Call Me

by Gillian Jones

  “Sorry. I know you didn’t mean it in a negative way. I’m overthinking it. The end of filming is getting closer, and then I start the submission process. What the hell am I thinking about, entering such a huge competition?”

  “Stop. You’re an incredible filmmaker, and this piece is important. You’re shedding light on the realities of the sex trades. Opening people’s eyes to the diseases that infiltrate the lives of these women: Hep C, HIV/AIDS. Women, who—for whatever reason—feel they have no choice. Women who often deal with a manipulative pimp, or some other asshole that steals from them and beats the shit out of them. I bet by the time I see the final version, I’ll be praying the digital age allows some of these women to find a safer way to do business, if they must. You have every right to enter that competition, you need to enter, and I’m proud of you, Ace. I’m happy you’re finally pursuing your dream. It’s about time.”

  I nod my head. “Thanks, that means a lot,” I smile, lifting my coffee mug. “Cheers. Whoever would have thought I’d be entering a film in TIFF, though?”

  Mercer smiles and raises his mug before taking a sip. “Me. Cheers, man.”

  Ever since I was a kid, I loved filming versions of what I later came to learn were documentaries. I’d film myself in the backyard explaining the life of a bumblebee along with its importance as a living thing that needed respect. Everywhere I went, I’d record images or scenes and do voice-overs explaining the “slice of life”, and the reality of what was being seen on the film. My parents were still pretty young when they passed away, so it wasn’t like they had a ton of money to leave my grandparents to help raise me. I had to get a job as soon as I was of age, and I worked a string of odd jobs, saving every dime to buy equipment and chase my dream of attending film school. My grandfather, also my biggest supporter, worked like a dog and bled his life savings to help send me from Kingston, where we lived, out west to Simon Fraser University where I studied for four years, then to Western in London, Ontario, where I got my master’s and my doctorate. I’d always been in love with the power of documentary films, and in the end I wrote my thesis on the importance of not letting the genre die, and how a more narrative approach was needed to help their sustainability with new generations. My paper was so well-received it was featured in three academic film journals. Now, here I am, years later, almost finished creating my first full-length documentary, one I plan on entering in the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF).

  My film, Sex for Sale, showcases how the digital age is forcing the sex industry to reevaluate and update itself to keep up with the times, and takes a closer look at how said changes are impacting business, the internet, anthropology and life in general. It questions whether the digital age is making it easier for human trafficking to occur, and for seedy businesses to hire underage workers and pay them less in today’s sex trade industry, all while asking if one-on-one contact is becoming obsolete. With the increases in technology, will there still be any requirement for the traditional prostitute and pimp? The stripper? Are webcam operations and phone sex lines the new go-to? Will apps like Tinder and Grindr finally make the government regulate an industry that has no signs of slowing down, which the digital age is only helping to grow? I’m hoping my documentary will make viewers question the need for government intervention, that people will see that we need to protect these workers as we do all other dangerous occupations, how regulating the sex trades may create less opportunity for violence, human trafficking, and a slew of other issues that stem from non-governmental involvement.

  “What’s left to cover before you start editing?” Mercer asks, bringing me back to the conversation.

  “I’ve got all the stripper clips and interviews edited, as well as the three porn stars. I have an interview set up with Trina, a webcam actor, for next Wednesday night and I’ve got a couple of phone interviews with some underage workers I found who refused to meet me in person, but I’m going to keep at it. If I can convince one to meet with me, I might be able to help her out. I hate the things she’s told me so far. I’ve been in contact with the police and am waiting to hear about any next steps which I can help with, if they need. Besides that, it leaves me with the phone sex operators and male prostitutes to find and film. Then I’ll be done. So, I might need to hit up Chelsea for some help. She offered, and I’m thinking I might take her up on it, I need a list of good lines to call.”

  “Whatever you need. You know we’ll both help with anything. I’ll let her know to expect to hear from you. How underage are we talking here, Ace?”

  “Young enough to know that I need to try and get the place shut down. Young.”

  “Jesus. Well, if you ever need any help, ask.”

  “Thanks, that means a lot. You never know what your research might uncover.”

  “Fucking sick bastards out there…I hope you can convince her to come in for an interview, and to accept some help.”

