Mattress Actress (24 page)

‘So dinner should last around an hour and a half and then you ask him what he was planning to do for the rest of the night. If you are any good he will ask to take you to his hotel room. Once in his room, ask him for the $700 then get down to business. After three hours is over, ask him if he is happy and if he wants you to go. If he wants you to spend the rest of the night, it will cost him another $800. You can be flexible here depending on what time it is—sometimes you can ask for more, sometimes less.

‘For a short-time booking, I take the initial $200, for an overnight booking I will take an extra $150 from you. If he decides that he only wanted dinner you will still get $90 from his $200 booking fee.’

I was blown away. It seemed like a lot of money for such a brief encounter. But who was I to argue? We shook hands and I arranged to come back at seven that evening.

Not wanting to be late, I got there twenty minutes early. I soon realised that arriving at seven was Mr Peters’s rules, not the girls’ rules—none of the other girls arrived until seven thirty or even much later. As the girls arrived my nerves started to twitch. They were all so stunning! And the few who weren’t had bodies to die for. I felt so out of place. The girls had come from all over the world: Russia, Hungary, Poland, Bosnia, Australia, Brazil, Belgium, Austria, South Africa, London, Malaysia, Indonesia and the Philippines.

I noticed that no one seemed to talk to each other, they just sat there reading magazines, commenting on the clothes in their respective languages. I couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable with everyone ignoring one another. The only conversation that seemed to take place was when one girl commented on another’s outfit or lipstick, perhaps their new hair colour. It all seemed so benign. From listening in on a couple of the conversations, I soon realised that Mr Peters had apartments set up where the girls lived in groups.

When one of the girls noticed me listening in she asked me where I was from. Until then I hadn’t uttered a word so she had assumed that I was from a country that didn’t speak English.

‘I am from Holland,’ I responded in English but with an accent, as Mr Peters had told me to tell everyone that I was not Australian as he already had too many Aussies. She nodded, then went back to reading her magazine.

I later learnt that her name was Sabrina and she was from Australia from French/Indian parents. She was certainly beautiful, but God, how she knew it. Out of all the girls I went on to work with, Sabrina was the nastiest. Self-involved to the max.

I had been sitting in this room now for over an hour and a half, and I was cursing myself for not bringing a book. Finally the phone buzzed. I was closest to it but didn’t move to get it.

Sabrina jumped to her feet to answer it. ‘Yes . . . OK,’ she said then hung up. ‘All Asian girls go downstairs.’

Without an ounce of enthusiasm they gathered their handbags, touched up their make-up and meandered out the door. I couldn’t help noticing that the eyeshadow cases and lipstick purses were all from Christian Dior, Chanel or some other designer cosmetic company. The white girls were no different. Their clothes, shoes and handbags were from DKNY, Valentino, Versace and the likes.

There was a collective feeling of rejection from all the remaining girls. The room seemed to have shrunk since the Asian girls’ departure. I tried to break the silence.

‘Is it always this slow to get started?’

‘It has been quiet since the Indonesian massacres,’ responded an Australian girl, who I later learnt was named Claire.

‘Plus Mr Peters keeps putting on new girls when there isn’t even enough work for the girls that are here now,’ said Sabrina.

After that not-so-subtle dig I decided my magazine was interesting after all. I was just getting into an article on how to improve your orgasm in ten easy steps when the phone rang. Once again Sabrina jumped up to answer it, then instructed all of us to make our way downstairs.

I milled around at the back of the crowd of glamorous women so I could watch them strut their experienced stuff. Once in the main office I watched them line up one behind the other. Mr Peters stood smiling at us all with a smile that looked a little odd on his fifty-year-old face. Each lady took her turn to introduce herself to the gentlemen seated around a dining table in one corner of the office. As I waited for my turn I saw some of the girls that had been upstairs seated in the lounge room.

‘Hello, my name is Gina, I’m from Hungary.’

‘Hello, my name is Louise, I’m from Australia.’

‘Hello, my name is Lola, from Bosnia.’

