Call Me (8 page)

“Yup.” I scribble the last of the notes, circling my reminder to look up various dom/sub scenarios on Google.

“The third type are
The Needy Babies
, as I like to call them. The easiest of the lot if you ask me. They tend to call in the evenings, mostly first-time callers who are unsure and need complete guiding, and are unsure if they even want to get off. They might be the nerdy guy or the shy guy who just wants some companionship and aren’t looking for any hanky-panky. They may just want someone to talk to, to simply listen to them.”

“So they don’t want to get off?” I ask, a bit confused. “Why pay for us when they could go to a social group, or counselling for that matter?”

“I think they like the possibility of getting off, but they might be so shy that they may not even want to admit they’re horny. Experience tells me they do get off, they just aren’t as vocal about it. Except for the chatter boxes. Those guys will seriously talk your ear off and that’s it, they could care less about coming.”

“Jeez, maybe I need to mark that type on my preference sheet,” I joke.

“Naw, they get boring, trust me. You’ll want the exciting calls, makes the job fun. Anyway, the fourth type is what I like to call
The Picky Fucker
. This is your fetish caller, the one we tend to get the most. They are seriously the most unique of the bunch, but also require the most work and creativity. You’ll want to laugh at some of the things they’ll want you to say or pretend to do. And you will not believe some of the shit that turns them on. This is where you’ll use your props the most. That being said, they happen to be my favourite callers because it is seriously never a dull moment with them.”

“What sorts of things are we taking about?” I ask, turning the page, ready to make a list of other things I might want to google.

“Well, there are the common ones, like feet, water, thunder and lightning, and furries.” I want to ask her to explain them all, because, honestly, I don’t have a clue what the hell she means by furries, or thunder, and, frankly, I don’t think I’m ready to hear it just yet. So once again, I circle those terms for later. Double circles.

“Then there are the more obscure ones like tripsolagnia, coulrophilia and—”

“Hold it, wait. What the heck is that? Tripso—
what
? Coul—
what
?”

She laughs at what I assume is the face I must be giving her. “How about this? I explain these two fetishes and we call your first day of training done? I don’t think you can handle listening to a call tonight,” she giggles.

“I think you might be right,” I nod. “Okay. I’m all ears, so please share, the suspense is kind of killing me.”

“Okay. The first one, tripsolagnia, is the act of getting off while getting your hair shampooed by someone else. And coulrophilia…that’s a clown fetish. People who get off fantasizing about sexual acts with a clown. I’ve never had these ones, but Cinnamon and Ruby have.”

Oh. My. God. Did I mention that clowns scare the bejeezus out of me? There is no effin’ way I will be pretending to be a clown. Nope. No way, no how. I’m silent, letting the information settle before opening my mouth. “Remember that small tinge of excitement I had mentioned feeling earlier?”

“Yeah,” she laughs.

“I think my nerves just ate it!”

Gulp.

Ace

S
he’s too smart.

She’s too fucking beautiful.

“I shouldn’t do it.” I try to talk myself out of doing what I’m about to do, like some sort of crazy person. “You’re asking for trouble,” I mutter, my hand on my laptop’s track pad where I keep moving
her
name under the column where my own name sits in bold type as a thesis advisor. The column in which I know she should not be placed.

I’m sitting at The Froth House, the local coffee shop on campus, waiting for my buddy Mercer to meet me for our usual morning coffee. It’s a trendy spot with a large fireplace in the centre that is surrounded by a dozen small tables and chairs and a perimeter lined with booths, and always packed. The coffee is good and the staff is great. I’m a big fan, coming here to work between classes rather than my office or professor’s lounge.

It’s been three weeks since classes started, and so far everything has been going smoothly. Except for my current predicament: that is, do I or do I not assign myself as Ellie’s advisor? Here’s the thing: the idea of her working intensely with Jax, or Sam, or hell, even Joelle—my teaching assistants this year—irks the hell out of me. Especially after hearing her in class, and reading her intro paper. I learned a lot about all the students and have based the pairings on those intro papers. It’s clear that Ellie is bright. Her introduction paper was well-written, conscientious and was dripping with her passion for film.

Needless to say, I’m very interested in hearing her thesis plans now, along with whatever else she may want to discuss.
Hell. I’d listen to this girl drone on about anything at this point.
On top of being eye-catchingly gorgeous, she’s got the brains too, and that intrigues me. A lot. I’m not sure what it is, but something compels me to her, despite not having had any further close encounters like that first day. It’s been weeks of stolen glances, lingering stares and subtle smiles. I sense her interest has been piqued about me just as much as mine for her. I see it in the way her chest rises then falls when I catch her watching me, and how her mouth lifts to the side when I reciprocate and it’s her catching me staring a bit too long. I’m going to get myself in trouble here. I can feel the pull to the dark side already.

