by Geena Leigh
I faked orgasms when I was high or drunk, because my body got to the verge but the drugs and alcohol hindered the release. Later, when I was alcohol- and drug-free, I climaxed easily and frequently. It was stimulating having client after client desiring, paying and wanting to please me. I felt like I was the queen and they were my adoring, agreeable subjects. And I kept coming back for more.
It was a nocturnal lifestyle. There were no doors, windows or clocks in The Club. The real world was shut out. The grilled bars in the entrance and reception area necessitated that each person had to be buzzed in or out. The Club was something like a casino, yet more like a prison. In some of the other clubs, the girls didn’t even have names—they had numbers. They would line up and hold a card with a number on it. ‘Number three’ the client would say and off they would go. We had a similar line-up at The Club; they were called intros. They were essentially for men who didn’t want to go into the bar area—ones who were looking for a more discreet introduction.
I felt incredibly awkward doing intros. I rarely got jobs that way and I didn’t really want them. Some girls were really good at it and got them every time. I needed a few minutes to check the guy out, to ensure (as best as I could) that he wasn’t a psycho, before going and being naked and alone with him. I also liked the seduction phase of getting a job (maybe that’s why they called it ‘The Game’). I liked looking eagerly into his eyes, drawing him in with my smile, lightly touching his leg and asking to whisk him away for pleasure. My system worked, so I opted out of the intros and stuck to my routine.
In the dimly lit establishment, time would become irrelevant yet it was all about the time. Did they want to stay half an hour or an hour? Did they want to extend? Time’s up! Some of the women would encourage longer visits, but I would cringe when a client paid for two or more hours up-front—I preferred brief encounters. If they spent all their cash at reception I would feel anxious thinking that they wouldn’t have any more money to pay me for the extra services I offered in the room. I would encourage visits of one hour to begin with, and told them we could take it from there.
It was just business. It was a legal job and I paid tax. We provided a specific service at an agreed upon (pre-paid only) price. We were selling an experience. It was about marketing (my body), sales (closing the deal) and upselling (extras). Most things were on the table. Striptease, bondage, whips, dress-ups and lesbian shows were popular requests. About once a week a married couple, a lesbian or a physically challenged man would come in among the regular clientele. Although I’d had pleasurable sexual experiences with women before, the girls at work were all straight and the lesbian shows were purely acting. Sitting on a client’s lap in pigtails and calling him ‘Daddy’ made me feel a little ill. Being slapped in the face only happened once; I wouldn’t allow it to happen again.
At first, I was a little freaked out by the men with foot fetishes, by the ones who liked to wear ladies’ clothing or those who fucked while inhaling amyl nitrate, and by those who liked to be tied up and beaten. The foot-fetish guys didn’t give a damn about my breasts or vagina. They were the least physically demanding jobs, and I rarely even got naked—I would take off my stockings and hooker heels, and lie on the bed while the client marvelled at and lightly stroked my seemingly exquisite feet. When he became highly excited, I would press my feet together tightly as he pushed his cock in and out through the space in the middle of them until he came.
I still do not understand the allure of feet, nor of even half the unusual requests that got the guys off. I have no idea why some men like to be beaten, to wear nappies, to have me urinate in their mouths or be ridiculed. I didn’t have to understand it, though—I just had to do it. At least the peculiar fetishes broke up the monotony of blow jobs, missionary and doggy-style positions. After a while, I met all requests with indifference, because nothing could really shock me anymore.
Men used to wait hours for me to become available and they would make bookings days in advance. Over time, they would spend hundreds or thousands of dollars to be with me. I liked the attention, the compliments and being chosen first. It made me feel wanted. It made me feel special. When I got back to my apartment at the end of a long shift, however, I felt tarnished, depleted and incredibly lonely.