This went on and on always accompanied with a polite handshake. My turn came and went. We all took a seat in the overcrowded lounge room, while Mr Peters remained with the men in the dining alcove. He made small talk then helped the gentlemen make their decisions.

Eventually Mr Peters called out: ‘Hey Bosnia, Sabrina and Austria, come.’ He always referred to us as countries except if there were more than one girl from a particular nation present. If a gentleman walked in while we were all seated in the lounge he went around by nationality, men would say, ‘Excuse me, Miss Russia, may I have a word to you?’ At first I was insulted but it sort of grew on you.

Mr Peters’s business partner was named Warren, a lovely man I grew very fond of. He would sit behind the desk all night taking calls from potential clients or girls calling in. Warren did all the dirty work: if a girl had not shown up it was Warren’s job to phone her and give her a severe ear bashing. But he never really intimidated anyone. One evening he had to correct CoCo for not wearing any stockings, and she simply laughed at him.

In the sexiest Hungarian accent you ever heard, she said, ‘But Warren, I have such nice legs, why should I hide them? And it is so hot, I get all sweaty between my legs if I wear stockings, you don’t want that to happen, do you?’

‘CoCo, what do I say next time I correct a girl for not wearing stocking and she says but CoCo doesn’t have to wear stockings, so why should I?’

‘Easy, just say that I am sleeping with you so I have different rules. Then maybe all the girls will want to sleep with you to not wear stockings, this will be fun for you, yes? If they do not be wanting sex with you at least they will always want stockings, yes?’

How could he argue with logic like that?

‘Just next time wear stocking, please.’

‘Oh, you are no fun.’ The following day CoCo would come into work with her long, brown legs fully exposed with no comment from Warren.

The only person everyone was afraid of was Mrs Peters. She was impeccably dressed, and always looked as though she had just stepped out of a beauty salon. But in truth I think that was just the impression she liked to give off. I was sure that Mr and Mrs Peters were a self-made couple who never forgot their beginnings. Mrs Peters and I would sit for hours discussing anything and everything. I liked the way she thought. She had a brilliant sense of humour as well. I seemed to be the only girl who liked her, and for this reason she showcased me to the more lucrative clientele. She was all business. If you obeyed the rules and showed respect, she was nice to you, but go against the rules and Mrs Peters would be on you. Her aggression was not just taken out on the girls: she would flare up just as quickly at a client if he was found to have mistreated any one of her ladies.

Most of the clients who frequented the establishment were friends of Mr Peters. I assumed they had begun as clients but over the twenty or so years they had formed bonds. His lists of clientele ranged from royalty, country leaders of all varieties and dignitaries, to movie and rock stars, oil barons and business men.

Some men would genuinely come in to chat with Mr Peters for hours. Once he had ascertained that they were not there to select from his harem he would send us to the lounge. There were always a few men who said they were there to choose a lady but would sit with Mr Peters for hours, drinking his expensive scotch and flirting with us, then say, ‘I’ll come back later in the week and see who else is on.’ This annoyed Mr Peters no end. But he was too polite to say anything.

Occasionally he would say, ‘In his heyday, that Mr Singe would spend $10,000 a week here. I must be grateful to him.’ He was ever the gentleman.

When business in the office was slow you could always hold out hope that trusty Warren could get you a phone job. That’s where a client will ring up and request a girl or two to visit him at his home or hotel. Most men had particular ideas about what they were looking for. They may have a favourite girl or nationality. Sometimes it was simply a hair colour. A lot of the time, Warren or Mr Peters knew the client so well they knew exactly what type of girl to send. Occasionally it was gauged by price: ‘Don’t send me one of your $900 girls, tonight I am too drunk to appreciate her. I have $700, what can you do for me?’

Warren would call one of us over and instruct us to go to a certain address and to only charge him $700. He’d smile and say, ‘See you in an hour.’

Warren picked me more often than not and on one occasion I even had to go to Malaysia to see one of Warren’s old school friends.

