Times are tough. After the Styrofoam-laden dust settled and Simon and I were sufficiently unpacked we realized that we have no new clients. None. And while dry spells are common around the holidays, this one feels particularly discouraging. So what’s a freelance copywriter to do? I thought of getting a side job, one that doesn’t bore me. One of the common complaints I had as an office drone was the way life seemed to pass like molasses on top of a frozen pie tin. Florescent lights robbed me of my sense of time. Pantyhose cut off my circulation, often resulting in my my labia falling asleep. The only fun I had was making copies, which I often fucked up, or answering the phone, which I often fucked up even more, depending on my state of grogginess. Grogginess caused by lack of sleep, lack of sleep caused by anxiety about work, anxiety about work caused by being in a low-level job that didn’t involve words, editing, or creativity. Going freelance might have meant forfeiting a regular paycheck, but it also meant tasting the soft-serve frozen yogurt of freedom. I will try to find a way to make copywriting work, up until the terrifying last penny. In the meantime, I’d best explore other ways to keep my brain and my bank account active, while preserving enough time to dedicate to Ministry of Imagery.

I’ll take a minute here to admit to putting ads on the site. I put ads on the site. Because I’m making no money. And maybe, just maybe, putting ads on the site will afford me some groceries to put in the pantry of the new apartment. Or at least make me feel like I’m going legit.

Other than clogging your eyes with ads, what can I do to raise some revenue? I thought about different varieties of writing that I’d like to try, catalog discriptions and professional wrestling scripts came to mind. But if I write as a side job, then what about what I actually want to write? Would that wither and dry up faster than a normal person’s sex drive when presented with an 8×10 glossy close-up of Mickey Rourke’s new face? I assume I should try something that could be relatively simple and stimulating, that doesn’t require a set schedule or dressing up and playing office. Something that could be lucrative, and possibly secretive. As I wracked my brain I finished a novel that I had to read in place of television. (One of the nuisances of moving is that you have to cut cable on one place and install it in another. At least in New York this feat alone takes roughly as much time as becoming a veterinarian.) The book was called Gods Behaving Badly, by Marie Phillips. I’m not going to spoil the plot, but in it the goddess Aphrodite is a phone sex operator. It was then that I remembered that this was a go-to gig for fellow freshmen in the brief year that I went to Sarah Lawrence.

There was one girl in particular, a butch lesbian with a lazy eye named Ariel. Pudgy, aggressive, the kind of girl who could provide you with a bodyguard or a dimebag of weed, she wasn’t exactly what I’d describe as a male fantasy. But what she lacked in heterosexual charm she made up for with a husky voice. She operated a phone sex line out of her off-campus room and proceeded to put herself through college with little more than a phone line and an occasional marijuana retail business. And it was this hazy college memory, coupled with the fictional goddess of love purring into a Bluetooth device, that suddenly got the clam-craving cogs in my brain turning.

In the late 1980s and 1990s, phone sex hotlines experienced an upswing in popularity due to the 900 number. Callers could choose their ultimate phone fantasy partner, using lines that advertised "no taboos" that allowed for those looking for particular kinks to know that they’d be welcome, so long as they had a method of payment and time to kill. In 1996 the FCC rained on the paid calling parade by changing regulations in order to prevent fraud or abuse of the lines by minors. Party lines, which differed in price and access from hardcore lines, were forced to comply with a list of euphemistic restrictions. From an account of her time as a PSO (as industry insiders call it) Joyce Ventimiglia writes:

“The "party lines" were not considered "hardcore" and the FCC was spot-monitoring to make sure we didn’t say anything obscene. This is a little like ordering a full course meal in a restaurant without mentioning food; it’s really hard to get the point across. For example, we euphemistically replaced the usual dirty words with code phrases like "pussy-cat," "brown-eye" or "man-meat." A typical line would be something like "Oooh big boy, take your man-meat out of my pussy-cat and put it up my brown-eye."’

Other regulations included a prohibition on simulating sex itself, leaving it only as a topic of loudly moaned conversation.

As of 2007, there were only two large chat line companies operating in the United States, one being Sweet Sensations, who are in charge of PhoneSex.com, and The Providence Telephone Company. The Providence Telephone Company changed its business model by providing free chat services that had advertisements that lonely callers were forced to listen to prior to being connected with another person. Other methods of operation include call-back services, where a caller will ring up a secretary who will coordinate a phone call back between them and a willing pay-per-minute person who fits their specific criteria.

The phone sex industry rakes in nearly $500 million a year according to the Citizens for Responsibility and Ethics in Washington. In order to start dialing up a piece of that pie you can begin by getting hired or going independent. If I were to choose flying solo I would basically be signing up for the same sort of dedicated daily grind that I endure as a writer. I’d have to set up a website, promote myself, advertise, manage payments, somehow utilize active database marketing, and troll chat rooms for sad sacks willing to shill out some bucks for a human voice.

