God's Callgirl

by Carla Van Raay

  I RENTED YET another house, this time in South Fremantle, right on the beach. It was a nuisance to not have my own house. I must have rented a dozen different places over the years; some I had to leave within weeks, even days, due to inquisitive and intolerant neighbours. It just wouldn’t do to have an old lady peering from behind her curtains whenever someone went in and out of my home! I learned the hard way that flats were no good; even attached houses were risky. I was also just not secretive enough. When I moved into my South Fremantle three-storeyed, strata-titled villa by the sea, together with Doreen, an artist girlfriend, and her actress daughter, Lara, I allowed the neighbour to help me bring the massage table down to the basement room. I wasn’t to know that he slept right on the other side of the adjoining wall, away from his wife’s upstairs bedroom! I wasn’t all that busy with massage then, as I had enrolled as a student of psychology at Murdoch University. I just wanted to do enough work to keep us going financially.

  It was mere days before the frustrated old man began his crusade to have me banished by the local council, after his malicious efforts with the owner—who was supportive of me—had come to zero. He called all the neighbours together to discuss ‘the activities going on at No 4’. I was refused an opportunity to attend, although I wrote a congenial message to all the tenants of the row of attached houses reminding them that I was the only real authority on the activities. Not one person bothered to reply. My neighbours on the other side were a group of young people who partied a lot and often pissed over the railing of the front balcony, but that was not deemed a problem by the other tenants—not compared to the supposed evils that were being enacted inside my villa! The meeting resulted in a formal complaint being sent to Fremantle Council, which promptly ordered me to stop my work on the premises or face legal action.

  I had to accept that morality often breeds prejudice, and that there is no man more moralistic than a frustrated old Baptist who prefers wet dreams and self-righteousness to a relief massage. We wrote all our neighbours a cheerful goodbye note and Doreen regaled the neighbourhood with Puccini’s Oh, My Beloved Father, her favourite piece, at top volume, ‘To show them we’re educated artists, for God’s sake. We’re an asset to this community, not a nuisance!’

  Doreen, her daughter and I parted company, and I moved to Subiaco. In my first week there I had a visit from the Vice Squad, courtesy of the letters sent them by my previous neighbours. They phoned first, the Chief of the Vice Squad posing as a customer responding to my advertisement. They were decent chaps, although unconcerned at the hot and cold sweats they provoked when I opened my door to their uniforms. After they had stuck their heads inside my massage room, where my certificate was hanging on the wall, they smiled their goodbyes. On the way out, the Chief said, ‘Oh, by the way, we’d like you to come along and register as a sole operator, so we know who you are and don’t have to bother you any more.’

  So, that’s what I did. In that dingy office full of indifferent-looking keepers of the law, my photo was taken for their records. ‘If ever you leave the game, let us know and we will remove all your details,’ said the young Vice Squad officer as I was leaving. If only I could really believe that! Since I wasn’t breaking the law, there would be no criminal record, they kept reassuring me, but the whole affair brought my Chinese nun ideal down to a common denominator of vice, and that appalled me. I felt like the ‘necessary evil’ people refer to when they don’t want to condemn my trade, but end up doing so anyway with those words. God’s Callgirl was someone they would never appreciate—how could they? My silent tears ran into another crack in my beautiful vase…

  Back home, I looked in the mirror and noticed a change in my expression. My face had taken on a determined, cold and serious look, without the golden light I had often imagined I saw around my reflection. I looked every bit of my forty-five years just then. I was shocked and, looking deeper into myself, found that I was disturbed on a number of fronts. I had no other profession to fall back on (except teaching, which didn’t suit me). My use-by date was coming up—in the sex industry, you have to have the goods or you’re dead wood. My hands were becoming slowly but surely ruined from being coated in oil so often, even if it was almond oil, and the muscles and veins that were beginning to stand out reminded me of my father’s strong hands.

