Call Me Sasha: Secret Confessions of an Australian Callgirl

by Geena Leigh

  Here there were twelve corporate business people sitting in a circle. It was much more intimate than the expansive church hall. These people washed, so sitting close to them was fine. Some of them hadn’t drunk alcohol for years, some for months, some for days. It was reassuring to see other people going through what I was experiencing. They knew that, for them, having even one drink really meant twenty because a spiralling descent would soon follow. I knew I could never go to a restaurant and have a glass of wine with dinner, like some of my friends could—it would be a bottle or two, and then the night would invariably end up with me singing loudly (and off-key), offending someone, getting kicked out of the bar/restaurant and stumbling home. These people were the same. We’ve all seen them when we’re out—the girl slurring her words and smashing a glass, the angry guy picking a fight. I didn’t want to be one of them anymore.

  Walking in the door at home, I rummaged around in the cupboards and drawers and promptly threw all the wine, port, cocktail, beer, champagne and shot glasses into the bin, closely followed by a series of novelty bottle openers. Removing all of the apparatus was a good first step. I had stopped taking heroin after about five or six months (at eighteen years), quit smoking after five years (at twenty-six), and eventually stopped taking cocaine and other drugs regularly (at thirty-three), although I was still prone to dabble in the odd party booking. I was now thirty-two and had enough references for me to believe that I was able to conquer alcohol too.

  The bus dropped me off directly outside a bottle shop each day after class. I’d have a discussion with myself every day, to convince myself not to go inside. I knew it would only take one small thought to have a drink, and then it would fester and rapidly gain momentum, inevitably leading to a moment of weakness. Strangely, that one small thought could creep in when I was feeling the strongest—it was one of the most dangerous times, because I would feel confident knowing that I hadn’t drunk for three months, say, so I felt like I’d got a hold on the problem. Then I would think that I could drink ‘just one’ and it would be okay. It never was. It never would be.

  Becoming alcohol-free seemed to bring other matters to the surface, because they no longer had anything to keep them squashed down. I would lie in the bath imbued with sadness, and memories of my father would seep into my mind. He and I hadn’t spoken in five years. It was like the curtains had been pulled back at the cinema and the movie wouldn’t stop playing. I was angry, embarrassed and hurt. Fuck him! I silently screamed. I felt that he had robbed me of my childhood. If I had had some kind of safe haven, a stable home life, maybe I would have had the tenacity to go after some of my dreams, instead of living constantly in survivor mode, working as a hooker.

  I wished that someone would put me out of my misery, like they do to wounded racehorses. I could slit my wrists, but I didn’t really want to lie there grossly immersed in blood. What if I drowned myself? I’d heard that that doesn’t actually work, because your body instinctively fights to survive and won’t let you drown yourself. Dropping the hair dryer into the bath would be relatively quick.

  I lay there until my skin was wrinkled and the water became cool. I stood in the tepid water, drying myself off, catching another glance of the hairdryer with its black curly cord dangling off the bench, as if it were teasing me. We stared at each other intently. The dryer eventually yielded. I wrapped the towel around me and stepped onto the mat, feeling the soft cotton fringe between my toes. I refused to be defeated.

  •

  I began to read a lot of business books and lost interest in being a film director. I didn’t think that my current Bachelor of Arts (Media & Communications) was enough to get me a good career, so I decided to return to study. QUT was the only university in Australia that would add a Business degree to my current studies to become a double degree, so I transferred to QUT permanently. My ties to Sydney were easy to cut. Well, most of them.

  There were a couple of ladies who worked at The Club but lived in Melbourne and flew up to work weekends. One of them lived in country Victoria, where there were no brothels, and the other had a vast network of family and friends in Melbourne, so she worked in Sydney to reduce the possibility of running into any of them.

  We would sleep in the bedrooms once the last clients had left (which was a little gross and spooky at times, but we were usually so wasted or exhausted that we passed out easily). In some ways it was good, because it forced me to work a long shift. Sometimes when I was tired or just over it, I simply lay on the floor of the locker room until a room became available. Sometimes, though, I just had to get out of there and would book an earlier flight home. I’d sit at the airport huddled in a chair with the alarm set on my phone as I dozed, waiting for the first available flight back to Brisbane.

