It was sheer and utter desperation that got me into the phone sex industry in the late 1990s. I’d graduated from university, but I had no luck trying to get into the mean, mainstream workforce with my useless arts degree.

I’d had enough of two-minute interviews and the standard, “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.” I felt so small being treated like this. It even cost me money paying for taxis to get to the interviews, just to be overlooked without a second glance.

I stumbled into phone sex after sharing my woes with a psychic. Psychic hotlines were really popular then, and I was a frequent caller.

“What can I do to get a great job?” I begged.

“Don’t worry,” the psychic told me. “You can make easy money through doing phone sex. I can even give you a few numbers to call – it’s the same umbrella company I work for.”

“Do you really think I could do it?”

“Sure, you’d be great at it – you’ve got a sexy voice. You won’t regret it,” he reassured me.

I immediately rang the number for the phone sex company. The owner gave me the job on the spot. I could start whenever I liked, he said, with the calls going through my landline.

Living at home, I knew I had to be devious and discreet doing this supposedly ‘seedy’ work. My strict religious mother would have been horrified if she knew what I was doing. She already hated all my boyfriends, and the fact that I was sexually active. She always kept an eagle eye on me. She once even threw out a dildo she found on the top of my wardrobe.

Needless to say, my mum had a very judgmental view of sex work, including phone sex.

My sister was a problem too. She was a year younger than me, but it felt like she was the older one because she was always so prim and proper. My sister would criticise me for everything from my weight to my hair colour.

So, to avoid a fight with my family, I had no choice but to work late at night while everyone was asleep.

Despite my living situation, the job seemed a great fit at first. Things felt like they were looking up for me. I was hooked on the phone.

The first call was a real hoot, as I shot a man to orgasm in no time. I felt glamorous and powerful bringing him to his knees with just my sultry voice. Playing the part of a bombshell, I knew I could make a bomb. Each call cost five dollars a minute. The company took $4, and I took $1.

On a good day, I could make at least $300. On a bad night, I could make as little as $10.

Some calls were harder than others. Some men came too quickly, which meant far less money. Other times, I had to do all the talking, which was exhausting. Often the calls were boring, and I had to stop myself from falling asleep.

I also felt really uncomfortable using appalling language and violent imagery to turn men on. I wasn’t into golden showers, gang bangs or all the things they liked. Without proper boundaries and consent, having to entertain their degrading fantasies felt painful.

I had virtually no interaction with the phone sex company after I started, so I had to fend for myself in these situations. The company had two big no-nos – paedophilia and bestiality – and I’d been told to distract the caller away from these topics if they came up. However, this was very general advice, and I was not offered any ongoing support on how to handle tricky situations.

I also found other faults with my employers in the phone sex industry. I was working for several companies, and one in particular started to fall behind in payments. Not being paid was even worse than all the rejections when I was job-hunting. I felt meek when chasing my money. At one point, the boss just told me to fuck off, and then hung up on me.

The company treated me worse than the most difficult and hard-to-please callers. The more I pleaded for my money, the more I was led down the garden path with false promises and flimsy excuses.

As my finances bled, I could not stay on top of my mental health. Trying to make a living brought me such misery. I pushed myself to the maximum until I had a nervous breakdown and could not go on.

I finally had to tell my family that I’d been working as a phone sex operator. My mother screamed blue murder at me, and my haughty sister cut the telephone cord. Even worse, I didn’t get any sympathy from the company – they just removed me for not logging on. I was treated like a number, not a person.

I’d put my mind, heart and soul into this work, but it just tore me apart. When I quit, the boss still owed me thousands of dollars, but I had to just let it go.

The stress of the job, the financial strain and the fallout with my family contributed to a nervous breakdown in my late twenties, which put me in a psych ward. Eventually, I was diagnosed with schizophrenia, and that’s been a lifelong struggle to contend with.

My experiences as a phone sex operator definitely shaped me in some ways. Despite the stress, I missed the drama and action after I left this work behind. It was much more exciting than telemarketing or factory work.

Before the phone sex hotline, I’d worked in warehouses – putting inserts into magazines and folding underwear into boxes – which was tedious and soul-destroying.

A lot of the callers adored me, and I loved that aspect of the work. I also learnt a lot about men – what makes them tick, what gets them off. It gave me more confidence in the bedroom and beyond, as I knew I could express exactly what I wanted.

I no longer needed the support of psychic hotlines to help me get ahead in life.

Phone sex also gave me the skills and experience to try out acting and writing later on.

Of course, my experience happened a long time ago, and doesn’t represent everyone’s in this specific industry. It’s so important that the industry cares deeply for its workers, and looks out for warning signs such as stress and burnout.