It was such a joy to work there. Girls were forever flying off to India, Kuala Lumpur, Jakarta, Bali—anywhere and everywhere. It wasn’t uncommon to come home with a new Tag Heuer or at the very least some expensive new outfit or piece of jewellery. Asian men could be difficult clients but they could also be terribly generous.

My first client was a Singaporean man named Chan. He was very unassuming, impeccably dressed and softly spoken. He didn’t go in for much small talk like the others, rather he was a man on a mission, and he wanted a white girl with big breasts who had an air of the girl next door. He invited me to visit his home. I realised I had no idea when to broach the topic of fees. Was it inappropriate to declare my fee upfront, and if so, what should that fee be? I discreetly asked Warren for his suggestion, and he happily informed me that Chan was a regular and that he would probably just slip me $800 as he dropped me back.

Chan’s home was a palatial apartment overlooking the water that he shared with his out-of-town wife. They had no children. Every surface of his home was covered with expensive art works and ornaments from all over the world. His paintings were individually lit, he had numerous photos of himself shaking hands with other Asian men and dignitaries on display. I was left with the distinct impression that he was a definite someone.

Chan didn’t muck around. He ushered me into his boudoir, where he allowed me to undress myself. He watched attentively. He then undressed and got down to business. Within twenty minutes we were showering and returning to his Mercedes for the drive back to the office. Upon arrival, he handed me a wad of cash and thanked me for my time. I thought it gauche to count it in front of him, but every fibre in my being wanted to for fear of being ripped off. I refrained. Sure enough, I later found there was $800 in crisp US bills.

A week later Chan returned to the office, chatting with all the ladies available. Every now and then I observed him whisper into their ears a little something that I could not hear, and girl after girl would give a polite head shake. I was very curious, but in this environment it was not done to inquire about what was transpiring. Slowly he made his way over to me, and reluctantly made a little small talk about the humidity in Singapore. Then he leant over to whisper directly and quietly into my ear: ‘Would you let me film us having sex? It is just for my viewing pleasure, it will never be viewed by anyone but myself, I promise.’

My first reaction was hell no, but I wanted money, so I pondered for a moment. One arse was the same as another, so providing I kept my face out of the shot I should be fine. All things considered, I already had my face plastered on the internet, and in photographs in Mr Peters's photo album and god knows where else he had put them.

‘How much are you offering?’ I knew I was breaking the rules by even asking on the premises but surely this qualified as an exception.

‘I was thinking $1000 would be fair?’ I detected the rising of his voice at the end of the statement, like it was more of a question.

So I jumped: ‘I was thinking $1500.’

To my delight, he didn’t even take a moment to think, he just smiled and took my hand.

We returned to the same apartment and as before got down to business. He set up the cameras while I pictured the angles I would need to pose in to minimise my exposure. He could have as much boob and vagina as he wanted but my identity might come in handy one day.

I never saw the movie when it was complete—all eight minutes of it—but I think he was pleased with the raw nudity and gyrations. I also think he could tell friends that it was a pop star and no one would be any the wiser.

It wasn’t uncommon to go to two formal dinners a night. You quickly learnt to order small meals if you were taken to dinner at seven because chances are that you would be at yet another restaurant by eleven with an entirely new group of men.

I had been working at Mr Peters’s establishment for about four days when he invited me to move into his apartment with some of the other ladies. I was overjoyed, yet very cautious. At least in my own hotel I had some privacy. But the benefits far outweighed the negatives, for example, if you stayed in his apartment he would often call during the day and whoever was around got a job overseas or a quick $700 afternoon delight. The apartment was luxury plus. It was a three bedroom with gym, squash court, enormous pool, sauna and house maid.

Lilly was the maid. She was such a happy woman, always talking, but no one could understand what she was saying. Lilly had a pretty good thing going with Mr Peters. She had accumulated a fairly high gambling debt, so in return for her maintaining his apartments he would clear her debt. We of course were supposed to know none of this. After a couple of hours of vacuuming and washing and ironing, Lilly would stand there with her hand out. Once a week we paid her SING$25 each.

Little did Mr Peters know that she was making money out of the girls by telling us that her cleaning was on top of rent. I was her newest target.