At The Club, officially we were only allowed to charge extra money for golden showers (urinating on the client) or anal sex, but men would pay me more money for things that other girls did for free. The Club charged the client $170 for half an hour; the house got $80 and the girl $90. The Club charged $330 for the hour; the house got $160 and the girl got $170. My personal standard fee was $150 for extras (when I could get it) and it ranged to as much as I could get, making my hourly wage usually $320. If a job was a half-hour booking, our cut was $90 and I’d add my $150 fee on top of that. Two half-hour bookings with extras, therefore, would prove to be more profitable than an hour job; however, it was demanding on my body and mind.
Most of the clients accepted the offer for extras; it was all about timing. As the client lay naked on the bed watching me I would slip off my dress to reveal sexy lingerie; I would pour two glasses of champagne and wander around the room, reaching up to turn on the porn channel, twirling around to turn up the music and suggestively bending over to straighten the bath mat. I would then offer a striptease (even though I was already almost naked), kissing (‘the girlfriend experience’) and a vibrator show as the usual extras. I convincingly told them, ‘I’ll make it lots of fun for you,’ and assured them I would take great care of them. If a client wanted anything out of the ordinary he would ask and, if I agreed, we’d negotiate on top of that. I promised a fun time, and I delivered.
I wasn’t every guy’s type; however, I was the first choice for most of the men. It seemed that most men like tall, slim blondes (they rarely knew I was wearing a wig) with a full-looking cleavage. The reality of my cleavage was not that impressive once my bra was removed, because I stuffed it with fake rubber boobs that looked like pale pink chicken fillets. Once the client had paid at the reception desk, I would lead him to a room while I discreetly took the fillets out along the hallway and slipped them into my handbag. When we were in the room, the guy was so happy that he got to see actual boobs that he wouldn’t complain about how they had considerably diminished in size within the past five minutes.
There were often requests for anal sex. If the guy had a penis the size of a pinky finger, I considered it; but I could get the same amount of money doing a striptease or a vibrator show, so I rarely bothered. The number of clients who liked to be peed on was ridiculously large. They liked a girl to pee on their stomach or face. Lots of girls would get stage fright and couldn’t do it, but I derived a sense of power from it. Performing golden showers became one of my specialities—to this day, I can still pee on cue.
Refusing to see clients was a delicate issue. The Club would be furious if they knew we were turning away business. But there were some people you just knew you wouldn’t mesh with, or they might be too drunk or too high, which meant they’d be really hard work. Or sometimes they were just too damned ugly.
When I stopped drinking alcohol and taking drugs, there suddenly became a heck of a lot more ugly men around Sydney. I felt a little sorry for some of these guys, because being rejected is never nice. Usually I could avoid an ugly client without confrontation, by organising another job or hiding in the kitchen. Sometimes I would say to him that I was unavailable or waiting for a booking to arrive, which was kind of true. If none of those tactics worked, I would say something like, ‘Wow—you look exactly like my brother/ father/ex-boyfriend. I’m sorry, it would be really weird for me to have sex with you.’ He would seem to understand. There would no doubt be some other girl who had an overdue bill to pay and who wouldn’t be half as picky as me that evening.
Drugs were rampant. Clients would usually be the ones to bring them in. They thought that the higher they could get me, the more they could get away with. Sometimes they were right. Somet
imes I really wanted to escape reality and took as much as I possibly could inhale/snort/inject without dying. The men would insist on me taking the drug with them—‘So we’ll be on the same level,’ they would say. But sometimes I didn’t want to be out of it, so I would lean over the coke with a rolled-up note; my wig would fall, covering my face, and I would make nostril-inhaling noises while simultaneously sweeping the line of coke away with my pinky. Then I’d run my hand through the wig, saying, ‘Woo hoo!’
It wasn’t easy not to snort coke—it used to be as common as brushing my teeth. But the guy was usually so out of it that he had no idea I was pretending. I could have easily got 1 to 3 years if the police had ever shaken the contents of that wig out on an evidence table. When I became alcohol-free, I would sip lemonade out of champagne flutes. Or tip the alcohol into the spa, the ice bucket, or even onto the carpet when they weren’t looking.