  Living in Brisbane, I missed everything about Sydney, but my commitment to finishing university kept me there. Most of the other students were young and straight out of school, so I didn’t really associate with anyone. Not only because they were younger, but because I was still working at The Club and I didn’t want to risk getting close enough to anyone for them to ask me what I did for work.

  The city became a little more interesting when I met a Norwegian girl, Claudia, at a ‘girls’ nite’ at the Alliance Hotel. She was younger than me, had glossy blonde hair and a cute accent. I now knew that lesbians tended to hang out in packs. As soon as Claudia and I got to know each other (well, after we made out in the corner of the bar), I was accepted into her crowd.

  In a group of eight we made jokes and had fun; but when I was alone with Claudia, there wasn’t much to talk about. When we did talk, her cute accent began to annoy me, and she sensed it. She would cross her arms like a child, throw a tantrum and tell everyone, ‘She wants dick!’

  I didn’t know if I specifically wanted some dick (I was pretty sure that I’d reached my lifetime quota of dick by the time I’d turn nineteen), but I did know that she wasn’t the right girl for me.

  I flew from Brisbane to Sydney every weekend for two years until I graduated, soon after turning thirty-three. I felt empowered with an education behind me. I was certain that two degrees were going to get me out of hooking. It took me three attempts to get a (low) pass in Accounting. ‘It will all click into place one day!’ my tutor would say as he leaned over my book, looking at my scribbled answers. Bullshit! I had two tutors; I bought a DVD set called Let’s Learn Accounting!; I read Accounting for Dummies and even went to the same class twice each week (they were repeated at night for students who worked full-time). It still didn’t make any sense. So, I wrote an emotional letter to the course coordinator, requesting a Special Consideration to pass, due to my grandma dying and anything else I could think of that was affecting my ability to study. And it worked. I did it.

  It took me eight-and-a-half years to complete the double degree. I changed from full-time to part-time a couple of times and deferred one semester (while I was on an extended cocaine binge). The time I took to get my degree didn’t bother me; there was just no way on earth that I was ever going to give up.

  I was on a (natural) high at graduation. Mum and her new husband came to the ceremony. Wearing the black gown with hot-pink lining and the cap with the tassel was exhilarating.

  The rest of my family were still geographically scattered. Aiden had finished school and moved to Sydney to pursue a career in film and TV. Dad was living back in New Zealand. My older brother was still in London and my two sisters were living somewhere in Melbourne, but I didn’t have much contact with them. I considered it a huge accomplishment to have completed my studies and I was excited about my future. I planned on working back at The Club for a while to save some money to purchase a corporate wardrobe and begin my new (straight) working adventure. I packed up my gear and moved back to Sydney.

  19

  Overdosing, age 33

  I’ve heard that when people die and then come back to life, they describe their death experience as a bright light all around, and they say they didn’t f
eel any fear. This was also my experience. It was a place where only love and happiness existed. I walked, which felt more like gliding, towards the light shining up ahead of me. It was mesmerising and I was enjoying every second of it, until a man’s faint voice to the left of me caught my attention. ‘Breathe! Breathe!’ he whispered.

  At first I ignored him and continued to move towards the light. Then his voice became louder and he screeched, ‘Breathe! Breathe!’

  As soon as I turned to look in the direction of his voice. I was taken out of the brightly lit room and was back inside Room Six, in The Club. My eyes opened and I inhaled a deep breath of air as my chest rose off the bed. A naked, sweaty man was straddled over the top of me, pounding on my chest, doing CPR. I raised my hands to stop him from hurting my ribs any further. His arms hung in the air. His shoulders fell. He sighed deeply, lowered his arms and slowly lifted himself off me. Then he reached for a bubble-less glass of champagne.