  I thought about the clients I’d been attracting lately, like Ben, a little man who looked exactly like a gnome. It wasn’t exactly work of the Goddess to be pulling on his reluctant pecker. His wrinkly body reminded me of a woollen garment that had been boiled hard, his mouth didn’t quite close around his protruding teeth, and his ears were large, pointed and stood way out from his head. Ben did the rounds, not popular anywhere for long, and he understood and accepted that. More insistent than a cat, he was not put off for long with refusals, however rude.

  Ben had a peculiarly annoying habit of twirling my nipples while he sat on the side of the massage table, legs dangling, lips smacking, as I worked his penis. Worked is the word—he had a hard time coming! That’s all Ben wanted: no massage, no sex; just, apart from his exhausting relief, a brief kiss. He offered that puckered mouth and closed his eyes, waiting to touch skin so he could kiss it. How did I square this with the spiritual aspect of my work? Where was the energy exchange? Had I fallen into doing it just for the money?

  That was a trap that could be hurtful in itself. ‘I’ll be back in the shake of a wombat’s tail,’ one new client said after his massage, explaining that his wallet was in the car. Do wombats have tails? Instinctively I went to the doorway, even though I wasn’t exactly dressed for the casual eye of a neighbour or passer-by. As I watched, he hurriedly manoeuvred his car out of my driveway, bold as brass, and disappeared. The misery I suffered was agony—it wasn’t just money I had lost, it was my dignity. This had never happened before! A larger crack threatened to undermine the integrity of my Chinese vase.

  Thoughts I had never entertained before found their way into my mind and made an unwanted impact. I was forced to face the fact that I had absolutely no control over my clients’ motivation, and many of them had formed hardened attitudes from contact with other masseuses and prostitutes. I particularly despaired of the silent, self-absorbed types, who couldn’t distinguish between a divinely inspired caress and an indifferent slap on the buttocks.

  I had to admit that most of my clients didn’t fit my image of the travelling merchants on the Chinese vases! The men were simply themselves: they came for reasons they might or might not have been aware of, and they didn’t often share them with me. The ideal I had adopted was one-sided. I could respect and give, but I couldn’t count on real respect from every man that came into my room.

  Something inside me changed with this realisation, and there was no going back. The pure enjoyment I used to know was no longer there. What I really began to detest was being touched up when I didn’t want to be. To my chagrin and horror, this was happening more and more. A hand would wander from the guy lying prone on my table. He couldn’t see my face so couldn’t gauge whether I meant it when I brushed his hand aside. After a brief moment of acquiescence, the hand would slide up my leg again. He just wanted to feel up a fanny while being massaged, didn’t ask permission and, worse, wouldn’t take no for an answer. I kept squirming away from wandering hands as I massaged body after body. With clients I knew well, I usually wore nothing at all under a rather short skirt, but now I started wearing knickers under longer skirts to make it more difficult for invasive fingers. Never trousers—I should be able to be feminine and attractive in my massage room and still get respect!

  It was a rude shock for me to discover that I only liked my clients when I believed they were playing my game. But in reality, I had been playing by myself! When I stopped playing ball, by refusing a request, spoken or unspoken, they’d sulk, disregard my wishes or just plain stay away. The strangest thing was that, up to now, they had actually been playing along very nicely. These ‘travelling merchants’ in need of female energy did
go away feeling balanced and ecstatic. The only thing was, they didn’t need a nun to do it! They just needed a straightforward whore, who never said ‘enough’ before their time was up and whose feelings didn’t require their respect. After all, if she accepted their money she was at their service.

  I wanted respect, but it was hopeless: most of the guys saw me as a commodity they had paid for. I came as part of a package—if I thought I was only selling massage, and could choose to give or withhold whatever else, I could think again. A pound of flesh—my flesh—was what they came for and the massage was just their thin excuse to get it.