When I was totally clear of drugs (at age thirty-five), I generally stayed away from the party bookings. I just couldn’t relate to the craziness anymore, and it was exhausting having to pretend to be drunk or high for hours. It was also too much of a health risk at parties, with multiple hands and things going everywhere. The less control of the situation I had, the less happy I became. I soon learned to make more money in a shorter time frame, working solo and adding additional services.
Most of the women would seek to generate repeat business and encourage long bookings with their clients. I wasn’t so keen on this as they were, but I sometimes did long bookings. This meant that I would have to talk a lot and have sex a number of times with the same person, which often meant it was harder work each time. Sometimes the clients just liked to chat; sometimes we both fell asleep for a while.
It wasn’t always busy and the money didn’t always flow easily. There would be some nights when we would sit around on the crimson velvet sofas under the dim lights drinking cheap champagne, listening to music and watching the porn for hours, waiting for a client to walk in. Even though The Club was generally busy, you never really knew when another client would strut, shuffle or stammer in. When it was busy, it was best to milk it. One really big night could easily equate to three crappy ones. One of the worst things that you could hear the next day was, ‘After you left last night, it was packed till 5 a.m.’
There were some nights when I didn’t make even a dollar. We couldn’t figure out the pattern. It wasn’t determined by how confident we felt or how hot (we thought) we looked. I could be feeling really low, or having a really Bad Wig Day and I would be fully booked all night. Sometimes I looked great, felt super-confident and would endure rejection after rejection. We were discussing this mystery one dull Tuesday evening and became certain that it had something to do with our ovulation cycles. But after a few more drinks, no-one really cared what the reasons could be.
Some women were on the pill, some weren’t. I didn’t see a real need to be because I insisted on condoms every time. Guys frequently offered extra money to have an ‘au natural’ blow job or sex (without a condom), but there was nothing natural about that to me. Even just the thought of having a client’s condom-free penis in my mouth or pussy made me gag. Latex was an essential physical and psychological barrier for me. No amount of money offered would ever be enough to place me in the position of being (even more) vulnerable to contracting a disease.
One essential purchase for working girls every month is a natural sea sponge from the chemist (there was usually a drawer full of them kept at reception at The Club). The beauty of using sponges is that girls can still work while they have their periods. Otherwise they’d be forced to take three to five days off every month whether they wanted to or not, and that would significantly reduce their income. I’d rinse the sea sponge under warm water, squeeze it tightly in the palm of my hand, part my legs and push it deep into my vagina—not too deep, though. It was a delicate balance to push it deep enough to stay put but not so deep that my own hand couldn’t delve inside to fish it out later. Then you dig it out, rinse and re-insert after each client. At least once a week there would be a girl who had pushed a sponge too deep, or she had a client with a long cock who had pushed it up as he thrust himself inside her, lodging it beyond reach. The girl would either command help from Lori (an American girl who had unusually long arms and was highly experienced at retrieving such items) or she went to the doctor’s the following morning. The doctor would rummage around her uterus seeking to retrieve the soggy blood-soaked sponge and eventually pull it out with plastic tongs.
Economic fluctuations did affect the volume of clients—it tended to weed out the time wasters. The weather was important too—only the super-horny men would come out in the rain. It’s like in real estate or car sales—if someone is out shopping in the rain, they’re serious prospects. If it was a slow night, we would remind ourselves that we knew that men would always want sex, so they were bound to come in at some point. And the women who were willing to wait the longest would generally succeed.
The other woman had more patience than I did on the slow nights. I hated being in that place at the best of times. I hated the control and lure it had over me. I enjoyed the money, attention and feeling desired, but the work itself depleted my soul. I was always concerned about the health risks. All of these feelings would be even stronger on a quiet night. When it was quiet we would sit around drinking and watching porn, but I could do that at home in the comfort of my pyjamas instead of having a wig stuck to my head and wearing a bra two sizes too small (so my cleavage would look even more impressive) and having to re-position my sweaty fake boobs all the time. If it became too boring, I’d sneak out the back door and leave with zero money and come back another night. They never told me off for leaving early—the receptionists knew I’d be back soon enough.