  I sat up, dangled my legs over the bed and didn’t speak. I peeled an empty lube sachet off my stomach and dropped it on the floor. I slowly gathered my clothes, which were dispersed around the room, and methodically began to dress. The man was talking, but I wasn’t listening. It was as if the room had been stretched as long as a football field. He was way down the other end. I could hardly make him out in the distance, he was so blurry.

  Even though my eyes couldn’t focus properly, I felt an intense awareness of my surroundings. I zipped up the side of my black cocktail dress and rummaged through my handbag for my Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses amid condoms, a pink vibrator, dental dams and scented shower gel. As I sat the sunnies on top of my head, poised for the imminent sunlight, I could feel my own smooth hair underneath them. Where was my wig? I usually didn’t take it off for any client. Then I spied it lying on the armchair like a little Pomeranian. I went over and rolled it into a ball, then stuffed it into my bag.

  I noticed a trail of dried-up blood leading up my arm from the cannula that had been inserted into the vein on the back of my hand. It was easier to keep injecting the drugs directly into the cannula, instead of inserting a new needle each time I needed it (my high tended to taper off every forty or so minutes). Throughout the night, as soon as either of us had become functional enough to mix up another batch, we had topped each other up.

  My face winced as I pulled out the cannula. I placed it on the marble basin and then stuck my mouth under the tap and took a sip of cool water. My reflection seemed to sway side to side in the mirror. I wrapped a clean bed sheet around me like a shawl, to hide the blood that ran up my arm. The carpet felt tender under my bare feet.

  As I walked out of the room, the man came after me. He stood half-dressed (or half-naked, if you look at life that way) with a glass of champagne in one hand and a glass of lemonade in the other. ‘Hey, I’ve paid for you. I’ve still got forty-five minutes!’

  I turned and in a soft voice said, ‘We’re done. If you complain about me I’ll tell them about the drugs in your bag and security will throw you out. They might even call the cops. They know who you are—they’ve got your credit card details.’ He sauntered back inside.

  The job had begun around nine o’clock the night before. It was now 8 a.m. After about eleven hours of consistently injecting drugs, my body had simply given up. I slipped on my shoes, using the walls to steady myself, and made my way to the girls’ room. The day girls had started work and they laughed when they saw me propped up against the wall of lockers for balance.

  I took out my regular handbag and slid on my jacket, leaving all my hooker paraphernalia in my locker. I stepped onto the street looking dishevelled—my hair was standing on end, my clothes were crumpled and my make-up was smudged. The street was full of people in suits making their way to work. The traffic noise engulfed me and pounded in my head. The sun was scathingly bright—I felt like a vampire who was slowly being singed to death by its burning rays. My eyes squinted from behind my sunglasses as my hand rose to hail a taxi. Thank goodness the driver didn’t want to chat, because I was barely coherent. I managed to utter ‘Camperdown’, and then it was just a series of grunts and groans as I pointed him in the direction of my house.

  The driver pulled up to the kerb. As I unrolled a few notes to pay him, flakes of cocaine fell like snow all over my lap and the back seat. The driver didn’t notice (or he pretended not to notice) as I handed him the money. I fumbled up the stairs, desperately trying to hold it together. After a seemingly lengthy period of time trying to put the key into the keyhole, the door opened. As it closed behind me, a wave of instant relief washed across my body. At last the world would leave me alone.

  I cleaned myself up, put on a comfortable tracksuit and took the dog to the grocery store and park, which were both only a few minutes away (driving the car would surely have ended in disaster). I concentrated on walking like a normal person, doing everything I could to act drug-free. My body was slowly beginning to shake involuntarily as the withdrawal process began. I felt so miserable and I knew (from previous drug binges) that I was going to get a whole lot sadder. Coming down off drugs makes people feel so worthless and sad that it makes being alive almost unbearable.

  My life had become so much better since I gave up alcohol—I never once missed having a piercing hangover. Now I knew that I had to stop taking drugs too—I’d reached my threshold of pain. This overdose had given me enough leverage to get clean. I decided that I was going to go home and not come out again until I knew that cocaine, my usual drug of choice, could no longer tempt me.

