Free Call Me by Gillian Jones Page A

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.
    “What’s left to cover before you start editing?” Mercer asks, bringing me back to the conversation.
    “I’ve got all the stripper clips and interviews edited, as well as the three porn stars. I have an interview set up with Trina, a webcam actor, for next Wednesday night and I’ve got a couple of phone interviews with some underage workers I found who refused to meet me in person, but I’m going to keep at it. If I can convince one to meet with me, I might be able to help her out. I hate the things she’s told me so far. I’ve been in contact with the police and am waiting to hear about any next steps which I can help with, if they need. Besides that, it leaves me with the phone sex operators and male prostitutes to find and film. Then I’ll be done. So, I might need to hit up Chelsea for some help. She offered, and I’m thinking I might take her up on it, I need a list of good lines to call.”
    “Whatever you need. You know we’ll both help with anything. I’ll let her know to expect to hear from you. How underage are we talking here, Ace?”
    “Young enough to know that I need to try and get the place shut down. Young.”
    “Jesus. Well, if you ever need any help, ask.”
    “Thanks, that means a lot. You never know what your research might uncover.”
    “Fucking sick bastards out there…I hope you can convince her to come in for an interview, and to accept some help.”
    Mercer glances down at his watch after about an hour of discussion. “I’d better get moving. I have a seminar in twenty, across campus,” he says, grabbing his brown leather messenger bag and jacket off the chair.
    “Thanks for the chat,” I say. “And, so you know, I’m thankful the new technology is making it safer for some of the women in the industry, ’cause, yeah, honestly, I looked over my shoulder a few times the other night with Alice. I even asked Sly if he was packing at one point.”
    With that, Mercer barks out a laugh. “Pansy ass film types,” he mutters, walking away.
    “Drinks next Thursday. Don’t forget,” I call out after him.
    “Yeah, I’ll meet you and Dyl there. He better have shaved off what Chelsea calls his ‘flavour saver’ by then. I’m bringing a razor, in case. No way will I listen to my sister call it that again,” he chuckles, waving two fingers over his shoulder.
    Our friend Dylan is currently sporting a crazy thick moustache as a result of a hockey bet between he and Mercer involving the Maple Leafs, one Dyl lost. But since growing the thing, he’s fallen in love with it, claiming it’s a “chick magnet”, telling us repeatedly how “chicks actually dig it”. Mercer retorts that it’s nothing but an eyesore and needs removal ASAP, that no “chick” will ever “dig it”.
    Before heading to class, I decide to grab a cappuccino to go (I don’t usually have this much caffeine, but I was up late editing). Stepping in line, my Spidey sense immediately perk ups when a familiar scent begins to infiltrate my space, and it’s not coffee.
    Ellie.
    Turning sideways, I try to see if I’m hallucinating or if I’m just scent-scarred for life