Mattress Actress (11 page)

Japanese custom dictated that the most senior man got his pick first, then down the pecking order you went. The discussion went on while we just stood there politely smiling. Then in perfect English, they asked something totally inappropriate like, ‘Are they your real breasts?’ Or ‘can you turn around please,’ or ‘Do you shave your twat?’

On average I took home about $700 a night, so within three weeks I’d earned enough to get a copy of a birth certificate, a Medicare card, and a hot tip about a guy who rented apartments without a lease, just cash in hand. Armed with documentation proving I was indeed who I said I was I went to secure my own abode.

To my great disappointment, he didn’t ask for any identification, just showed me the apartment. I said yes, handed him $480 bond and $240 rent for two weeks. With my cash burning a hole in his pocket, he handed me a key, then turned on his heel and left. I bought a house full of furniture in one day and had it delivered the next. My apartment was located in the swanky suburb of Neutral Bay. All the women working with me advised that I should have chosen an apartment in Bondi, ‘after all that’s where all the respectable pros live, sweetie’.

Unlike most of my fellow employees, I’d decided to go cheap. My apartment was a one-bedroom renovator’s dream. Before I moved in I had to paint every wall to cover all the stains. It consisted of a kitchen roughly the size of a shoe box, a large lounge room and a bedroom with an ensuite. Even though it was humble it was home to me and I loved every inch of it.

I only did four shifts a week because I was still dancing and choreographing, but that was plenty. I resigned from the bar-n-grill, but stayed on good terms with the management. They even got my dancers in on various occasions. Most of my money was being wasted, but at the time I thought they were all necessary expenses. After all, I was seventeen and earning over $2500 per week. Groceries, taxis, rent and utilities came to no more than $300 per week, so what was I doing with the rest?

Shopping became a daily event; I would go to the mall with the previous night’s wages and come home with loose change. There always seemed to be something else I needed: cutlery, linen, kitchen appliances, a TV, a video recorder; the list was never ending.

Friends were trying to encourage me to save, but I was almost possessed by a need for things. I felt that I would only have to purchase these belongings once. I wanted a comfortable home that was filled with my own things, and no one could ever take them away from me. I simply wanted to know I had something to come home to.

After every spending spree, I’d say, ‘Well now, I think that should do for a while.’ But the next day I found myself back at the mall. I’ve heard psychologists say that deep down working girls hate their job, and therefore want to rid themselves of the profits. Personally I think that’s a crock of shit, I think most of us have been used and abused, ripped off, and have been financially limited for so long, that when we get a few dollars in our hot little hands, we want to treat ourselves to a few of life’s luxuries.

The dark cloud had definitely lifted and I felt safe, secure, healthy and independent. So I decided it was time to welcome my brothers and father to my home and give Mum my number and address. It turned out Dad was very forgiving, he embraced me, complimented me on my home, called me beautiful but refused to talk about the past, in particular, acknowledge any wrongdoing. Dad never asked questions about my occupation, but I’m pretty sure he knew what I was up to. I just couldn’t bring myself to admit it.

Felicity’s had an entirely different clientele to what I was used to. Generally they were wealthy men, bankers, doctors, lawyers, engineers, or investors. But the average guy still made up thirty per cent of the patrons. Most of the clients were happy to have French, sex, massage and a brief whinge about their wife or job. They were the men I liked, but my favourites were the ones who paid for three hours, blew their load within the first fifteen minutes then slept for the remainder of their visit, thus enabling me to take clients in other rooms.

Some had fantasies and most were fairly uninspiring, such as doggy style.

‘Is that what you call a fantasy?’ I would ask.

‘Oh yeah, my wife only lets me do it missionary, if she lets me do it at all.’

French was another ‘fantasy’. Men were almost shocked if I performed oral on them. Most didn’t last past that. I had heard the joke about why a bride smiles as she is walking down the aisle –she knows she’ll never have to give head ever again. It seemed that maybe that wasn’t such a joke after all, as most clients had the same tale of woe.

Another fantasy I was always happy to accommodate was the ‘I just want to please you’ fantasy. This usually consisted of them giving me a half-hour massage, then touching me or eating me to the point of orgasm. Once that was achieved they would shower and leave.

Some men were paranoid of catching AIDS so their fantasy was to watch me masturbate as they relieved themselves—once again easy money. Occasionally they would tip big dollars if I could climax. Anything is possible at the right price. Ohhhh aaaaahhhhh, yes, yes . . . I’m coming, I’m coming, aaaaahhhh. ‘That will be fifty dollars, thanks.’

‘Oh, Kate, you’re the best, you really love your job, don’t you?’