  I PICKED UP the phone to hear John, a real estate agent, wanting to bargain with me. Seemingly deprived of love, he was eager to bargain hard for everything else in his life, using the power of his wealth. He wanted only half an hour, he told me, revising the booking of a full hour that he had made earlier in the week, and he wasn’t prepared to pay an hour’s fee. It wasn’t fair, but I changed my schedule to suit him. John then arrived half an hour earlier and wanted to talk. Not the sympathetic-ear kind of talk; he wanted to know what he was going to get for his money. He knew this was taking up my time, but it wasn’t time that he was going to pay for.

  John had always been a difficult client. I had given him too much to begin with, and when he found me pulling back, he naturally wanted to be sure that he’d get value for his money. What he didn’t seem to realise is that people don’t always put a price on what they have to give. What price goodwill? John’s fear of getting less than he gave had already destroyed some of my generous goodwill.

  Since I had agreed to see him, I had to make the most of it now. The vibrations coming off him as he strode into the massage room were like a distant scream from hell. I was wary and watched him with my arms crossed. But once in my room, I could see that this highly-strung, wily man with his Rolex watch, Pierre Cardin suit and $100 haircut, was just a person without anyone to take him to bed and love him. His loneliness had made him angry, although he believed he had his feelings under control.

  ‘I’m gentle,’ said John unexpectedly, hands held up with open palms towards me, trying to convince me with earnest hazel eyes. ‘I’m not aggressive.’ A man who isn’t aggressive doesn’t need to give assurances, but his words told me that his intentions were good.

  John’s dried-up soul had not forgotten what it was like to lie in a woman’s arms. He ached for erotic affection. First of all, though, he wanted to indulge his fantasy of two people undressing one another—thankfully much easier than having my clothes ripped off, which was always a possibility with types like John. We faced each other to undress. John’s erotic expectations made him fumble and the unbuttoning, usually easy to do, became difficult and almost comical. When it came to unhitching my bra, he couldn’t manage it. I turned my back to him to make it easier. I had often fantasised about teaching guys how to do this blindfolded, in a flash, so that the magic of the moment wouldn’t be lost. Not that the delay undermined John’s libido—not a bit. Fumble, fumble, the bra was off and instantly John’s greedy hands and body were on me. The man who had assured me he wasn’t aggressive could barely stop himself from squeezing me to a pulp.

  I stopped him immediately, stamping my feet, and he apologised, returning to the cool, collected businessman with the smiling hazel eyes. But it was quickly back to hard hands gripping, squeezing, grabbing, clutching. Was this John’s idea of a passionate approach, or were his actions the barely controlled frenzy of desperate, angry need?

  I spoke to him firmly, trying to get through to him what he should do. I didn’t want to undermine him by telling him he was doing it wrong. ‘I get turned on by gentleness, John!’ My words had a positive effect. I could feel how important it was for his ego to believe that he had indeed turned me on—not only to prove his skills as a lover, but also because he would rather be with a woman who was receptive to him. He didn’t want me to coolly play my role while privately despising him. Fair enough; but what kind of response did he imagine he’d get to his aggressive behaviour? And how did he figure that a masseuse or a prostitute would give him something for money that he couldn’t get elsewhere?

  In spite of his inability to turn a woman on, John still expected—no, demanded in his imperious way—a genuine response. I knew what he would be getting elsewhere around the traps. How to fake an orgasm, I had read in a women’s magazine: A smart woman knows how to keep her husband or partner happy. The stunning cynicism had sent me reeling. How many women faked orgasm for the sake of their husband’s ego, I wondered? What kind of ‘smart’ was that? What was left in a relationship when we were no longer honest? I honoured my clients by never faking an orgasm—at least, not until the very end of my career as a masseuse, when the game began to fall apart altogether.

  On that day John was lucky: he had my sympathy. He was the very type of man who needed my services. Sex can soften the heart in men like John and make them decent for a time. But would the Chinese nuns have put up with his attitude? I sighed heavily, feeling certain that they would not. And so I tried to lay down some new rules. No more touching up when I didn’t feel like it; and nothing beyond a relief massage for any man I didn’t really like.

