by Geena Leigh
I still desperately wanted to get out of prostitution, but I was thirty-five and had a sparse résumé. I’d never needed one before—my body had been my résumé. Looking back, it was so simple—I needed to put together a résumé and find work. I just didn’t understand the practical steps back then. I had been to three different counsellors asking for help to get out of the industry. They had all told me, ‘It’s okay to be a hooker,’ and to ‘Embrace the role.’ Embrace the role? I couldn’t believe what they were saying. I wanted to tell them to go and embrace ten different dicks trying to be shoved up their arse every night.
It’s not okay to be a hooker. It’s horrible, and I wanted out. The counsellors all had husbands, nice offices and good careers. Why didn’t they want the same for me? Why wouldn’t they show me how I could get those things too?
Mark was about the only person (apart from Mum and Aiden) I had contact with at that time, except for the people from The Club, so it was nice to have in my life a ‘real’ person, who had a ‘real’ career. Initially I was attracted by his confidence, as well as his successful career—something that had always eluded me. I was lonely, and uncertain about work and money, and so I was vulnerable to his charms. He had no idea that I worked in prostitution. I cut down my shifts when I met him and then stopped going in altogether for a few months. He loved to talk about himself (red flag!), and it was a relief that I didn’t have to talk and lie about a pretend office job.
Mark lived in a luxurious apartment overlooking Sydney Harbour. He’d asked me to move in with him almost from the second week we dated (another red flag). He kept pressuring me. We had been dating for four months and it was still too soon for me. I did need to find somewhere to live until the settlement money came through, though, so I told myself that if I moved in with him, at least I would know soon enough if he was the right guy for me. I told him it was temporary, for one month, and, once the settlement came through, I would find my own place to rent. I sold some of my furniture with the flat, placed the rest in storage and moved in with him.
The moment I moved in, he behaved as if he had a sense of entitlement, power over me. We dated for almost three months before we slept together. I had told him that I wanted to wait until I felt ready. He responded with, ‘That’s okay—when we do have sex, we’ll be doing it three times a day!’ I discovered that this wasn’t a joke; this is what he expected. When he didn’t get his way, he would punish me by either sulking, ignoring me or getting angry. He didn’t need as much sleep as I did. He could function consistently on only four or five hours a night. He was used to having little sleep, from working long hours in hospitals over the years, and I was used to sleeping in until noon.
Each morning he woke earlier than me; he would thump the mattress and then would pretend to go back to sleep. As I stirred, he pretended to wake up. Then he would want, and expect, sex. (I found this out one morning when I opened my eyes earlier than usual and was startled to see his arm hitting the mattress.) It was the beginning of a series of (literal) wake-up calls, during which I pieced together a picture of who he really was.
He wanted me to go to bed when he was tired. He wanted me to be awake when he was awake. He needed constant attention, like a demanding child. My disrupted sleep (this is a common tactic of abusive people) got my mind in a fog and I walked around in a haze. Days and then weeks of living in a fog like this had me feeling uncertain and questioning my own instincts, and he used my vulnerability to manipulate me.
I told myself I had to endure it until I got my money and could get out of there. When my money came, however, Mark said that if I moved out, we would break up. I felt so trapped. I hadn’t gone into work for months and had no-one else. At the time I thought he cared about me and loved me, and that’s why he wanted me to stay; but I was soon reminded that he only cared about himself.
During sex, he couldn’t care less whether or not I ever had an orgasm. He wouldn’t go down on me and he became infuriated when I masturbated. ‘What are you doing, finger blasting?’ he yelled at me, like it was a dirty act.
I laughed when he called it that. ‘It’s called masturbation,’ I told him. And I continued to play with myself. He did not want me to experience pleasure. It was out of his control, and he needed to control things. I think that me masturbating showed him that he wasn’t actually needed, which annoyed him even more.
‘Would you like to have sex without having an orgasm?’ I asked him. He looked horrified.
‘Exactly!’ I said, and carried on.
