Call Me Sasha: Secret Confessions of an Australian Callgirl

by Geena Leigh

  Tony Robbins came back to Sydney a couple of weeks after the Olympics had finished, and I took the weekend off and volunteered as crew to support the other participants at the seminar. There were more than 200 volunteers and we all were energised and grateful for what we had learned from Tony.

  Among the crew I heard many success stories of how they had grown their business or rekindled their relationships due to his teachings. I didn’t have a success story to share at that point, but being surrounded by happy people was relatively new for me, and their energy and optimism was infectious. It was wonderful to feel I belonged somewhere (other than in a brothel) and I made some friends (who weren’t drug-crazed hookers). I also got to watch some of the seminar again, which reinforced Tony’s teachings for me. It was strange how every time I walked into the room I heard exactly what I needed to hear—phrases including, ‘Do what is necessary and you will get there,’ or ‘Your level of happiness is in direct proportion to the amount of uncertainty you can comfortably live with.’

  I continued to crew events in Sydney for many years; I also flew to the United States to crew for three events, and once in London, and I also spent about four months in Tony’s resort in Fiji, volunteering at one of his health seminars called ‘Life Mastery’. The university posted my textbooks to me in Fiji and I studied on my days off. I felt like a fraud when I vouched for Tony so highly, because my life was still not where I wanted it to be. I was making progress, though. I just loved being in this environment, which was healing for me, and by contributing to others I started to feel purposeful, needed and, I guess, wanted.

  At first my mum was concerned that I’d joined a cult, but then she saw how happy it made me. Nine years later, after she’d heard me ranting and raving about Tony all that time, she stopped worrying. I later became part of the leadership program; there I assisted participants with one-on-one coaching as they went through their own emotional challenges.

  I’m actually not the best spokesperson for Tony and his events, because I had to go to about thirty of them before I actually used his teachings to create and sustain positive changes in my life. I chose to hold on to my ‘prostitution problem’ for many more years. The problem was linked to my identity—if I didn’t have prostitution, I had no idea how I would earn money, so I feared ending up homeless again. However, at the time, the more I immersed myself in the Tony Robbins environment, the happier I became. I was able to make some close friends who are still friends to this day. Participating and volunteering at the events served their purpose in my life, and helped me open up to people. After a while I realised that I simply didn’t need that environment as much as I had. The decision to stop volunteering gave me a great sense of empowerment. I was ready to try to be the happy person I had learned to be in the real world.

  17

  Never date a client, age 31

  It was a quiet Monday night at work and Lateesha was pouring us all another glass of champagne. Lateesha was as white as a cloud and desperately wanted to be African American. She would black-talk like she was from the Bronx, even though she was born and bred in Parramatta and had never been outside Australia. She would say, ‘Hey, girl!’ and ‘I don’t think so,’ with the swipe of her hand. She was making us all laugh as she recounted the time when she accidentally let go of a vibrator when it was up a client’s butt. (It’s easy enough to lose your grip with all the lube over the place—it can get quite slippery.) I’d heard this story twice before, but it made me laugh so much every time.

  She had gone with the client to the emergency ward at St Vincent’s Hospital to get it taken out. It had vibrated all the way there in the taxi; the poor guy must have been freaking out. Most of the girls (probably me included) wouldn’t have left work to go with him to the hospital—we would have wished him luck at the door as he left. Seeing this compassionate side of Lateesha made me like her more. She said that the hospital staff were surprisingly unperturbed; the hospital was just up the road from Darlinghurst and Kings Cross, so they’d seen this scenario many times before.

  Lateesha loosened the cork off another bottle of champagne. All the girls were enthralled by her story and were laughing around the bar when three guys in their early thirties came in. One had shaved bleached-blond hair like Eminem and the other two had dark, metrosexual-styled hair. They looked sultry, dressed in black suit pants with crisp black shirts. A waft of woody cologne hung in the air long after they walked past. As I inhaled the fragrance I remembered Lateesha once telling me about one of her (many) superstitions: ‘The stronger the cologne, the more of a prick,’ she would say. I hadn’t yet decided whether her theory was valid. Many of the ladies were superstitious. Some baseball players and footballers might always play in the same socks or say a prayer before a game; similarly, some of the girls at The Club had their ‘lucky dress’ or ‘lucky lingerie’ or ‘lucky nipple clamps’, and their own type of ritual before each shift. I’m not superstitious at all.

