Mattress Actress (30 page)

On occasion I had to replace phone girls who graduated from their studies or simply moved on, and this was a daunting task. It really does take some mental and emotional calisthenics to be so detached that the weirdos on the phone don’t bother you. To recognise a wanker—someone who calls for phone sex—immediately and not get drawn into his fantasy, is a learnt skill. A trained ear can hear his breathing pattern and the tone of his questions. You might be wrong occasionally so it always pays to be polite for a while.

Another wanker giveaway is the incredible amount of detail that the gentleman requires over the phone. ‘What colour are your nipples? Can you describe your breasts?’ Sometime for shits and giggles we’d play along describing a glamorous girl, and then commence describing the added appendage: ‘And my cock is seven inches long and two and a half inches round, do you like cock?’ That usually got them to hang up and never bother us again.

Many girls failed to last an entire day as a phone girl. Some were honest—‘Look this just isn’t for me’—but more often than not they made up an excuse that made them sound non-judgemental, like, ‘I’ve been accepted for another position that starts tomorrow, thanks for the opportunity, it was loads of fun.’ I couldn’t hold anything against them, it can definitely be a tough gig.

The most common requests were: golden showers (urinating on a client), girlfriend experience (kissing with or without tongue), couples, and Greek. Of about 150 calls a day approximately a third of the calls will request natural services (no condom). This means if they are asking, someone is providing it!

Once a week a caller would inquire about the appearance of my feet. Clients with foot fetishes were very specific as to the type of feet that they were seeking. ‘Are your feet attractive?’

I’d ask them to define their idea of attractive feet. Every client would have a different answer; some would insist that for a foot to be attractive the second toe must be smaller than the big toe, others that the foot must be thin so that when a toe wiggles, you can see the tendons react. Often clients would insist that you remove your nail polish so they could see the pink below the nail bed, while others would specify a particular colour they wanted you to wear—of course that’s extra. The foot fetish clients rarely debated the price, they were eager to indulge in a truly sexy pair of feet. My additional rate for this particular fantasy was $50, the client rarely stayed more than twenty minutes and never required you to be naked, there was no penetration or even the requirement for me to touch the client. They were only interested in me from the ankle down.

The hardest part of this particular fantasy was keeping a straight face. I am particularly ticklish on the base of my foot, so to have a dick rubbing up and down it made me want to burst into a giggling mess. The best way to tackle this issue was to have the client sit on the floor while I lay on the bed with my knees bent over the edge and a pillow under my shoulders. That way my head was bent back so my face was out of view—and biting a pillow worked wonders. The clients preferred this position too because normally they didn’t like to be watched as they got off. After a minute or two I’d adjust to the ticklishness, but still it was confusing as to what I was required to do. Obviously I was not meant to moan as I would when being shagged. Instead I generally commented on their smooth touch. If I was successful in pleasing the foot fetish client, they were a gold mine, and would visit every week like clockwork.

Another odd request that sounded very tempting and lucrative from the onset was the personal slave fantasy. A client would phone and request to be my personal slave for anything from one day to a week. They wanted to be able to be completely and utterly at my beck and call. Mostly they wanted to clean my house from top to bottom, with an almost OCD attention to the smallest speck of mildew or dust. They would also mow and weed my garden and my guttering if that’s what I asked them to do. If I needed clothing alterations or ironing, nothing was too difficult, going to the shops for me, cooking the weekly meals; you name it, even cleaning the car was thrown in, all they asked in return was that I check up on them every twenty minutes or so, tell them that they were doing a half-arsed job, and to be more thorough. For this little fantasy that required no sex they’d pay me $200 a day. Once a month I’d get one of these calls, but I rarely took them up on it as I’m just not a domineering person, or overly critical. Plus I don’t trust strangers dusting and alphabetising my CD collection.