Some fantasies were a bit harder to swallow, quite literally, but of course that wasn’t allowed—not that any of us would have done it. Mind you, for the right money there will always be someone desperate enough and in my experience I found that it was often the Asian girls. There were always girls who came here on tourist visas and worked sixteen-hour shifts just to send money back home to their families. These girls barely spoke English, apart from introducing themselves and ‘Yes, for extra one hundred dollar.’

In the beginning I wasn’t aware that I was allowed to refuse certain requests, which is probably why I quickly became the top earner.

One client wanted me to bite his dick. I did it, he said, ‘No, harder.’ So I complied, only to hear, ‘No.
Harder
.’ I thought if I bit it any harder it would draw blood, my teeth were almost meeting, but he was still not satisfied.

Finally I said, ‘That’s as far as I’m prepared to go.’ He was disappointed but accepted my decision, and left.

Another evening I was chosen by a man who told me he had a certain fantasy, and that before he paid me he wanted to make sure that I would participate.

‘I want you to hit me with a stick or a ruler on my dick, but I want you to do it very hard.’

Phrases like ‘No way, you sick pup’, and ‘Forget it, you weirdo’, crossed my mind, but in the end I politely said, ‘That’s something I don’t think I could be comfortable with.’

‘I understand. Perhaps management could recommend someone else for me, it’s a shame though; you’re so sexy.’

I excused myself, and gave the message to the receptionist, then returned to the ladies’ lounge. Within seconds, Louise came in.

‘Girls, can I have your attention, we have a very nice gentleman in room two who is looking for someone who is comfortable with giving mild B and D, if you’re interested please make your way there now.’ When no one moved except to top up their coffees or reapply make-up, Louise screamed, ‘Am I talking to myself? Get your sorry butts in there.’

We all just stared at one another. Finally one girl made her exit; she was not the prettiest or the youngest and therefore not so fussy.

Later that evening I caught up with her. In the business there was an unspoken rule: don’t inquire about other girls' tricks. But the curiosity was killing me, I had to ask. ‘How did you go with that guy?’ I was expecting a disaster story.

‘It was great, I could hit him as hard as I wanted and he’d still cry out for more.’ This was not the response I was expecting. I thought some guy must have done a serious number on her, for her to get such a thrill out of inflicting severe pain on a man.

Every girl at one stage or another has to combat the client who has fallen in love with her. My client’s name was Paul and worked as a repairman for a vending machine company. He was in his late twenties and quite shy. Paul was not what you would call attractive, but he was no Quasimodo either.

My job is to satisfy my client, to make him feel elated, and sex alone can’t always do that; if I want that client to come back I have to pamper his ego as well: ‘Wow, it must be great repairing vending machines all day, touring all of Sydney, no boss on your back.’ Or ‘Gee, you’ve got a nice chest, don’t ever shave it, promise me, it’s very masculine.’ Unfortunately clients misinterpret this kindness as genuine affection and Paul’s chest was starting to puff out. He was such a nice guy, but not at all confident. He only saw his shortcomings, but I saw depth, and a great capacity to love, and I told him so. Like so many clients, he obviously started thinking, She likes me, I can really talk to this woman, and she’s beautiful, I’m going to ask her out.

I didn’t want to straight out reject him, that would offend him, and I depended on his $140 a night. So instead, the standard line is: ‘Look, I just broke up with someone I was with for a long time, I just need time on my own at the moment to get over it. But thank you for the offer, you’re very kind, it’s just bad timing.’

He’ll keep coming back, and in six months you tell him: ‘I’m sorry my boyfriend and I are going to give it another go.’ I know it’s cruel, but so is the truth. It’s just business, and there was always one who seemed to lose sight of that fact.

Maybe I had done too good a job of boosting Paul’s self-esteem, as he wouldn’t take no for an answer any more. He was coming to the brothel every second night, and spending over three hundred dollars a time. When I asked him why he was doing this, he told me, ‘I don’t want anyone else touching you, I want you to know how much I love you.’

I made it clear he would have to get over it, as the notion of him and me was plain ridiculous. I told him about my saviour Ben, but he didn’t care. I refused to even have sex with him even though he was paying for my time; later I refused to take off my clothes. Nothing was going to stop this guy, so I tried talking to management. They of course were no help; they felt there should be more men like him.

Eventually it went too far and he started blackmailing me. He asked me to meet him at an all-night café after work and told me if I didn’t, he would stand out the front of the building at the end of the shift. He knew that would get me the sack. Management would think that I was procuring my best customer, and doing them out of their cut. I told him I didn’t believe him, but come the end of the night there he was, sitting out the front in his car. I walked back inside and told management, but when they looked out the window he wasn’t there.

The following night shift, like a bad dream: ‘Kate, you have a regular in the bar.’ I was now furious at this complete dickhead, and I was going to tell him the truth.

‘Why are you trying to ruin my life? Have I ever done anything to hurt you? Please, what’s it going to take to get you off my back?’