  Mercer glances down at his watch after about an hour of discussion. “I’d better get moving. I have a seminar in twenty, across campus,” he says, grabbing his brown leather messenger bag and jacket off the chair.

  “Thanks for the chat,” I say. “And, so you know, I’m thankful the new technology is making it safer for some of the women in the industry, ’cause, yeah, honestly, I looked over my shoulder a few times the other night with Alice. I even asked Sly if he was packing at one point.”

  With that, Mercer barks out a laugh. “Pansy ass film types,” he mutters, walking away.

  “Drinks next Thursday. Don’t forget,” I call out after him.

  “Yeah, I’ll meet you and Dyl there. He better have shaved off what Chelsea calls his ‘flavour saver’ by then. I’m bringing a razor, in case. No way will I listen to my sister call it that again,” he chuckles, waving two fingers over his shoulder.

  Our friend Dylan is currently sporting a crazy thick moustache as a result of a hockey bet between he and Mercer involving the Maple Leafs, one Dyl lost. But since growing the thing, he’s fallen in love with it, claiming it’s a “chick magnet”, telling us repeatedly how “chicks actually dig it”. Mercer retorts that it’s nothing but an eyesore and needs removal ASAP, that no “chick” will ever “dig it”.

  Before heading to class, I decide to grab a cappuccino to go (I don’t usually have this much caffeine, but I was up late editing). Stepping in line, my Spidey sense immediately perk ups when a familiar scent begins to infiltrate my space, and it’s not coffee.

  Ellie.

  Turning sideways, I try to see if I’m hallucinating or if I’m just scent-scarred for life by the distinctive aroma belonging to one off-limits student. I’m trying to casually pull off that move where you make it look as if you’re not looking out of your peripheral vision, but like an ass you totally are, and that’s when I spot her. Right behind me, all 5’3” of her, and she’s looking directly at me, a subtle smirk pulling at her lips. She clearly knows exactly what I’m doing.

  “Hey, Professor Ryan,” she beams, obviously not trying to be at all covert about acknowledging me, as I am with her.

  “Ms. Hughes,” I nod, moving up to place my order with the blue-eyed barista named Tracey, who flirts with me now as she always does. Ignoring her, I turn to Ellie. “What are you having?”

  She hesitates, eyeing me like I’m the horse’s head in the bed in The Godfather. “Ellie. It’s a coffee. It’s the least I can do for being a side-eyed creeper just now,” I say, having leaned in close to her ear so only she can hear. A sharp intake of breath confirms I’ve caught her off guard, and I sure as shit like knowing I’ve just affected her.

  “Uh…I’ll have a…medium chocolate raspberry, please. And thank you.” Her voice is low.

  Paying, I grab my coffee, and lean in once more. “See you around, Ellie,” I say, before leaving her to wait for her coffee.

  Chapter 13

  Ellie

  Walking into the kitchen, groceries in hand, Courtney and I move about the small, sage-coloured galley
kitchen putting everything away. We continue the discussion I’d brought up in the car, about needing to figure out the perfect name for me for my new job. I’d finally built up the nerve to ask her for help with creating my persona. All I can think about are ridiculous handles that make me giggle rather than feel confident and sexy.

  “Destiny says it needs to be a sexy yet simple name,” I tell her.

  “Of course. It is your dessstiny…!” hisses Courtney.

  “Shut up. I’m dying of embarrassment here just talking about this with you. But I’m just as bad. I keep coming up with stupid shit that makes me laugh.” I put the carton of eggs in the fridge, followed by the bags of milk. I huff the hair out of my eyes in frustration.

  “Well, this should be easy. What have you come up with so far?” Court asks, putting Triscuit crackers in the cupboard.

  “‘Mary Underwear’ was the first one that popped into my head. See what I did there?” Courtney bursts out laughing.

  “Oh my God. Dude. You’ll be fired for lameness before you even start.”

  “Right. It’s tough. Then I thought of ‘Kitten’. But that creeped me out. Way too close to pussy and pussy jokes. I’d laugh at myself for sure. ‘Hi, I’m Kitten. I’m happy to be your pussy tonight’.” I say in my lowest, sexiest voice.

  “Meow,” Court mews, causing us both to howl.

  “I keep thinking of silly stuff. It’s like my brain can’t be serious.”