Once was enough for me. I had a gentleman arrive at eight fifteen am sharp with a ute full of cleaning products, ladders, lawn-mowers, edgers, industrial steamers, a box full of toothbrushes for the intricate corners. He would leave at seven fifteen pm, and didn’t stop for lunch but I threw him a muffin at one point and told him not to get crumbs on the carpet. He was very thankful for my benevolence. While he toiled away, I could find no fault in his work, it was immaculate. All I could think to complain about was his timing—what would ordinarily take me twenty minutes was taking him two hours. ‘Are you still working on this floor, why are you taking so long? Move faster, or I will kick your arse out of this house, I think you are just wasting my time, are you cleaning or playing with yourself?’

‘No, miss, I’m trying to clean it properly, it’s just so dirty.’

‘Are you calling me a slob? Stop complaining and get back to work and be quicker about it.’

If you played your role well these clients would beg to return every month and offer you more money for the privilege.

Golden showers were one of my no can do services. I put that little trick into my too hard basket. I tried, since the money was too good not to have a crack. Traditionally, the client will pay the time fee plus an extra $150 for the fantasy of the golden shower. My first attempt was when working in Felicity’s. The client rang ahead to confirm his order, which was not uncommon. This gave the girl time to fill up on fluids for a good half an hour. My beverage of choice was coffee.

I was raring to go half an hour before the client was due, damn my hummingbird-sized bladder. By the time he arrived, I was doing the two step all the way up the stairs, and I couldn’t get my clothes off quick enough, but my client wanted to play it slow and be seduced. No one had explained to me how this was supposed to go down. Was I supposed to lay a plastic sheet on the bed? I quickly caught on when he presented himself in the prone position in the spa. My bladder was so distended I was dying to unleash, so I straddled him and begged for release. Alas nothing would happen, I had a serious case of stage fright. To my surprise the client was lying in wait with his face just inches from my vagina. I decided that perhaps my bladder just needed a little probing, so I slipped the condom on and tried a little encouraging penile pressure.

Still no luck, but the client had blown his load, and no longer felt the thundering need to be naughty and brazen. He stood up and got out of the spa. But I was desperate not to return a penny of his hard-earned cash, so while he was dressing, I ran the shower above the spa. This was the trigger I needed.

‘Hey, John,’ I called out. He turned back to me in time to watch me release what felt like a litre and a half of what was once strong black coffee. I had fulfilled my end of the bargain, the client seemed happy, I was getting paid and to top it off I felt like I had lost three kilos. But this was not a practice that I wanted to make a regular feature in my sexual repertoire.

About once a month a client would phone and make inquiries about group sex and the charges. A lot of them believed that if I charged $400 per hour, the four friends could split the fee to $100 each. No, sir, you pay per dick! Or they could pay $100 to simply watch and not touch. That would usually eliminate fifty per cent of the punters. However, the other fifty per cent were determined to live out their fantasy of sharing a girl with their mates. It was hard work trying to please so many individuals, even if it was only two at a time, so I always maintained that the service was available but there was a one-hour minimum. This made for a great day’s income for me and the reality was that in any group of three or more there would always be at least one gentleman who suffered stage fright.

I was never abused in these situations, nor did I have one moment of fear. From the outset the clients were aware that there was another person in the house—though they never knew if that other person was female or male, plus they knew I had their cash and they wanted to get their money’s worth. They were made fully aware that I didn’t offer anal, and any attempt to break my rules would incur the wrath of my offsider. Or perhaps I had just been lucky. Most groups were simply happy to take turns, compare dick size, laugh at each other’s poor form, ejaculate and leave.

Some groups of gentlemen also wanted to come in groups but abstain from sex, just wanting to watch me doing my own thing while they did their own thing. This was also a nice little earner, as the rate was the same price as a full service, the only difference being that the minimum time frame was half an hour.

There was a plethora of odd and not so odd requests that came through the phone daily. Most were fairly tame attire requests: lacy knickers, suspenders and stockings, stilettos, high boots, G-string, even bikini parade requests. I’ve even had gentlemen bring over their former partner’s dresses for me to wear. Some got a little racy with their love of all things rubber or latex. It was not uncommon for a client to shop around for a girl who met the size of clothing he liked to buy. I was always nervous about the personal hygiene of some of the women who’d worn the item before me but what the hell.