For him sex was not about sharing an experience—it was only about having his needs met. I might as well have been a blow-up doll. I was last on his list, and placed well below his work, beer, gym, food, TV—even his clothes. There was no emotional support from him. The few times I asked him to help me—in finding work or in some other way—he would turn it all around so the attention was back on him. My feelings and needs were dismissed.
Mark took up the entire room when he entered it, strutting like the alpha male he was. When he introduced himself to people he would squeeze their hand hard, asserting his supremacy. He dominated every conversation, talking incessantly about his career, his upbringing, his previous girlfriends. At first I was glad that he never asked questions about me—it was a relief to not have to make up things about my family, lack of friends, previous jobs or boyfriends. Later I came to understand that when a guy doesn’t ask you things about yourself, it’s because he’s only interested in himself.
Mark believed he was flawless, and he loved an audience. He would proudly tell anyone who would listen: ‘I have twenty–twenty vision!’ When I reminded him, ‘Yes, when you wear your contacts,’ he would glare at me. We sometimes played card games; he was strategic and always played to win. When he won, he would gloat; when he lost, he would either sulk or get angry. He bought me a five-dollar bunch of wilted flowers from the corner store for my birthday.
When two of my friends came down from Brisbane to visit, Mark and I had dinner with them, and they thought he was wonderful. He had some kind of charming effect on people, which made them instantly like him. When I rang my mum and told her how unhappy I was, she simply said, ‘Relationships take work.’ I couldn’t believe that no-one could see what an arsehole this guy was to me.
I spent my days living in hope. I hoped he’d see my value and treat me better. I hoped he’d appreciate me and be kinder. Later I realised that ‘hope’ is a pitiful word. Nowadays I don’t ‘hope’ about anything—I either expect things will be different, or I make them so.
Mark drank up to thirteen beers or wines every day. I didn’t know this until I moved in. On the weekend, each day’s plans revolved around when he would get to drink alcohol. I hadn’t drunk alcohol for a few years now and he drank all the time. He wasn’t willing to compromise. I begged him not to drink for two days. Why did I even have to beg? He eventually agreed, but on the second day in the evening he created an argument about nothing and went to the bottle shop. He couldn’t even go without alcohol for two days.
When he talked all the time, it gave me the opportunity to learn more about him. He spoke about a couple of previous girlfriends, which was how he gave himself away. ‘I’m an acquired taste,’ he said (which meant that most women couldn’t stomach him). Mark told me that his previous girlfriend had been in an abusive relationship, and that he had broken up with her because she wanted to get too serious with him. I began to suspect that he had made a habit of seeking out abused women.
He also told me that he had been married—for nine months. He and his wife had been living in America, but planned to relocate to Australia together. They sold their apartment in New York; he had a new job and apartment lined up in Sydney. As they were checking their luggage in at JFK airport, his wife’s family emerged from among the thick crowd, took her by her arm, picked up her suitcases and led her away with them. Mark told me this story in an attempt to elicit my sympathy, and at first I did feel sorry for him. Later, however, I understood
the extreme measures his wife had gone to get away from him.
Men like Mark are predators—they prey on vulnerable women. They choose their prey like a lion scans the pack for the weakest and easiest kill. I was part of a game for him; a game that he’d played many times before, and he was always one step ahead of me.
‘I want you to meet my parents, and then we will get married,’ he told me. I couldn’t believe how serious he sounded—we’d only been together five months. He had some kind of hold on me and I found it impossible to leave just yet, but I knew for sure that I could never marry him. I never thought I would be the type of woman who would find themselves in an abusive relationship. I always thought I was stronger and smarter than that. However, after months of seemingly insignificant put-downs, rejection and hostility, he emotionally beat me down. After the first few rude comments I stood up to him, but he persisted. After that I didn’t react and tried to brush it off, mostly to avoid an unpleasant argument. I did succeed in having fewer arguments, but I didn’t succeed in being any less emotionally affected by his harsh words. Being subjected to relentless passive aggressive comments injured my self-esteem. It would have made even the most confident of women unravel.