  The women instinctively ditched Lateesha mid-sentence and began to clamber all over the guys. She wasn’t offended—the potential to earn money always took precedence. The Eminem lookalike gently took my hand and whispered, ‘Choose two others and let’s go.’ I signalled to Simone and Jenny, and we led the guys to one of the large party-sized rooms for five or six hours.

  Simone would turn up at work each week showing us all her latest nail designs. This week they had silver stars and teeny rainbows. Simone was harmless and entertaining, so she was good in a party room. She would chat loudly to anyone who would listen. She liked the attention, which suited me because, if someone else was doing all the talking, then I didn’t have to. If she talked too much, a guy would inevitably tell her to ‘Suck my dick’ and we’d all get some reprieve for a while. Whether we fucked for four minutes or forty—we got paid the same amount of money, so the less wear and tear on our bodies the better.

  Jenny was overweight and had a more mellow personality, and her natural long locks of platinum-blonde hair were the envy of every girl in there. She was from New Zealand, estranged from her family, and was a raging alcoholic, so she and I bonded in a dysfunctional kind of way. She didn’t earn much money; she just did the minimum to pay her rent, partly because her excess weight repelled many of the clients. But she was fine with that. She hated the work and was desperately trying to get out of the industry. I wasn’t a good example for her on how to get out—I was stuck like a rat running around on its plastic wheel. We had a friendly relationship at work and sometimes chatted outside of work and met up for lunch. We even had nicknames for each other—she called me Geena G-string and I called her Jenny Jockstrap. I sometimes got her into jobs; not out of kindness, but because she didn’t mind getting pounded.

  Adele and Lateesha didn’t mind it either. They were always grateful for the work and I was grateful for them being ‘buffer hoes’. I didn’t call them buffer hoes to their faces, yet that was essentially what they were to me. It was a win–win situation. I was good at closing the deal and facilitating jobs, and they were good at fucking for long periods of time without flinching. I have no idea how they did it. Adele would wear baroque corsets and her breasts, the size of human heads, would burst out of the top. She was a highly strung, chain-smoking single mum and could usually be seen pacing near the entrance to The Club, oozing desperation.

  For lesbian doubles I would choose the Asians, Mia or Chanel. Mia was draped in sexiness. I didn’t understand how anyone could resist her full lips or generous breasts. She was often overlooked because she appeared aloof, even a little arrogant. She was simply shy and didn’t understand much English. I took advantage of her under-rated beauty whenever possible. Chanel had an infectious laugh, loved designer brands and liked to drink. Jobs with those girls would involve lots of champagne and giggling.

  Although I enjoyed enticing the clients, the actual intercourse was the part I least liked. I couldn’t relax or trust them. My body didn’t want them inside me. My muscles would tense, rejecting them. Giv
ing blow jobs wasn’t much fun either—many of the guys would be so blasé about trimming their groin regions that my hands would need to trek through the Amazon to find their penis. I opted for tender wrists, rather than a sore pussy or an aching mouth. I avoided the fit and muscular clients, even though I was attracted to some of them, because they had way too much stamina. The aim was to keep as low a mileage on my body as possible.

  Often just the thought of going to a hooker was so exciting for a guy that he wouldn’t be able to last long. If it went on for more than three or four minutes, I’d up the dirty talk, moan convincingly and lightly squeeze their balls. If that didn’t work, I’d tell them about a Great Idea—I’d flip them over on their back and give them hand relief while casually slipping a finger (with a condom covering it) up their butt.