  “‘Debbie Dick Rider’?” Court says.

  “‘Rideanne’?” I tilt my head, dumping apples into the fruit bowl.

  “‘Mia Muff’?” Court replies. “This is hard.”

  “See? I suck. Maybe I won’t be able to do this. I most definitely can’t take it seriously. Imagine how I’ll be at caller training tomorrow night.” Oh man. I smack my forehead with my hand. “I’m too lame for this. I’ve only ever had sex with two people!”

  “Maybe you should be ‘Miss Missionary’, then?” Court laughs. “Or, ooh! Wait! How about ‘Mrs. Mia Wallace’, from that Pulp Fiction movie you like so much?”

  “It’s a film, not a ‘movie’. Not helping.” I toss some cut-eye her way.

  “You could always hook up with Doctor Ryan and get a little more experience. I bet that man could teach you a few things. I see the way you two eye each other. I bet he’d be totally game to help you out.” She raises her eyebrows up and down.

  “No way! Like that would ever happen.” Immediately, memories of him leaning in close to me at The Froth House surface from the other day. God, he smelled and looked so flippin’ good. I wish I could experience that man. Not that I’d ever tell Courtney.

  “Court, be serious. He barely knows who I am. Besides have you seen him? He is not looking for someone like me,” I wave a hand down the length of me, “a starving student. Most likely not his type. Not that I’d be interested, anyway.”

  “Yeah, okay, liar. I bet he’d be very interested in you and the newly-created sexy phone operator too. I’m more than positive he’d dig both versions,” she retorts.

  “Shhh! No one can ever know I work at a sex line! Don’t tell anyone.” I give her my most serious face. “Ugh, and I don’t have a name yet. I can’t even start until I have a perfect handle and there is no way in hell I’m using ‘Ellie’,” I sigh, exasperated.

  “Relax, you’ll be fine. We’ll find the perfect name. We just need to do some research and channel your sexy-inner-whore-dirty-talking-fetish-loving-fantasy-making self. Maybe there’s an essential oil blend for that? An app?” She keels over, laughing at herself.

  “Oh, you got jokes, eh? Miss Oh-You-Can-Do-This-Ellie, Miss I’ll-Help-You-Ellie…nice. Good friend. Especially when my staying here depends on this. You’re not helping, bestie,” I mock scold.

  “I’m sorry. I had to. I couldn’t resist. You know I love your oil-loving hippy ass. And that I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I can tell,” I smile.

  “Seriously, now. A name. One that’s sexy, yet simple and unique. Okay, I’m thinking, I’m thinking,” she says, rubbing her temples in a circular motion. “What about…‘Cinnamon’? Or ‘Cherry’?” she asks, looking up at me.

  “Nope, there’s a really sexy Indian girl who goes by ‘Cinnamon’. And ‘Cherry’ is used too.”

  “Damn. Okay, what about ‘Honey’?”

  “Imagine the comments I’d get on that?” I shake my head.

  “‘Candy’?”

  “Lame.” I roll my eyes.

  “‘Wendy Pantscomeoff?’” she tries.

  “A mouthful.”

  “‘Vee Gina’?”

  I laugh. “Clever, but no.”

  “‘Moonlight Desires’?”

  “From the Gowan song? No,” I sigh.

  “‘Twat Waffler’?”

  “‘Henrietta Hard-On’?”

  “‘P. Onmee?’”

  “Courtney! Not helping. Sexy. Simple yet unique,” I repeat.

  “Okay. There must be one of those meme-thingy’s about ‘What’s Your Phone Sex Name’. Let’s Google this shit,” she says, putting all the empty bags in the closet before reaching for her iPad. “And wine. We need wine for this. Wine, and a little meme search, and a list of movies with phone sex operators so we can see what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into. Sound good? Nothing says Sunday like sex, booze and a few movies to perv on with your best girl,” she winks.

  I nod, laughing. “And this is why I love you. I’m with you. Let’s do this.” I grab the wine glasses and a bottle, trailing behind her.

  “Found a meme thingy: ‘What’s Your Phone Sex Name?’ Perfect. This might work: you use your first and last initials then your date of birth.”

  “Awesome, let’s give it a try.” I plop down beside her on the couch, immediately filling our glasses with Shiraz.

