THE PSO (Phone Sex Operator)

Panties & Chinese food

"We should sell our underwear," Zach says out of the blue, laying on the lounge part of our sofa. It was his favourite spot because he was able to stretch out. Anytime I attempted to sit there, he'd throw a bitch fit. So, I gave up trying, only having the luxury when he was out of the house.

"Sorry?" I question him, feet tucked underneath me. I put down my personal phone, having been scrolling through random apps moments before. "Our...underwear?"

"Yes!" He sits up, hands in the air. Oh dear, he's excited about this. "Hear me out. I just read online about some chick who does it for a living and she makes five grand a day."

"Are they, like, gold encrusted underwear?"

"Nope. Just everyday, normal panties."

"Five. Grand." I deadpan, narrowing my eyes.

"Five thousand smack-a-roos," he nods.

"...for selling her discharged stained underwear?"

Am I missing something here?

How attractive is this woman?

Zach's still waving his hands about, a gesture he does when he's passionate about something. Or upset. Or happy. Or, well, just being Zach. "The more discharge the better! People are fucked up! They love it!"

"It would save on washing," I muse.

"That's disgusting, Sara. You'd still have to wash your fanny."

"I meant my underwear, you spoon." I roll my eyes. "Ah, I dunno. I still have issues with working as a phone sex operator, let alone adding more sex work into it. I might just have a mental break down."

"Oh, for god sake, not this again. You need to stop caring what people think!" He scolds, crawling over to me on his knees so he can flick my forehead. I scowl at him. "Listen to me. You're not going to be single forever; someone will love you for what you do; who gives a shit if someone thinks you're a slut, just rub all your success in their face."

I wish I had your confidence.

"Wow. Would you look at that. I'm cured." Sarcasm dips from my words.

I love my job, I really do. There's no way I could afford my own place without it, and I couldn't stand living at my mother's house any longer. So, I'm grateful, I really am, and working my own hours is something people can only dream of. I can take time off whenever I want. I could afford to eat take away food everyday if I wanted to.

But...

But I wasn't made of stone. More like something weaker, like paper. Or cardboard. Yes, I was like a cardboard box. Boxes can carry heavy things, some of those things might even surprise you. They also appear sturdy and strong; secure even.

But they can also be crushed easily.

And torn.

Poked holes in...

And that's why I've only ever told Zach about my job. God, if my ex found out what I did he'd have a field day. I worry about old friends from school discovering what I do. Like Zach said, I'm terrified no man will ever want me and I'll die alone. I'm ashamed of it, of my job, of working in the sex industry. And it causes me a lot of anxiety, clouds my thoughts. I know it's nothing to be ashamed of and whenever I see other people in the same line of work, I think good for them. But I can't muster up the same support for myself.

Insecurities and little-to-no confidence are a bitch.

It was Zach's turn to roll his eyes. "You're so annoying." He plops down next to me. "Fine, I'll just sell my tighty whiteys. I don't need you."