The items that arrived with the clients were revered as though they were magic. Clients ever so reluctantly released them into your care with a silent prayer that you wouldn’t damage them. But these were by no means Dolce and Gabbana, they were straight from the window of any adult shop and generally adorned with at least one pompom. The biggest challenge was trying to keep a straight face while you stood there looking all of $49.99—marked down. Meanwhile, the client was in raptures, flogging himself mercilessly. These were one-hour appointments, which involved twenty minutes of dressing, ten minutes of modelling, fifteen minutes of undressing.

What might appear crazy to me was not always crazy to the client. I cannot tell you how many clients were prepared to spend an entire hour just massaging me. God bless them. They’d often bring in their own homemade oils or lotions, scented with a perfume or essence that perhaps reminded them of a past romance. Rarely was it a comfortable massage but there were worse ways to spend an hour. These clients often only wanted to satisfy me, and rarely requested any penetration, but rather would give me a forty-five-minute massage followed by a good little nibble and, once they believed I’d climaxed, just wanted a good hug. Played out correctly, these clients would return fortnightly like clockwork, often bearing gifts of jewellery, flowers, scarves or other such girly presents.

Young men were the ones I had to watch. Young men think they invented sex, so I knew that I had my work cut out when they booked me for the hour. I noticed a growing number of young healthy clients who’d spend an hour then insist on removing the condom themselves at the end, tying it in a knot, and placing it in a zip-lock bag.

While I thought it was odd I very much understood their thinking. I was familiar with a working girl who had commandeered a client’s semen to impregnate herself, thus justifying a $100,000 a year income for child maintenance from some poor soul. In fact, she abused three different clients’ trust. I’m pretty sure this was not any sort of Darwinian natural selection for a better gene pool, this was purely financial selection at its worst.

I later learnt that the clients who took their used condoms with them were professional athletes who were fearful of rape accusations or paternity entrapment. This was not only self-preservation but also a directive given to them by coaches and managers.

I was inundated with professional athletes, and at one stage I even asked if my number had been posted on the locker room wall. I was informed that they had all been warned not to seek out one night stands and rather to frequent girls like myself. This was a good wicket for me—handsome, virile, well-to-do young men who paid for an hour and left in twenty minutes with condom in tow.

Not that sex with these young men didn’t come with its own problems. Imagine riding a three-minute roller coaster with a blindfold on, you can’t anticipate which direction to brace for next—that was what it is like being shagged by a super strong athlete who had watched way too much porn for his own good. You also got the young jackrabbit approach to sex, which was equally unpleasant, and akin to feeling an epileptic go into convulsions right there on top of you. Every now and then I had to stop proceedings and delicately inform the client that lessons were going to be $10 extra. Most of the clients welcomed a bit of constructive criticism because they wanted to be better lovers. Sometimes they would phone me and say: ‘Got time for a lesson today, Cleo?’

Some clients were of the opinion that I had no right to complain or request better service from a paying customer. I would totally agree however clients were paying for my time and intimacy, not the right to hurt or abuse me. If there was the slightest possibility that I was going to receive a nasty case of whiplash from some young, overeager, porn-addicted novice that would put me out of work for a week I was going to speak up. Clients often wanted to give my ample derriere a playful pat, but if they intended to leave a welt, I wanted a warning so I could give a lecture on my boundaries. Same went for pinning me on the bed—no problem done in moderation but if I was in pain, the client quickly copped an ear bashing, and failing that, a knee to the nuts.

I once had a client debate this issue with me after he bit my neck and left a dreadful bruise. He insisted that because he was paying I should just cop it sweet. I responded: ‘You have the right to fuck me, not to hurt me. Listen arsehole, you want B and D that’s $400 extra, so pay up or I will have you for assault.’ We settled on $200.