Working for a company is a little easier.  First you prove that you are over the age of eighteen. Then you have to make sure that you have a quiet place to work and a land-line with a corded phone. Lastly, and most importantly, you have to be patient and able to engage people in conversation for as long as possible. It also helps not to be prudish. I have a quiet place to work so long as Simon has a bag of Goldfish crackers. Snack doesn’t bark much so that’s not a problem either. Setting up a land-line might be a little bit of a pain in the ass, but considering how badly phone companies need to make money I have faith that it could get done. And, hey, maybe I could even invest in that Garfield phone I always wanted.

Things to keep in mind include making sure that your number is protected and that you can get out of the work without any trouble should you decide that it isn’t your cup of smutty tea. As with any job, don’t sign anything until you’ve read all of the fine print, and never, ever pay to work. Be aware that a lot of these companies have become gateways to other Internet-based sex endeavors, mainly web cam performances. The first company to unite the Internet with phone sex was Sweet Sensations back in 1996.

The pay days are varied, with some phone fantasy actresses only pocketing nine dollars a day, some less than $2000 a month. (I’m not going to say anything, but, compared to the amount of work we have right now, a G this month would be peachy keen.) Some girls have flat fees starting at around $20 for ten minutes, with the cents-per-minute going up exponentially after that.

Some savvy phone sex operators make about $60 to $100 an hour, depending on the amount of calls they take and their rates. Because girls are often paid for their "talk time," and not the amount of time they’ve logged in, it’s imperative to talk like a lonely cat owner on a grocery store line. Rates vary but average about .12-.15 cents per minute for the first five minutes, with an increase to .30 cents for the following five, and a jump to .40-.60 cents per minute if the caller stays hooked for over that initial ten. More or less this is the kind of industry where it pays to be a windbag. But at the end of the day, it isn’t a guaranteed steady living.

Payments are usually once a week, with companies demanding little more than a certain number of hours "logged" per week (usually around 10 or more.) According to that old stalwart, Providence Telephone Company, the average length of a call for gay callers was about twenty minutes per call, while straight callers would only gab for ten minutes or so. Interestingly, roughly 30% of all callers were physically challenged or housebound.

I’ll be honest, after reading about it, this isn’t the best line of work for me. I’m sarcastic, cynical, and very, very shy. Things like dumb blogs and Twitter are perfect for a coward such as myself. I hide behind the written word because it allows me the introspection to edit what I say and not actually lend it my high-pitched, often-grating voice. Besides, I pronounce certain words funny, like roof, mirror, and fire. Not as if those are hot button sex words, although perhaps they fall under that FCC euphemism jurisdiction. Moreover, I don’t think that I would be able to tolerate such blatant displays of loneliness. I’m not judging those who call phone sex lines, I’m simply recognizing that I’m not at my most comfortable when confronted with the sad, dejected, rejected, and alone, unless I’m sitting on a folding chair in a Church basement discussing my drinking. Making a profit off of the withdrawn and isolated wouldn’t seem fair, especially if they were imagining tying me to a bedpost and pouring Hershey’s syrup all over my make-believe breasts.

Some people think it would be the best kind of job for those of us with overactive imaginations and potty mouths. Maybe, but I’d still rather explore the option of writing the storyline for professional wrestlers. At least then I wouldn’t have to worry about the Feds watching my language.

NOTE: I occasionally put up links or resources to help out those of you who are interested in the kinds of work posted on the blog. With this one I felt weird linking to outright porn. If you’re looking to explore becoming a phone sex operator, Google SexyJobs, Sweet Sensations, or PhoneEntertainers. But, really, if you want to do this kind of thing it’s not that difficult to find a way in, according to everything I read. Certainly it’s not as tough as trying to get new clients as a freelance copywriter. Good luck. Talk ain’t cheap.

My mother might be dying, but she’s not going down without a fight, and what I mean by “fight” is a lengthy, nagging discussion of how being a copywriter is not an adequate enough job for her daughter.

I can understand her concern. I was the kind of kid who always had a gig of some kind, one that brought in a steady paycheck to be blown either on Manic Panic hair dye, booze, concert tickets, or a Hello Kitty lunchbox. (Thank you, Marilyn Manson.) I’ve worked as a fish monger, surfboard salesgirl, secretary, legal assistant, a story department PA, whipping girl for a pilates studio, ice cream scooper, crystal shop keeper, and a green start up space-filler. I have always had a job. Now, perhaps it’s because I work from home, or maybe because I am dirt poor, but my mother seems to think I am unemployed. As in, “You need a job. How can you support yourself when I’m dead and you’re unemployed?” She apparently moonlights as a life coach.  No matter that I don’t rely on her to pay my bills, and that I contribute groceries and labor in return for my temporary freeloader status.

She emphasizes that she only says this because I need “something to fall back on,” and even a part-time job would help me out, or maybe get me out of the same clothes that I’ve worn since high-school. I try to explain that I am a copywriter, I get up at dawn and work, exhaustively, until my words are on the page or my edits have carved an angel from word-processing program stone. Nevermind that I don’t have weekends. Sure, I’m more broke than a Dane Cook joke, but I like to imagine that Ministry of Imagery is an viable company, since I do get paid in actual checks and spend my quite-long days working and being driven nuts. Anyway, to humor my humorous mother, and to stop myself from running smack into the walls in a panic, I present to you a list of jobs that I would happily apply for. But don’t get your hopes up, mom. It would take more than a sexy bisexual vegan or a tattooed MILF yogi to get me away from my paltry penny paying daily grind.