Nine times out of ten, as soon as a client finished he would feel guilty. Or maybe he’d just realise how much money he’d spent and was wondering how he was going to explain the $950 charge to Catering Delights on his credit card to his wife. He’d want to get out of The Club as soon as humanly possible and he’d race out the door, sometimes without even tying his shoelaces or buttoning his shirt. Sometimes a client would lose a sock or his underwear—perhaps I’d already wrapped it up with the laundry and placed it in the hamper by mistake; there was no way I was going to rummage through all that gross dirty linen—but they didn’t mind; they thought it was kind of funny going home with no underwear or only wearing one sock. How would they explain that to their wife? It was a game for them too.
A few clients rushed out the door taking my lingerie with them as some kind of trophy. I had to keep back-ups in my locker. Sometimes they purchased my panties, like it was some Sydney tourist souvenir. Occasionally a paranoid client would tie the used condom in a knot and take it with him, as if his sperm were liquid gold.
I would usually begin the job straightaway, hoping to get it over with quickly so I could get another job or have a snack. Sometimes this backfired and the client wanted another round. After sex the client would shower; they’d often saunter around and take forever to get out and get dressed. To encourage them to hurry up, I would sit near their wallet. This would generally make them nervous and they would get out quicker. If they took forever getting dressed, I would tell them that my boss would fine me for getting out of the room late. They would usually feel sorry for me or they’d think that this fee would then be passed on to them, so they would get dressed faster.
Some clients got so drunk that they passed out, and I couldn’t wake them. If it was a quiet night, they could just sleep it off in the room and I would go and get a new client. Sometimes I had multiple jobs running in three different rooms—I’m quite good at multitasking. Sometimes The Club would charge the client for the additional hours they slept; he wouldn’t have been happy when his next credit card statement arrived.
Sometimes, guys who came in had been drinking for hours and smelled really bad. It was obvious that there was no chance they’d ever get it up�
��they often took so damned long to take off even one sock. I had little patience for that; it wasn’t up to me to undress or dress them, for goodness sake. The only good thing about the drunk guys was that, when they took off their pants, they would lose all the money out of their pockets, which I would push under the bed and gather up for myself after they left.
A couple of guys were so drunk that they threw up in the sink, which was terribly unsexy. A couple even soiled themselves. Every now and then a girl would tell us that her client had been sick in the spa and the spa had to be drained and cleaned, which took hours and put that room out of play for a while. There was an urban brothel myth about a drunk guy who was doing a girl doggy-style and then he puked all over her back. That was too much. After hearing that, I didn’t see the dangerously-close-to-puking ones again.
The clients often wanted us to shower together after sex. ‘We’re not allowed to,’ I lied. It just felt too intimate. Also, I didn’t want them to get aroused again. Some things I did out of necessity, such as peeing in the shower. I figured a drain is a drain. The guys didn’t mind, they usually did too. Once I did a double with Lily, a well-educated, uptight hooker. She was shocked at my behaviour—‘Sasha, that’s disgusting!’ It’s not as if we were in the Queen’s presence—it was just some fat-bellied drunk client. ‘Chillax!’ I said, laughing at her disapproval. It was hard to accept that she was standing on the moral high ground or to take her snooty attitude seriously, given that there was a dollop of lube stuck to her hair.
The other women usually debriefed together after each client. Occasionally I joined in if there was something funny to share, such as a client with one of those real bendy penises. You couldn’t tell it was a bendy one when they were flaccid, but when they were erect they would go off in strange directions. It was so awkward to fuck a guy who had a bendy one and it could be incredibly uncomfortable—I’d have to manoeuvre my body into different positions, just to try to get into a rhythm for a basic fuck and to avoid the feeling that a penis was jutting out of the side of my uterus.