Mood: Planning, Conspiring
Listening to: Celine Dion – I’m Alive
Drinking: Hot Coffee [yum!]
Notes: All my links open in a new window. My blog is best viewed in Firefox with CoolIris or another preview extension. There will never be any adult oriented photos on this blog.
In the time that I’ve typed that introduction, things have changed, I’m now currently listening to I Drove All Night by Celine Dion, because I love her and she is <French accent>The Greatest Singa in De Wuhld</French Accent>! I guess I’m the only one who saw that SNL episode? I should hope not, that’s before it became UnFunny™.
I’ve spent the first part of this morning cleaning, taking out garbage [ugh… Thursdays], thinking about lying, and flat ironing my hair. Can I just say it looks fly? Seriously. My head looks awesome… I almost want to kiss it, but that’s somewhat impossible. Regardless, I only wrote that as a way to fish for compliments from unsuspecting passer-by about how beautiful I must be and that he [or she] can’t wait to see the photos I’m putting up after I finish with some upcoming shoots. I’m currently experimenting with hairstyles that will look good in print.
Also, this is why you should never lie: one has to continue to lie to cover up one’s initial lie. If “one” (that would be me) is a bad liar, one eventually has to swallow … screw this. I was kind of ashamed of telling so much of myself, especially to some of the coolest people I have known in a while. I didn’t know if they would really visit, and i didn’t want them to think bad of me if they found out more about me than they’d known. God only knows if they’ll visit again, but if they do, I’m sorry I lied to you guys. In the future, I will grow a pair and just say what is true, and nothing more.
Ah, the small things are what make me happy. Now over to “Linda” [who is really me, there is no one else <LAUGHS>] for the special segment I’ve been stewing on for about 8 hours.
It’s about … ooooooooh… taboo. I said taboo, people! That means someone needs to make an audible gasp, please. <Cue Audible Gasp> I won’t discuss specifics this time around, just the general practices of what I do. I don’t know if most of you could stomach specifics, to be honest. I don’t want to mislead any of you, this isn’t a pretty place, where I work, and because most of you either don’t work here or call, I don’t think I should force the specifics onto the uninitiated readers.
There’s a link above, but for those of you lazy ones who didn’t click, taboo is loosely “defined” (meaning: in my own words) as something banned because of values, morals, and/or law. In the case of my job, it means things that are illegal in most, all, and/or any state in this great US of A in which I live… somewhat happily.
This blog really isn’t about what I think about it, but rather that I worked (for a long time) for a company that dealt with it openly and almost exclusively. There are only a few companies in America that deal on what is called a “No Taboo” policy, which is a nice way to say, “Free For All.” Anything goes, and believe me, when I say anything, I mean anything. I’d never in my life been subjected to listening to such… garbage. Disgusting garbage, where people said the most… frightening, sickening things, and were basically congratulated for those deviant fantasies, and rewarded by stupid women who didn’t know a face from a hole in the ground by being given exactly what they asked for, down to childish voices that would make someone normal say, “Is your mother home, little girl?”
Where I worked, that was okay. That was better than okay, it was… employee of the month stuff. If a person was like me in refusing to do it, and instead chose to act like a woman of intelligence by redirecting the call to another subject (which the majority of callers would grudgingly accept and begin to talk about another subject which was just as deviant but legal), they were abused. I wasn’t, because I’d learned tricks that I attempted to teach the other women when I started to train them, but they were abused… hardcore abuse, too.
I had women call me at devilish hours of the morning crying, telling me someone had yelled at the top of their lungs, screaming at the girl, “You’re worthless, all you’ll ever be good for is talking about [fellatio] all day, you can’t even do porn because you’re probably [fat].” Young mothers would call me and tell me they could no longer bathe or breast feed their children after working a long shift. Older women would call and say they were depressed because someone had suggested they end their lives because they were over the hill and worthless anyway. I mean, these people did their best to take out every frustration they had ever had on these women, who would in turn take it and cry because there was no way they would leave their paycheck behind, wondering where else they would go to make as much money as they made with this company.
The sad thing is, most… and by most I mean 75% of them weren’t even making $10.00 an hour. I’m not kidding. These women were so beaten, so broken, that they believed all that abuse plus the subject matter was what they deserved in life. Some of them were proud of it, wearing their ability to mimic those little voices like a badge. Yeah, some of them were proud… but most were just broken.
It amazes people to know that there are places in America that pedophiles can go and be not only accepted but loved, and I’m here to tell you, from first-hand experience, those places exist, and are making money hand-over-fist.
Andy over at Misanthropy Today had a great blog, which caused a bit of a stir, about To Catch a Predator (he called it To Catch A Pervert) and his opinion on it. I’d chimed in, which is how we met -great guy by the way- and told him of my feelings on the subject. I firmly believe, from hearing some of the conversations I heard that after so long, a guy with those fixations and obsessions can only talk about them so long, with someone who sounds so young, until he needs to go out and fulfill those fantasies. You can’t wave drugs in front of a junkie for months and expect him never to shoot up. You can’t wave Jack and Coke in front of an alcoholic for long and expect her to stay sober. Yes, I said her, I talked to women who had those deviant fantasies as well.
Without fail, every time, until I left that place, I redirected calls, and gave the guys [and gals] a choice: You can talk about [deviant subject matter] or you can choose someone else. Of course I didn’t say it that way, that’s why it’s called redirecting instead of shuttin’ ’em down. I refused, every time, to put on that voice, although I can, and do very well. I refused to help someone grow that fixation until they needed to hurt someone who couldn’t fight back. Beyond that, even though I usually ended up making $14.00 or $16.00 an hour [more than most women], it wasn’t enough to make me sell my soul.
I’m one of the few that can say this: My soul is worth more than a paycheck, no matter the amount.
I don’t work for them anymore, I’ve since moved on to a more established company that does not deal with that subject matter at all. I won’t lie and say it’s any better, but I’ll explore that in another blog. For now, at least someone has finally said that there are, indeed, places that wave children around like drugs in front of junkies. For now, that’ll do.
Until we meet again,
Geisha
Reluctant Geisha 