  I bought two weeks’ worth of groceries and let the dog run around the park. While he ran around in circles until he was totally out of steam, I sat on a park bench in the shade, trying to piece together some of the previous night’s events in my head. I remembered going to work and the bartender bringing champagne into the room and a Coca-Cola for me. I remembered the bag of drugs—but what had been mixed with the heroin? I remembered the needles . . . sitting on the edge of the spa. That was about it—there were large gaps.

  The dog and I walked listlessly home. The sound of me deadlocking the door echoed throughout the quiet house. I looked at the dog and he looked up at me with his head on an angle. He knew that something serious was happening. I packed away the groceries and emptied a can of Pal into his bowl. I poured myself a glass of iced water; I climbed into bed sweating, shaking and shivering, and I cried myself to sleep.

  Over the next few weeks, I sometimes got out of bed to feed the dog. Most of the time, neither of us ate. Regardless, he loyally stayed by my side the entire time, snuggling up against me whether I lay in bed or on the bed or on the bathroom floor. All I did was weep and sleep.

  The TV remained on the whole time, in an attempt to distract me from some of the craziness going on in my mind. Work rang and left a few messages, asking me to come in. Jenny left a message saying that she had quit The Club and got a job as a marketing assistant. I was so happy for her, but I was also too embarrassed to tell her how fucked-up my life was. I didn’t return any of the calls; I just wanted to cuddle my dog and sleep.

  After another week I left the house, wearing my pyjamas, to walk the dog. You’ve pretty much hit rock bottom when you haven’t brushed your teeth or washed for days, when you’re wearing your pyjamas on the street in the middle of the day and you couldn’t care less. I watched him run around the grass and play with the other dogs. He was so happy. Am I ever going to be happy like him, I wondered.

  After another couple of weeks I felt confident that my self-imposed rehab stint was a success and that cocaine couldn’t tempt me again. And it didn’t.

  Dying inspired me to get back into the real world and find straight work. I was long overdue to start a real career, and I was a little overwhelmed by the prospect of office or sales work. I needed something light to ease me into it. So, I put on a smart outfit and wandered up and down King Street, Newtown, asking every cafe and restaurant if they needed any staff.

  I was offered a three-hour
trial shift at Feel Cafe, and it worked out well. I liked the boss, the manager, cook, dishwasher and the other waitresses. I felt proud working and earning money while keeping my clothes on. I could relax and be myself. I had to take great care when writing down the orders, because no-one could read my writing. (I had learned to write really quickly at university from taking copious amounts of notes; being able to read them was another matter.) I enjoyed going to work, but unfortunately my pay packet was abysmal and barely covered the rent. I hoped that when I was more experienced I would be able to find work full-time as a waitress.

  I found it effortless to talk to the manager, Rachael. She was tall and slender, with shaved dark hair. She had a dragon tattoo swirling around her left arm and a bold Celtic design on the nape of her neck. She was adorned with piercings on her eyebrow, nose and lip. There were others elsewhere, I later discovered. Whenever she spoke, she would make me feel like I was the most important person in the world. Everyone liked her, and we soon became friends.

  She had a much younger girlfriend, who came in almost every day to have lunch with her. Her girlfriend was standoffish towards me at first. I didn’t understand what Rachael saw in her; she was moody, bossy and not pleasant to be around. But as I got to know her better, I found that she was inherently a kind person and was just a little shy.

  Dammit! I don’t know when it happened, but I just couldn’t get Rachael out of my head. I didn’t want to leave work at the end of my shifts. I started to wonder about my sexuality again. Was I a lesbian? I didn’t really like the word ‘lesbian’. I had always liked looking at pictures of beautiful women. When the other girls looked at the clothes on the model, I would wonder what it would be like to kiss her lips. Maybe I was bisexual? Sometimes I wanted to be with a man and sometimes a woman. It was very confusing. I could be attracted to a strong, athletic man and imagine him tossing me about the room in wild passion, and sometimes I would see a beautiful woman with soft flowing hair and imagine her gently caressing me (or tossing me about the room). I didn’t really like the sound of being bisexual either—it sounded like you couldn’t make up your mind. Well, I guess I couldn’t, back then.