Some gentleman called my cell phone and knew my name, asking if I were still interested in working for 970 numbers listed at the back of New York Press. I had no idea what he was talking about. I googled 970 numbers and the web said it was a number for Colorado? We made plans to talk the next day so he could elucidate the matter.
Apparently, I came highly recommended, and it turns out 970 numbers are like porn. You tell 15-minute erotic stories — there’s no script. They give you a basic plot and go over story points, so you kind of have to improvise; they pay $100 to $600 per recording. He was somewhat perplexed as to why I was recommended, seeing as I had no idea what he was talking about or that I had no interest or experience in erotica. Uh, yeah, I so was I.
I don’t think any friend of mine recommended me, particularly because I’m like the least likely candidate for this kind of gig. I’d be like the Holly Hobbie of erotica. Like “A boy and a girl met, and they really liked each other. He gave her a lot of candy….and then they had sex?” Yeah, porn is not in me.
And yet I did not definitively say no — because part of me is Little Orphan Annie and I’m worried about being broke again, and if I am, one day, would I not suddenly develop a talent for it? Unemployed, I’d long for that $100 to $600 a pop. I’m so classy.
I partly want to laugh at the call, but partly just want to lie down in traffic, because the week has been so full and stressful that I can’t deal with one more piece of information in my head.