“See? She’s too distracting,” I scold myself, hitting save one last time, but leaving her in my column, of course.
Piss it. I can do this.
I’ve got five other students to help too; she’s the same as them, a student needing support and guidance. Besides, I’m a professional.
Yeah, pep talks are good. That was a good one, Ace
. “Right. I can do this. And I will not allow myself to cross any lines. She’s my student. I am her professor.”

Lying bastard.

I shake my head while powering down my laptop. Looking up, I’m in time to catch my buddy Mercer entering behind a small crowd.
Thank Christ.
I need his distraction. Mercer waves an imaginary mug, offering to grab me another. I nod, mouthing my thanks as he joins the long line of coffee-seeking enthusiasts.

Mercer Reynolds and I have been friends since our first day of university. Having been assigned as roommates at the University of Western Ontario, we hit it off immediately and have stayed in touch since. He’d been trying to get me to transfer to U of T since he started teaching here four years ago. Mercer has his Ph.D., and is head of the kinesiology department.

Dr. Reynolds has been a big help in getting me settled here. I managed to rent an apartment in the same building as he and his sister, Chelsea, in Toronto’s Annex neighbourhood, which turned out to be the perfect location because it’s close to both work and enough places to eat, shop, and have an active social life when I choose. Not one for serious relationships, living in Toronto will be great for casual dating and hooking up when the urge hits.

Between my job and my own filmmaking, I’ve not had time to pursue any kind of long-term relationship in years, despite my grandparents’ wishes. Growing up as an only child, I was raised by my grandparents after both of my parents died in an avalanche while heliskiing at British Columbia’s Blue River. Being my only remaining living relatives, they raised me from the age of twelve on. It took a long time to adjust to life with my Grandma Lily and Grandpa Paul, but we all survived in the end and I wouldn’t be where I was today without them. We didn’t always have a lot, but they loved and supported me regardless.

Mercer pulls me from my thoughts, placing a steaming mug of coffee and some cream pods in front of me. “Hey, big guy. How’s it hanging this fine morning?”

“So far, so good. I finished assigning advisor groups for my master’s thesis students. I need to get the preliminary meeting started next week to make sure everyone’s on track, knows his or her direction. I need to weed out the idiots, save the ones with potential, you know…the norm”.

“Sounds fun. I still can’t believe you wanted that class. Seems like way too many extra hours, if you ask me. Sports medicine is where it’s at, brother. I get to workout anytime I want, and I personally keep our national teams fit and safe.”

I laugh, “Yeah, you’re a regular Dr. Feelgood.” We both chuckle.

“How goes the documentary? Now, that’s the real question,” Mercer asks, taking a sip of what I assume is his usual, a triple-shot latte.

“It’s good. I’ve got a few more interviews lined up, and I met with Alice and her pimp, Sly, last week. We wrapped up their interviews, and I was able to shoot a couple of vignettes about the life of an illegal prostitute here in the city. So, yeah, it’s going really well. Thankfully, I’ve not run into anything too dangerous or involving the police thus far.”

“That’s…awesome. I can’t imagine following a pimp and ho downtown at night, though. Must have been scary, even for a big boy like you. Maybe we need to buy you some pepper spray?” he teases, striking a nerve with the “ho” comment.

“Hey, man. I’m tough, downtown is my playground at night.” We both laugh, “But be nice, shithead. Alice is a sweet lady; don’t call her a ‘ho’. She’s doing what she needs to get by, and no little girl grows up wishing she might one day be a prostitute. You wouldn’t believe the desperate shit these women have to do to support themselves, or the ones they love. Alice isn’t like Chloe, the other prostitute I interviewed. Alice isn’t doing this to support a heroin addiction, she’s doing it to keep a roof over her and her daughter’s heads. It’s mind blowing when you go behind the scenes; everyone really does have a story. And we shouldn’t judge so harshly.”

He raises his hands in mock surrender. “Easy man, I didn’t mean any offence, I was playing. Besides, I know how it is, trust me.”

He’s right, he does know. His sister, Chelsea, used to work at a pretty lucrative phone sex line while paying her way through medical school. Growing up just the two of them, she didn’t have much choice when not wanting to accrue a shit ton of student loans once medical school was done. Chels was determined to find a job that would leave her debt free. In the end, she became some super hoity-toity phone sex operator and succeeded in paying her own way. Having worked in the sex industry, she’s been helping a lot with this project of mine whenever I need. So, I know he isn’t as judgmental a dick as he sounded.

“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.