  This drove most men wild. It was generally a highly effective technique, compelling them to climax within moments. A few of them freaked out and didn’t enjoy it. A few freaked out and enjoyed it, which left them feeling a little bewildered and questioning their sexuality. But sometimes nothing would work and I just had to handle it, like a boxer who just takes it, getting pummelled until the bell rings.

  ‘Time’s up!’ I would say.

  ‘Can I extend?’ they would sometimes ask.

  ‘Aw, that would be nice, except I have to go out on a booking. I’ll find you another girl, though—someone really hot.’ Then I would grab one of the buffer hoes. As much as I hated the work, I was good at it—and I liked being good at something.

  Luckily the job with the Eminem guy, Martin, ended up being hardly any sex and lots of cocaine. I actually relaxed a little around them. No-one is allowed to date a client, but all the women have done it at some point. I usually couldn’t stand the clients at work, let alone outside of it, but Martin grew on me. He was polite and we had fun together, so I gave him my number. He took me out and we wined and dined like regular people. He was very sociable and it was nice to have some company.

  However, his sociability ended up being a crutch for him—he couldn’t stand being alone for a moment. Whenever we were out, I’d come back from the bathroom to find that he had struck up a conversation with anyone who’d participate. He was also super-flirtatious with all pretty women, and I quickly grew tired of it. I started to feel used. He didn’t appreciate me; he wasn’t there to be with me—he was there to avoid being by himself. There was no way I could trust him in a relationship.

  Martin came over to my place one afternoon with a sports bag of clothes and a 2-kilogram bag of cocaine. He said he needed somewhere to stay for a few days while his place was being renovated. I knew there wasn’t anything long-term between us, but I couldn’t resist drugs when they were dangled in front of me. We snorted line after line, day after day. Days turned into weeks and we (I) began to experience a little cabin fever in the house. Martin was needy and talked nonstop; he wouldn’t even give me space to have a shower. He followed me around like my puppy did, except he was worse—even my puppy would find a hairbrush or leather shoe to gnaw on for entertainment every now and then.

  I was going to uni lectures half-wired and couldn’t concentrate. Showing up at class, sitting with my head in my hands while attempting to learn via osmosis was absurd. Being physically present while my mind was on Mars was not going to get me a pass in the course. I called Jenny and told her about my situation. She was always empathetic, which I appreciated, but what I needed was someone to give it to me straight.

  If Jenny had been dating a creep like Martin, I would have told her to kick him to the kerb long ago. She was being kind, but I needed tough love, something like: ‘Geena, you’re totally screwing up your life. That guy is a loser. He is leeching off you, he doesn’t care about you. If you keep going the way you’re going, your nose will cave in and you’re going to totally fuck up university!’

  Things finally came to a head one night when Martin went out to meet some of his friends and I stayed in doing an assignment. At 1 a.m. he hadn’t come home. At 3 a.m. he still wasn’t back. At 5 a.m. he traipsed in the door with lipstick all over his face. At last I had a good excuse to break up with him. I packed all his belongings into green garbage bags and placed them in the hall. He was incredibly hung-over and was shivering.

  ‘Take your bags and leave,’ I told him. He whined and begged to sleep for a while, telling me he’d leave later, but I wasn’t interested. ‘You have five minutes before all your gear is on the street.’

  He stormed out of the house a few moments later and drove off in my old Corolla. I’d bought a new car and had placed an ad in the paper to sell the Corolla. He had taken the registration papers for it from my purse (along with my money) and had transferred the car into his name by ten o’clock that morning.

  I went to the Newtown Courthouse for advice. An officer searched his name and advised me that Martin was awaiting trial for fraud: ‘He’s got seventeen charges against him—he’s going in.’ It was shocking to hear, but suddenly a lot of things made sense.

  No wonder he was out of his mind on drugs all the time. He was facing a jail sentence and must have been freaking out. I realised that everything he’d ever said to me was a load of rubbish. He didn’t own the Zanzibar—he was a bartender there. He wasn’t renovating his home—his ex-girlfriend had kicked him out and he was homeless.