Words can be so powerful. Mark’s negative comments about me seeped into my unconscious and I began to question my own worth. Now I understand why other women stayed in such situations. From the outside people think, ‘Just leave him!’ From the inside it’s not that easy. It’s scary to stay and it’s scary to go. It made me think of my mother, and I felt such compassion for her. It took her twenty-four years before she mustered the courage to leave my father; it may have taken her twenty-four years, but she did it, and I honour her for that.
One Friday evening we were having an argument and Mark was yelling at me, ‘You’re crazy! You’re crazy! You need to see someone.’ Those were the best words that I ever heard come out of his mouth.
I found a counsellor in Bondi Junction. I told her I was dating a guy, and my family and friends loved him, but I thought he treated me terribly.
‘Why do you think he treats you terribly?’ she asked.
‘He’s demanding. He’s selfish. He expects a lot of sex. If I don’t do it, he sulks or gets angry.’
‘What do you consider a lot of sex?’ she asked.
‘Three or four times a day.’
‘Mm. That is a lot of sex,’ she said.
I told her everything. About Dad molesting me. About the rape, drugs, alcohol, the years and years of prostitution, being jailed in Greece and how I was desperately trying to transition into the real world and into a straight career. She was the only counsellor I’d ever told everything to; I’d only ever told the others snippets. She was super smart and asked me questions to make me think. She told me that the behaviour of guys like Mark usually only escalates. She was right.
I went to the consultations each week, and then each fortnight, gaining at least one new insight every time. At last I felt I had someone on my side, who wanted the best for me. But it was still up to me to take steps to remove Mark from my life.
After six months together Mark wanted us to move to Honolulu, Hawaii. He said he wanted us to have a better life, which I didn’t understand. So many people are looking for ways to get into Australia—they risk their lives in rickety boats, sailing for days without food in the hope of living here. What he really wanted was to make me more dependent on him. I wouldn’t have been able to work in America (I’d learned my lesson about working in a foreign country without a visa), so I would have had to rely on him for money. That’s a dangerous position for any woman to be in. I had no intention of whittling away all of my settlement money on day-to-day expenses, just because he wanted to live there. I was paying my own way with him the entire time.
He wasn’t a generous man sexually or emotionally, why would he suddenly start looking after me financially? There was no way that I was going to place myself in a position where he rationed out money for me, having to plead for it like a dog. He would have loved that power-play scenario. I knew that I was going to leave him, but I wasn’t quite strong enough yet, so I didn’t argue when he bought us tickets for a holiday to Hawaii, to see if we’d like to live there. Maybe I was still keeping him as an option, or maybe I just wanted to go to Hawaii and at least get something out of this miserable relationship. I’m not sure—it could have been a combination of both.
The night before we were to fly out, Mark went to the Hero of Waterloo pub and didn’t get home until 11 p.m. I was in bed when he came in; he was making a lot of noise and punched a wall. I was scared and curled up under the covers. I ignored the dent in the plasterboard. ‘Come to bed, baby,’ I said.
I probably should have let him go on holiday alone, and moved out when he was away. But I was looking forward to seeing Hawaii. I thought maybe a holiday might change his attitude too. We stayed at the Sheraton, overlooking the stunning Waikiki Beach, but we had a lousy time. We kept apart most of the trip. He liked to get up early for a walk and I would go out before he got back. We didn’t even have dinner together after the second night.
One sunny afternoon I as walked down Kalakaua Avenue I noticed all the happy people in their swimwear walking, skateboarding and driving around in convertibles. They smiled and laughed together. They had friends and were enjoying the sunshine and life, like I should have been. Tears began to fall behind my sunglasses onto my cheeks. How could someone be so sad in such a beautiful place? I wandered down Ala Moana Boulevard and into a bookstore, where I looked through a few books in the self-help section and found one about angry and controlling men. Flicking through the pages, I almost laughed, because this book described my boyfriend perfectly: ‘Controlling men twist everything around and it makes the woman feel like she’s lost and wandering; ‘Abusive men take their target away from their usual environment and support systems to increase their own control.’ This was exactly what Mark was trying to do with me in Hawaii.
