Philly After Midnight

John McCalla listens in on Philly's phone sex lines.

What are you wearing? What are you into? And—perhaps the most burning question in Philly phone sex land—where do you live? The popularity of localized interactive chat lines—with the common goal and occurrence of hooking up with someone who just might live around the corner—seems to have all but eclipsed the old days of paying for a pro. It's cheaper for the phone companies and it leaves more, shall we say, cruising possibilities.

Whatever your tastes, you can find it on the phone chat lines, which may not be professionally staffed, but certainly have professional-caliber players. And, like any flirting game, it has its losers.

I propped myself up in bed, surrounded myself with tantalizing ads and made sure my cordless was charged up in preparation for a tour through the desire-laden communication lines of the city.

I also drank a bunch of coffee and smoked a pack of cigarettes to accelerate a gruff, Alec Baldwin-meets-Demi Moore-variety sex voice. It might have backfired; I sounded more like a tuberculosis-ridden maniac, coughing and anxiously zooming through callers.

First, I tried in vain to find a standard-issue professional phone sex pro, who might guide me through the subtle and not-so-subtle ways of the airwaves. However, every number I dialed up, no matter the advertising, was a live chat room with regular folks. I resigned myself to chatting with locals and signed on to the free Gay Live Philly.

"Under 18, hang up!" a recorded voice warned, followed by a disclaimer about not screening callers. "Use discretion in meeting people."

A beginners menu instructed me to record my name, which I tried five times, each attempt met with a recorded, "Sorry, I don't recognize that number." It finally hung up on me.

I got back on and managed to sign on. The same recorded voice told me to record a message about myself and to be specific and inviting. I panicked at the impending beep and tried to relax. "Good-looking Center City guy," I said, "5-feet-10, medium build, dark hair, blue eyes…" and some flattering comments about my throbbing member, facilitating a vocabulary gleaned from pubescent fascinations with Penthouse Forum and later used on surly student loan collection agents.

Finally, I was ready to listen to messages from other "hot and horny" local guys. A high-pitched voice from some suburban guy came on first. Next. "Top looking for bottom. I get off on the phone; if you wanna get off on the phone, get back to me."

A 28-year-old (a popular quoted age) said he was into some "backstroking" before going to bed. A "Center City Cocksucker" was looking for in-person action NOW. "No bullshit," he grunted.

As I cruised through some more messages—submissive boys, dominant men, freak boys and South Philly boys—a chime alerted me I had a message.

Excitedly, I pushed the appropriate buttons and heard from Michael, a Rittenhouse guy looking for no bullshit. The Center City Cocksucker replied to my message! Odd delight washed over me. He left his home number and I contemplated calling, but it was late and I had more research to do.

My next message flash came from a friend who knew I was working on a story: "Are you doing research?" he scolded. I replied back that it was none of his business—my name was Cruz and I only wanted to talk to submissive boys who liked to clean apartments and run errands.

When dialing up, remember we live in Philadelphia—it's the fifth-largest city in the United States and the smallest social circuit this side of Topeka. You will eventually hear someone you know.

Onto the women, I chose Night Encounters, the straight counterpart to Gay Live Philly. Women are free, but I had to sign up for a 90-minute package for $19—no free sampling like the gay line. A perk—first-timers get double minutes; you need a checking account or credit card.

Familiar porn muzak filtered through the phone as I signed on and recorded my message—a bit more discreet than my boastings on the gay line, but still flattering.

Christine was first up; she was just looking to talk. Next, a 22-year-old looking for good conversation. Another who just whispered, "Talk to me." She was obviously smoking a lot of cigarettes too.

Mona failed to live up to her name; she boasted only of her good sense of humor. Another 22-year-old adamantly said, "I don't want no nuts! No nuts leave me messages. Just mature, interesting people!"

Ding! A message from Christine. "I don't know if I was talking to you earlier or not. Get back to me." I was offended by her short attention span and decided to keep going.

A self-described Drew Barrymore lookalike said she just turned 18 the day before and her friends signed her up. "I'm 5-foot-8, blonde hair. It's cut really short and tucked under just a bit," she described sweetly. I sent her a Happy Birthday message.

The next voice authoritatively said, "I'm here, you're there. Let's get together." I left her a message but she must have moved on and hooked up with someone else.

Approaching 3:30 a.m., I started tiring of the barrage of erotic banter. I did find a couple of men and women into having phone sex. They were a little disappointed I wasn't better at it. Two hung up on me. One guy told me to call him at home and save the money—a logical plan, and one I'm told happens more frequently on the Internet.

I finally resigned myself to get to sleep near 4 a.m.; this niche of night activity was more alive than I'd realized. Dozens upon dozens of callers on each line linking up and talking dirty. It seemed to have an energy all its own, yet desperately familiar.

I started thinking I might have found more action had I sold myself better. Yeah, that's it. I made a weak pitch. Next time, I'll tell them exactly what I want and to hell with modesty. Next time…

— John McCalla