Produce worker at Whole Foods
Pay: A little over $10 an hour

I have written about Whole Foods and produce, and how awesome I find both. As a vegan, and an avid advocate of a more holistic approach to consumption, I think I would help contribute to the Whole Foods team by being another tattooed, twenty-something, health-conscious cog in the wheel. Reasons I shouldn’t be hired include the fact that I call the place Whole Paycheck and I’d sleep with more than one staff member. I do know quite a bit about fruits and vegetables, though, and I can tell you how to pick out good ones. Of course, “shitting where you eat,” so to speak, might lead me to get a bad taste in my mouth whenever I reach my hand into the fruit bowl. But hey, if it supplies me with my new-found addiction of nutritional yeast, I’ll arrange carrots, kale, and cucumbers until the sun goes down.

Tattoo shop apprentice
Pay for an apprentice? None. But tattoo artists are paid roughly $100 an hour, with some also getting a cut of the studio money.

Working at a shop, I assume the pay would be minimum wage. Or maybe some ink. Although I might not be able to turn serious coin with a gig like this, I think that my extensive experience on the other end of the needle would help me to treat clients with a little bit of dignity. Besides, I’m good at being ordered around, especially by tattooed boys (and girls.) And perhaps I might not be taking the traditional career-track of becoming an apprentice to become an artist, but maybe becoming an apprentice in order to become a shop manager might not be such a counter-intuitive career move. After all, I’m very talented when it comes to copy machines and keeping displays clean, and I’ve always wanted to own my own business.

I’ve got skills sweeping, spraying, I can learn how to sterilize and organize the autoclave, I can sweet-talk unruly clients, and I’m a scheduling maven, so if you own or work at a tattoo parlor near Long Island, New York, you very well may have found your next apprentice. Only I don’t want to become a tattoo artist, I just want to work in the shop. Preferably for money, that will be spent on tattoos.

Low-maintenance secretary
Pay: Secretaries make anywhere from the mid-twenties to 40K a year, depending on the size of the company and the skills required. For what I’m going for, I’m thinking low-twenties. If that.

I have had this job, and I love this job. Allow me to clarify, what I mean by low-maintenance isn’t that I don’t complain when my boss hangs out with “the boys” six nights a week, drinking beer and eating wings. What the lack of maintenance implies in this case is that this would not be a partner-track position. Part-time, or perhaps even full-time, at a desk, doing traditional secretarial tasks, such as answering phones, greeting clients, collating, copying, filing, and scheduling. The less demanding the position, and the more long-term it could be in its soul-sucking boredom, the happier I’ll be. Just let me write during work, boss.

Personal assistant for eccentric artist
Pay: A personal assistant usually makes somewhere around $18 an hour (or 31K) but it’s tough to determine ’cause the hours and requirements can vary day by day.

This kind of a part-time gig would be good, ’cause it would keep me busy, utilize my undying respect for authority, and would likely provide fodder for future Jerk Ethic posts. As Patricia Cohen wrote in a New York Times article about personal assistants, “The job requires walking a fine line between intimacy and professionalism, a bit like the nanny who is paid to feed, bathe and hug your child.” And I’ve learned from experience that perhaps the problem with this job, or maybe my personality, is that once you send me out twice during a rain storm in order to get the “best” kind of organic calimyrna figs I will start wanting to stick a fondue fork in your eye. Fuck that you’re paying me overtime, since it’s 11:30PM.

Editorial writer
…makes about 54K a year?! Oh, hahahaha. I give it away for free right here. Dammit.

Nutritional consultant and yoga instructor
Median pay for a nutritionist is between 45K and 50K, while a yoga instructor can make $5 to $10 dollars per student if they’re teaching in a community center.  If they’re doing private lessons, their fee can go up to $60 an hour.

I have to say, this one interests me most. The idea of learning about what makes our bodies run, and integrating different cruelty-free methods and practices that help it to run better, is kind of an inspiring way to make a living. Granted, I’d probably need an RD or MS, both of which require maths, so it wouldn’t be easy. And although I love yoga to distraction, I look more like Awkward Facing Pygmy than Downward Facing Dog. Also, I’m just not one of “those girls.” I think I’m too cynical, too negative, too entrenched in certain unseemly aspects of the Western tradition. (Hello, Perez Hilton!) I’m a hedonist, not a healer. But I do like the science of our bodies, and if I could apply my mother’s perceived lack of my own employment toward helping people, well, maybe karma will swoop in and cure cancer.

Drop me a line, AinsleyDrew at the gmail one. Thank you to everyone who donates! Seriously. Talk about karma.

Hire Ministry of Imagery, ’cause in spite of my maternal unit’s nagging, it is an actual job.

Like It. It’s like eating my brains, if you were a zombie.

My boyfriend is so awesome, he makes you stare.