  Regardless of his problems, I pursued the matter legally and he was served with papers to appear in court on a theft charge. But Martin didn’t show up to that or any of his court appearances. I was informed that he had had a drug overdose and died a few days earlier.

  I rang Jenny and told her what had happened. She was kind to comfort me. Even though Martin had treated me poorly, my eyes welled up and tears made my pillowcase damp.

  I needed to get away from Sydney for a while. I transferred my university course from UNSW to Queensland Institute of Technology in Brisbane for a semester and drove up north with my dog. I figured that I could always find somewhere to work in Queensland, or I could fly back to The Club in Sydney every now and then.

  18

  My rock-bottom story, age 32

  Either the sound of the television or the heat of the room, or both, woke me. The plastic cord that threaded all the venetian blinds together was frayed and had snapped months ago. Scorching sunlight streamed in between the horizontal slats and formed thick slivers of heat in a pattern on the tiled floor. My head throbbed as I shuffled into the kitchen, weaving around the empty Vodka Cruisers.

  I was surprised to see various pots and pans spread across the bench. A wooden spoon, a knife and a fork were scattered on the floor. A cardboard packet of macaroni-and-cheese had been torn open and the contents were strewn across the bench and the floor. A carton of milk and the butter had been left on the bench overnight. I felt like a CSI detective attempting to piece together the previous night’s crime.

  Heat was radiating from the stove and the elements were red. I swigged a mouthful of apple-and-mango juice from the fridge, turned off the stove and made my way to the bathroom, cursing as I stepped on sharp pieces of macaroni along the way.

  I stood at the bathroom door in disgust and confusion. There was vomit violently splattered up the walls, like paint thrown onto a canvas. The pattern didn’t look logical—how could vomit project from a mouth at my height and then defy gravity by extending up the wall and onto the ceiling? There was no-one else in the apartment. There was some similar residue on the front of my singlet—I must have done it.

  This was not one of my finer moments. This is what I later learned alcoholics call their ‘rock-bottom story’. This was the last time I ever drank alcohol. I was thirty-two.

  My ribs and my throat ached from all the throwing up. I washed down the walls (and ceiling) and changed my top. Sitting on the single mattress on the floor, I began to flick through the Brisbane telephone book looking for rehab treatment centres. My head hurt so much that I couldn’t fully comprehend the conversation with the receptionist at Goldbridge Rehab. S
he spoke in such a bright, perky manner that my head could hardly take it. I hung up while she was mid-sentence, just to get some peace. I rang Alcoholics Anonymous, describing the bathroom scene, leaving the stove on all night and having no recollection of any of it. ‘I think I have a problem,’ I said to the woman. ‘I think you have a problem too,’ she responded, and encouraged me to go to one of their meetings. There was one on at 3 p.m. that day, located in an old church hall in Spring Hill.

  When I arrived, I saw a large banner on the wall emblazoned with the AA Serenity Prayer. There were rows and rows of chairs and I took a seat at the back. The other alcoholics were old and wore ragged clothes, as if they were homeless. They might have been. They were leaning against a table at the side, keeping in close proximity to the tea and biscuits. A skinny man was talking into the microphone about his long struggle with alcohol. He had been sober for seven months and had a sense of calm about him as he spoke. He looked about sixty; he told us he was thirty-nine. He was a seasoned AA-meeting attendee and praised the organisation profusely at the end of his talk. He finished and everyone clapped.

  The chairperson of the meeting asked if anyone wanted to speak. ‘How about you?’ he asked me. ‘We haven’t seen you here before.’ Fifteen bums turned to stare at me. I slunk deeper in my chair, shaking my head. I had no desire to talk about how much my life sucked. Another man took the microphone and began to share his rock-bottom story. I couldn’t relate to any of the people there, so I left.

  When I got home I rang Alcoholics Anonymous again, wondering how to ask if there were any meetings not attended by bums. I decided to go with: ‘Is there a more upper-class type of meeting around?’ The woman laughed and suggested a meeting in the CBD at noon the following day.