. I'd wrap my lips around your cock so tightly and take you deep into my throat. I'd take it so deep that I might gag. Would you like it if I gagged on your cock?"

He doesn't answer, but I can hear him breathing heavier, so I continue.

"Do you like it when I suck on your cock like this?"

"Yes—mm hmm—more," he answers at a whisper…or is it a whimper?

"Good, because your cock tastes so good. I can hardly stand it," I say, and I can hear him jerking himself off—skin slapping skin.

"Mike, my pussy is so wet—I want to ride your cock. I want you to give it to me. I'm going to straddle your lap and lower my pussy onto your thick, hard shaft with my breasts in your face. I want you to take my nipples into your mouth."

Then I hear Mike coming, his breathing overtaking the conversation, so I decide to enact my own climax as a spectacular finale.

When his breathing slows, he asks, "Can I get your phone number?"

"Oh Mike, I'm so flattered, but my dad would kill me if I gave out my number. I'm still in high school. I'm 18, remember? Let me give you my four-digit calling code so you can call me again in private."

He agrees, somewhat reluctant, and we end the call. I lie back and stare at the ceiling. Yasmine is right, I think to myself. This is much better than stripping. At least I can use my imagination during these calls. At Scorcher's, what you saw is what you got. There's no masking the fact that you're on a stage being judged. But during these calls, the people on the other end of the line have to use their imaginations too—which is also great because it eliminates my old routine —waxing, makeup, manicures, pedicures, and you name it.

I think about putting on a pair of yoga pants and heading to the gym, but then my eye travels to the stack of bills piling up next to my bed. Shit. Unlike Scorcher's, this job also doesn't leave me with cash in hand every night. I better go pick up my paycheck from the phone sex company headquarters, Simulated Pleasures LLC.

I quickly dress and hail a cab outside. When I tell the driver where I'm going, he gives me an odd look. Is it a look of judgment, or something else? I can't tell. I decide to ignore it and place my ear buds into my ears and stream music through my phone, drowning out the outside world.

After 20 minutes, the cab pulls up to a large, non-descript white building. If it weren't for the address, I'd never know that this is the headquarters for one of the largest phone sex companies in the country. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. I'm still listening to my music, and decide to leave my ear buds in. I hand the driver the money and give him a curt smile. As soon as I leave the cab, I walk toward the building, rounding a corner.

And then I feel it—like taking a bowling ball to my back. I'm struck in the back and I try to turn around but my arms are pinned behind my back. Without my hands, I can't remove my ear buds or stop the music streaming through my phone, so it's impossible to hear what's going on around me. I'm screaming and thrashing my head from side to side, and the movement causes the ear bud on my right side to fall out. I can now feel a man's hot breath on my neck, "Shut up! Just shut up right now!" He's placing his hands over my mouth, muffling out my screams, and I bite down as hard as I can. It's my only option and it's instinctual. I feel the flesh of his fingers pinched between my teeth, and that's when he hits me; he hits me hard enough on my head to shut me up. I'm feeling dazed, but when I finally get a look at the man's face, I'm shocked.

"Peter?"

"Shut up! Just shut the fuck up! You want to humiliate me on Facebook live and then ignore all of my calls for a week? Well, I'll show you what I'm going to do about that!"

The look in his eyes is one of pure rage and a battered ego. I'm also surprised at his strength. He was never one to work out much, and I attributed his soft body to weakness, but he's stronger than I anticipated. It's shocking, really. Without saying another word, he brings his hands around my neck and squeezes. I place my hands on top of his, trying to pry them loose, but it's not working. I can feel myself running out of breath and in a tiny voice I manage to squeak, "You're hurting me, stop!"

And just when my entire world starts to fade to black, he stops. I can't believe it. I open my eyes just in time to see another man between us now. He's big—tall, muscular, and broad shouldered. He's not the kind of guy you want to fuck with, and I watch as his fist crashes into Peter's face, breaking his nose.

"If I ever see you around here again, I'll fucking kill you," he growls, clenching Peter by the collar of his shirt, and when he lets go, Peter turns around and runs, not bothering to look back.

"Are you okay?" the man asks.

As he looks down at me, I get the vague feeling that I know him from somewhere. I'm rubbing my throat and besides being emotionally rattled, I'm fine. "I want to thank you—what you did—most people wouldn't get involved, but you saved my life." When I finish talking, I look into the man's eyes again, and I realize where I know those intense icy blues from—the cab ride from the club.

"Wait… I've seen you somewhere," I say. "You're the guy who tried to steal my cab outside of the club the other night."

"It was an emergency. I don't normally jump into other people's cabs."

"Look, I appreciate your help but I have to go."

"Wait. I'd like to take you to dinner, I—"

"I'm sure you're a nice guy and all, but I hope you'll understand that I'm in no mood to be setting up a dinner … not after my ex-boyfriend just tried to murder me."

"Forget him. He no longer matters. Just say yes."

I look at him—his eyes the color of perfect weather, his strong, broad shoulders, and gentle smile—and even though I'm feeling bruised and frazzled, and I promised myself I'd never go out on a date with a man who frequents a place like Scorcher’s, I surprise myself and say yes.