  “Ready?” She takes the wine glass I’ve offered.

  “Yep, hit me,” I say, putting my feet up on the distressed-style coffee table.

  “Well, using the month you were born, the first letter of your name and the first letter of your last name, your new name shall be, drum roll…‘Enchantress Sexy Swivel Hips’.” She cocks her head as if she’s even surprised herself at how terrible the name is. “Or maybe not.”

  “We’re gonna need more wine.” I reach for the bottle. “Well, let’s try yours, maybe yours’ll make a better one. There is no way I can use mine,” I laugh.

  “Okay, okay,” she takes a gulp of her own wine, “what about…‘Cunty Whiplash Pussyface?’”

  “Oh God, this is hopeless.” I do a facepalm. “Did I mention that, on top of a name, I need to pack a travel case with a bunch of sex-simulating props?”

  “Oh, I cannot wait to hear this shit. I don’t think I’ll ever look at you the same way again once you start this job. We need to sidebar back to this shoebox o’ supplies. I’m dying to hear what we need to stock you with.”

  Pulling out my phone, I swipe it, opening the Notes app where I keyed in all the things Destiny told me I’d need for props. “So, I need a bunch of elastics to simulate the smacking of flesh, a leather belt to whip my bitches into shape, lollipops and or popsicles for sucking instruments, a vibrator, a heavy book to slam as if it were a headboa—”

  “Holy shit!” Court giggles, interrupting me. “That’s amazing. Who would have thought? You might need a tote, not a shoe box though.”

  “Right. It’s crazy, and there are about ten more things she suggested I grab too.”

  After Courtney gets over her wonder of my sex-simulation materials list, we spend some more time sharing useless meme-generated names.

  “It’s hopeless,” I sigh, defeated. After two bottles of wine, a pizza, and no name to show for the afternoon, I’m spent.

  “Wanna walk to Shopper’s Drug Mart with me?” Court asks, after we’ve finished watching Meg Ryan performing a fake orgasm in When Harry Met Sally, and Anne Hathaway pulling off a sexy phone operator in Valentine’s Day.

 
“Yeah, I need a break, this shit’s overwhelming. But I can get started on “the box” there. Plus, I’m out of samples of Coco Chanel, Pink Sugar, and Light Blue. I need to swindle more from the cosmetics counter,” I say, stretching as I rise from the couch.

  “Holy shit, Els. That’s it! It’s bloody perfect. It fits you to a tee. How did we not think of that?” Courtney says, jumping up and down.

  “Uh, care to fill me in, crazy lady?”

  “‘Chanel’. It’s the perfect handle. It’s sexy and tasteful, and it goes well with 69! Therefore, from this moment forth, I shall crown you ‘Chanel69’, phone sex operator extraordinaire!” She takes a bow and I smile, a huge stress-releasing smile, because she’s right, Chanel69 is a brilliant name for me.

  “I love it. I am Chanel69.” Now, if I could only build the confidence to live up to my sexy name.

  “Aww, Coco would be so proud, boo!” Court laughs, as we make our way to the elevator.

  Chapter 14

  Ellie

  “69! I wasn’t too sure we’d see you again. I’m excited you’re here, though; I know you can do this. I swear, you’re gonna slip into the role in no time. It really is the easiest money you’ll ever make,” Destiny says, swivelling her chair to meet my gaze as I walk in the room.

  “Honestly, I wasn’t too sure I’d be back, either. But here I am, and I’d like to officially introduce myself,” I say, closing the door to Sweet 44 behind me. “Hello, I’m Chanel, it’s nice to meet you.” I smile, proud of the name Court and I finally decided upon.

  Hopping up from her chair, Destiny jumps up and down, clearly excited.

  “I love it! It’s perfect for you. I knew you’d think of a good one. It’s super sexy, Ellie. Here, come sit,” she says, pulling out the rolling chair beside hers. “I was just about to log on. For tonight, I thought we could go over possible voice tones that would work for you. I can also show you the voice adapter and how it works if you want. If you’re keen on using it to disguise your own voice, it’s an option. A lot of the girls use them, but it’s up to you. I thought you could listen in on a call or two of mine tonight, then you can try one on your own, if you feel up to it. I’ll be right close if you need an SOS.”