  It became complicated. I found it difficult to remember what I had agreed to the previous time I’d seen each client. I started to keep files on my customers—what they were used to, what I had allowed, what I had refused, things to watch out for, etc—but when I spoke to a potential client on the phone I couldn’t always consult my files and sometimes made appointments I later regretted. Too often, I hoped that a man might have changed miraculously since his last visit and would have different expectations. The truth was, I had trouble saying no. And the more I compromised myself, the less confident I felt each time I tacitly agreed to something I didn’t want to do. A great uneasy feeling grew inside me.

  I so wanted to be a decent woman in my own eyes. I felt shame when I didn’t have the courage to break off a massage when a client insisted on touching me and I wasn’t in the mood. Why is it so different now, I asked myself. Why was it all right for him to do this last week, but not now? I couldn’t really blame the men for the change in my feelings. Nevertheless, it was important to me to lay down some rules, even if they were unacceptable to many of my clients.

  I continued with my massage work, but I wouldn’t do it nude and there was to be no sex, only a relief. In the dead of night, I promised myself that I would do no more relief massage either. I’d begun to believe that men who wanted sex or relief massage had miserable, inadequate relationships, and that I was making their alienation worse. My viewpoint could not have been more negative or one-sided. But come daylight, and my first appointment, and I reneged on my quixotic promise. For one thing, it’s hard work doing straight massage for a full hour, only to be paid less for more effort. And it was extremely difficult to persuade my regulars to adjust to my new demands.

  Joe listened attentively as he lay on my massage table, naked and vulnerable, ready for pleasure. He always enjoyed giving me a massage first and now it was his turn. It was hard to explain to his softly expectant eyes that intercourse was no longer on the menu. Joe was stunned; I could see that he couldn’t understand. He was a sensitive lover. Having seduced me more than a year ago, he had a way of being totally present when he loved, a rare quality. Joe said nothing as I stumbled over my words and I too fell silent as I watched sadness cloud his face. I was grateful that he stayed, so I could give him my best massage as a gift.

  There were genuine tears in his eyes when he turned over. I started to stroke his penis, but he stopped me. I realised that he wasn’t about to try to change my mind; he just couldn’t climax that way today. He reached out and caressed my face tenderly. Whatever I had given Joe in the past had been deeply appreciated; how could I have thought I was hurting him? How could I have got it so wrong? Here was a man who fulfilled every requirement a Chinese nun might think of, and I was knocking him back! I took off my top and hugged hi
m, and he came as we hugged.

  Bernard was another regular whom I had a heart-connection with. He drove a taxi and needed a good massage to counteract his long hours behind the wheel. Usually I went nude with him. When I suggested just a massage, Bernard refused humorously and tugged at my clothes. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he asked, incredulously. He lay down on the massage table and pulled me up on top of him playfully. ‘We’ve done this before, you know, Carla, and it was very good.’

  It was hopeless. I decided to go with it. I allowed him to take off my clothes and to thrill me with his hands. I give him his massage—my hands automatically going to the places that were tense and sore and needed attention. All the while, Bernard lay there quietly, not interrupting me. It was only his back that needed the massage; when I was done, he always turned over with a big smile, sat up and put me on top of his erect penis. With my feet braced on the table, he lifted me again and again. Waves of pleasure surged through us until we both came.

  It was over. I felt flat as I dressed. I got busy with the things that had to be done: fetched Bernard a glass of water while he showered, put away the towels, rearranged the pillows. I wondered how he was feeling. When I met him in the hallway he looked great, a towel around his waist, a wicked smile around his lips. It wasn’t any use: either I would have to refuse to see Bernard again, or continue having sex with him. Bernard wasn’t only nice, he paid well, so it was a decision I kept deferring.

  If I had been thinking clearly, I would have realised that several of my clients did fit the bill for my Chinese nun ideal. But there was something the pictures on the vase didn’t tell me, an essential and very basic message that wasn’t getting through: When a Chinese nun doesn’t feel up to it any more, for one reason or another, she quits! But, like the pictures themselves, painted on the vase for ever, I didn’t quit.