‘One date. Would it kill you to go to dinner with me?’

‘I have a boyfriend whom I love dearly—I don’t want to jeopardise that.’

‘Look, I enjoy talking to you. If you meet me outside this environment I will never bother you again.’

‘OK, but this is a one-time only deal, you have to promise not to threaten my job ever again.’

We met later that night at a café. I couldn’t understand what he thought he was going to get out of forcing a girl to go out with him and I was determined to make it as unpleasant for him as I could, but I still couldn’t bear to hurt his feelings, it’s just not in me to be spiteful. By the end of the evening I thought we had reached a compromise and I vowed to be his friend and call him if I ever needed anything or just simply to talk. In return he promised to stop harassing me at work.

The following morning flowers were on my front doormat. My god, he knew where I lived. I called his number and invited him over for a chat—sure enough, he knew the address. I pleaded with him to leave me alone.

Paul grabbed my hand and said, ‘Kate, I’m sorry I didn’t realise I was hurting you so much. I promise never to invade your personal space ever again.’

That was true to a point, but he continued to frequent my work. The management agreed to help me, and when he came in they told him that I was booked, and the wait would be in excess of two hours. Sometimes he would wait, more often than not he would take the hint and leave, only to return for my next shift.

Most of our clients were downright decent men, and knew the score down to a tee. A night would not go by without receiving a gift or two from one of our regular clients. This might be something as banal as flowers, or as exciting as expensive jewellery, but mostly it was perfume or cosmetics. These gifts were always welcomed by the girls and management alike, but if you were given a tip, it was frowned upon. The belief was that you had falsely procured it, namely charged extra for something that was ordinarily part of the deal. Sometimes it was assumed that you’d offered Greek (anal), which was not part of the service, but management believed that they still deserved fifty per cent of their cut.

One time a client who had selected me gave me a Diners Card and asked for an hour. I took the card downstairs, only to find it had been declined, when I returned to the room, he was already in the shower. I told him that his card had been declined. With no evidence of surprise in his wet expression, he told me to wait until he was out of the shower and he would give me an alternative card to try. I waited and waited. I could hear the buzzer going off, to which I responded, my client is in the shower, he wants to try another card. Ten minutes later I was downstairs with an American Express, which also failed. I returned upstairs disappointed for my waste of time. He was also apologetic, so he gave me a $50 tip for my trouble.

When I handed in the tip as instructed I was confronted with: ‘What did you have to do to get this? You were up there long enough and your client came downstairs freshly showered?’ I was hurt by their distrust, but I took my verbal chastisement and returned to the ladies’ lounge. I was visibly distressed, all the girls could see that but only Toni bothered to ask what had brought on my glum disposition.

Each girl in any brothel brings her own unique mix to the harem-like atmosphere. Some guys like boobs, some will like Asian- or African- or Latin-looking girls, some will like arse, some will like blondes and some will like Toni—a girl with a penis. Young guys will always pursue the older women, and then there are the men who like the girls like me, barely legal. I was not always picked first, but as far as everyone bar Toni was concerned, I was public enemy number one. Every week there would be a leader board pinned to the mirror of the dressing room. Not with earnings but with the top ten earners. The fact that my name was consistently on top just meant men liked young girls. This leader board reinforced a sense of envy among the girls not to mention animosity.

‘I hear Kate takes it up the arse,’ was the gossip on how I consistently retained ‘pole position’. So there was general sentiment among the ladies that as long as you didn’t have a dick, I was your competition. Being that Toni was no one’s competition, she was everyone’s best friend, but in particular, mine.

To see me distressed didn’t raise an eyebrow among the other girls, only a faint grin, but Toni swooped in like a mother bird immediately. I relayed what had happened and as always, she had a devious solution.

‘Oh pet, don’t get upset, get cash.’ She giggled. ‘You really must learn to stop being so damned innocent! It is your biggest asset but it is also your biggest curse. Now let Mother Toni give you the real deal. Never declare your tips, no good will ever come from it. Don’t carry a small clutch purse, get a leather handbag, that way they can’t feel the hidden tips in there when they inspect it. Cut a little hole in the lining to slide your tips in, and that way you can always put business cards in there as well!’ Then she went to the lockers and with the discretion of James Bond she pulled out a six-pack of cheap Kmart G-strings and popped them up my shirt.

‘What are these for?’ I asked.

‘First pack’s free. Tomorrow buy your own, sell them to clients after every job. I make an extra hundred bucks a night on these babies, only cost three ninety-nine.’

‘Why would a guy want to buy undies from me that he could buy in Kmart?’

‘Oh bless your cute little country mind! Wear them. For some reason, guys love to keep mementos, particularly ones that have the lingering scent of young pussy.’

Sure enough, she was dead right, only I made $150. Every girl needs a tranny as a friend and mentor as she is growing up.