My Brief Stint as a Female Wrestler Phone Sex Operator

When one gets to be my age, it’s time to pause and reflect on all that has gone right and wrong in one’s life, along with what has gone downright weird. What I speak of here is my brief stint as a female fantasy bodybuilder/wrestler phone sex operator, which I believe occurred somewhere around 2002.

When I first took on this challenging role, it seemed I had a bright future in the field, as I absorbed the robust training program right away. Within moments, it seemed, I had created the persona of Donnatella, a 5'8" Amazonian who could bench press 225 and put you into a half-nelson quicker than you could say "May I have some more please?" But truth be told, when the phone receiver was thrust into my hand for that first tele-chat, I admit that I choked, and oh, the embarrassment. Even though I’d started off with such bravado, when push came to…er…shove, I didn’t have the nerve to take on that first guy, much to the chagrin of my professors, who promptly set me up for additional training. Apparently, I might prove to be a tougher case than anticipated.

To boost my confidence, my first course of study was to read a gargantuan binder of just about every wrestling move in existence, only a few of which I was told to memorize, as the guys were calling in for fantasy, not a treatise on real bodybuilding or choke holds. I was told that I wasn’t allowed to take the binder out of the office, as one of the company’s owners, a coked-up chick hell bent on “female empowerment,” felt it privileged information—the cornerstone of her business. Of course, as soon as she left the office, a friend and I immediately photocopied the entire manual so as to do private dramatic readings for our friends at dinner parties. And, of course, for dutiful study at home. (heh-heh)

The next phase was more one-on-one training, where I had to come into the office, along with other “trainees,” to listen to some woman in Florida on a speakerphone teach us the finer points of who our customers were and what they were looking for. “These men are powerful,” she said. “Most of our clients are CEOs or high-level managers who are controlling their respective worlds every day. What we do is provide them with entertainment. We dominate them so as to give them a release, a respite, a reprieve from their worlds where they are in control of everything.”

Of course, when I listened in on my first real call, to hear how a professional handled one of these titans of industry, it was sweet “Whining Timmy” on the line, to the eye-rolling chagrin of every "wrestler" in the office. He whined so long and hard that it was obvious the pro who took the call got painfully bored with him, and said everything short of “Will you just ejaculate already?” in order to polish him off. I seriously doubt Whining Timmy controlled Amazon or NBC, but who knows what personas these guys slip into once they’re on the phone. I was certainly no Donnatella, as in those days, I weighed in at about 98 pounds and could bench press nothing more than my bike up and down the stairs.

That was immaterial, of course, and the day did come when my training was complete. It was then that I decided that if I was going to pursue this new trade, it would have to be all or nothing, as it’s my nature to be a perfectionist. Either Donnatella was going to seriously know her wrestling moves and verbally abuse these guys to a pulp, thus fulfilling their “entertainment” needs each and every time, or she would put in for an early retirement, and be nothing more than another dream that never was, another unfulfilled web page on what I was told was the largest female bodybuilder/wrestler web site on the internet. Plus, they paid only $15 an hour, which I thought sucked for all the work I’d have to do, especially if Whining Timmy called in.

I decided at the end to leave the job to the REAL female bodybuilders, who actually do this kind of work for top dollar, although it’s all a bit hush-hush. These gals are seriously famous among a certain segment of the population, and guys will pay enormous fees to have their favorite female bodybuilder kick, choke, and pulverize their controlling egos just before they go back into the conference room for a meeting with Fox News. You didn’t hear it from me.

Ah yes, these were the halcyon days of innocent self-exploration, right before I created my now-defunct talk show, “Highball! With Mary Ann Farley,” which folded after just two episodes due to a gastric hemorrhage that caused me to projectile-vomit two liters of blood in the emergency room of what was then Hoboken’s St. Mary’s.

It’s not easy being me.

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