I started to wonder if that was why Dad moved us around so much—to keep us dependent on him so we wouldn’t have any support systems or friends to confide in.
When I returned to the hotel I hid the book in the dirty-laundry plastic bag in my suitcase. When Mark went out for drinks, I fished the book out from my smelly socks and read it entirely in one sitting, highlighting specific points. ‘It’s best if the guy breaks up with you,’ it said. ‘Let him think it’s his decision.’
A real estate guy took us to view a few apartments, and Mark made an offer on one. He loved Hawaii. He was in love with the lifestyle of drinking beers overlooking the ocean. There was an abundance of pretty women around and he knew he could easily replace me.
I had the opportunity to move to Hawaii and live in a brand-new multi-million-dollar apartment, with mountain and beach views from almost every window, in which I would be utterly depressed. Or, I could take the harder option and be on my own with nowhere to live—and have a chance for happiness. I chose a chance for happiness.
We flew back to Sydney and I planned my escape. A glimmer of hope came into my life, knowing that soon I would be free.
It was easy to get him to break up with me—I simply refused to have sex with him and slept on the couch. I told him that I wasn’t interested in sex anymore, and who knows when I ever would be again. Mark initiated a fight almost every night. He said that he was sick of my attitude, that he didn’t love me and told me to get out of his house. It took four nights.
The next day I paid a month’s rent on a fully furnished studio apartment in North Sydney. It had a spectacular view of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and city skyline. The flat was expensive, but it was available immediately and it was week-to-week accommodation. The next day, when Mark went to work, I packed up all my gear into boxes and moved them into the flat.
I left the key on the coffee table. I was tempted to scratch ‘Fuck you!’ deep into the wood and leave the ‘angry and controlling men’ book (with passages highlighted) on the table, but then I dec
ided it was best just to leave. I never heard from him again. I pitied the poor Hawaiian woman who was going to be his next victim.
With my counsellor’s help over the next few months I grew stronger each day. Being able to talk to an objective person who was on my side was comforting—it was a new feeling for me, which I liked. I felt a sense of freedom and became confident and excited again for a new career.
Due to my own experiences and conflict with my previous neighbours, I became curious about strata, residents’ rights and the ways people resolve matters in apartment buildings, and I decided to take a five-day course to qualify as a strata manager. We were advised that the job consisted of a significant amount of conflict resolution, mediation and dealing with difficult people (living with my father had given me years of experience for this job). I hired a professional résumé writer to create an impressive CV for me. Even though I expanded the straight work from a few weeks to a few years, and made the volunteer work at the Tony Robbins seminars look like paid work, it showed consistency. It had a theme—and it made me look fantastic.
I attached a covering letter to the résumé and sent it to fifteen strata companies across Sydney, offering to work for free part-time for three months in order to gain experience. I was convinced that when they saw me in action they would want to hire me permanently. Those letters got me three interviews and, from them, two job offers (with pay). I happily accepted a position as a strata assistant in a small firm in Surry Hills just a few months after leaving The Club.
Adjusting to life in a straight job wasn’t easy. At The Club I had come and gone as I pleased, and I found working in an office very restrictive compared to working whenever I wanted to. I was allowed to take a ten-minute break at 10:20 a.m.; lunch was from 1 to 2 p.m. If I sent an email omitting a full stop, I was reprimanded. If I faxed a document without a covering letter, the boss yelled at me. I think the boss wanted me to fear him, but his anger-management issues merely amused me. I was clueless about working in an office, but I was determined to stick it out, to gain the experience. When I got to speak with clients on a handful of occasions, I found that it was one of my strengths. I was empathetic and I was able to determine what needs they were trying to meet, and I usually gave them what they were looking for (mainly they just needed certainty, and to be heard).