Authors: Carla Van Raay
Marinette must have been a beauty in the past; her signature was her shiny black hair, which she wore in an elegant bun. I liked and trusted her, until she let me down by sending me to a client well-known to her, who had the kind of penis that King David might have envied. My fanny, tight from its long-lasting virginity, had trouble accommodating him and it hurt. She had the grace to blush when I complained, but I left her soon after for a male pimp called Rick, who had once been mentioned to me by one of Stella’s girls. It was mere curiosity that drove me to work for a man instead of for a woman.
Rick was middle-aged, of medium height and a rather thin fellow who had already been in jail a couple of times
for living off the earnings of prostitutes. He had a certain hold over women because he came across as a real Aussie battler who had a soft heart for them. In other words, he was a sort of dinky-di father substitute.
Rick lived in the house he operated from—a ramshackle, wooden place with lino on the kitchen floor and three ducks flying in formation on the living-room wall. I had the impression it had once been his mother’s house and he hadn’t bothered to change anything, including the faded cotton curtains. Rick’s girls hung out in his house, making tea and toast for themselves whenever they wanted to, even cleaning the place for him, until they were sent out on a rendezvous.
Only three weeks into this new liaison, I arrived at the house to find Rick in a drunken state, feeling very sorry for himself because he had just found his cornflakes box—which ingeniously doubled as a cash box—was empty. It had probably been raided by one of his girls, who had discovered the stash when she was looking around for something to eat. I was surprised to see I was the only girl there. Rick sat down in an armchair and imperiously called me over to have sex with him. ‘Sit on top of me,’ he grumbled, undoing his fly and taking his organ in his hands. A few strokes and the horny thing was standing bolt upright. I obliged him with extreme reluctance, and only because I feared that refusal would mean a nasty reprisal. He relieved himself ungraciously into me. ‘There,’ he announced with a sneer, ‘you’ll have cystitis now for the rest of your life.’ Rick’s penis burned with the infection as angrily as he burned with indignation at being robbed, and he had deliberately tried to pass on his disease to me in revenge.
Not realising that cystitis is not a transmittable disease, I ran for Dr Dayton, who calmly advised me to wait and see
what would eventuate. Nothing did, but for the next two weeks I didn’t dare have sex in case I transmitted the disease. I used the time to plan the next stage of my career. I wanted to work on my own, convinced that it would be infinitely better than anything I had experienced to date. I heard on the grapevine that Rick had gone behind bars again for pimping. The girls must have known that something was up that day and had left before the police showed up.
I still had a lot more to learn about the real rules of the game, and probably missed out on some of the better opportunities out there, but after three months I was ready to work for myself. I so longed to be free to set my own standards and working hours. This wasn’t the done thing, but I had been lucky enough to be working for a pimp who had gone down, so I was unlikely to be penalised for being an upstart. Competition was serious business; even a girl working on her own was considered a threat, as I found out some time later.
KELLY AND I
discussed my working from home. Our house in Floreat Park was well-suited: it had its own separate entrance at the back to a bedroom, and the bathroom could be reached without entering the main living quarters. I offered to let Kelly and her son stay on rent-free, and she agreed. She continued to look after little Caroline while I worked. Caroline and Jimmy got on well together and I made good friends with Kelly.
Kelly was taking a risk, living with me, as she could have been considered an accessory. It was perfectly legal for a girl to work on her own, but to have help in the house amounted to running a brothel—or so I was told by a client who sent me into a spin when he identified himself
as a cop. ‘It’s all right,’ he said in a fatherly way, ‘I won’t do you in. But be careful.’ Kelly was even more nervous after that, but then she was the worrying type anyway.
I placed a small advertisement in the
West Australian
, among much more prestigious escort notices, and waited nervously. I was a woman on her own—would anyone notice me? The phone gave me a fright every time it rang. When would it be my first potential client?
One day I answered the phone to the give-away beep-beep of a long-distance call. It was a gent who said he was ringing from Sydney. ‘Hello, Carla. I liked your advertisement! My name is Michael.’ (I knew I didn’t have to believe that.) I listened to his voice, and knew he was doing the same. A phone interview to determine whether we would meet up or not! I felt the thrill of this game: the excitement of the unorthodox and the potentially dangerous.
‘Do you like chocolates? And roses?’
I laughed. It was just the thing to ask a woman who might feel a little awkward at being wooed for a sexual interlude with a stranger! Michael was due to arrive in Perth in three days’ time, and was scheduling some recreational activities among his business appointments.
‘I have two rows of standard roses at home,’ he explained when we met face to face and he handed me his gift. (Swiss chocolates, dark: my favourites.) ‘Red and white.’
Roses were obviously his passion and he was genuinely delighted to talk to me about them. Michael’s suit showed a superior taste and he gave the appearance of being in charge of any situation, but underneath he was eager to please. I made the first move as we continued to talk, undoing his expensive tie. He smiled. Yes, we were well suited for this sort of encounter. I felt the pleasure of initial success, of a dare
paying off. If this was wicked, it was a glittering wickedness, conjuring up the sensuousness of the 1920s. It was completely satisfying, a mixture of luscious leisure and eager excitement. When we had finished, Michael put money on the mantelpiece for me. It was more than I had asked for.
‘Do you get many clients from interstate?’ he wanted to know before he left. ‘You are my first client,’ I confided. ‘That makes me very special indeed!’ he flattered, then gave me his advice as a businessman. ‘Be very choosy,’ he said. ‘Businessmen like me want to feel safe with a person who doesn’t have too many different clients.’
I understood what he meant, and now I knew what to aim for. Michael wanted a mistress, not a hooker. There are some distinct differences. He wanted to get to know me, to make me like him and want to take care of him. He also did not want to be seen entering a known establishment—a mistress provided better discretion. Sex without condoms is always unsafe, but with me the risk was very much reduced because of my high standards of hygiene. From then on I specified ‘businessmen only’ in my advertisement, and gave preference to clients from interstate. These men became my regulars and a mutual trust developed.
Being a mistress in my own home suited me superbly. I could be generous with my time and friendship and I enjoyed having sex with men who knew and respected me, and with whom I did not have to pretend.
My house was usually filled with flowers from satisfied customers, one of whom was a florist, a wrinkly, good-humoured man. He often left bunches of flowers at my back door early in the morning. I would smell their fragrance upon waking—such a nice way to begin the day!
I felt myself wholly a
woman
, in love with sex, enjoying men’s compliments and attentions—and they did me the
honour of paying me well. Payment, to me, was a form of appreciation, of approval; it gave me a sense of self-worth. But I didn’t really know what to do with the money. I bought peacock-blue silk furniture that reminded me of the 1920s, but it was in danger of being ruined by the two toddlers. It didn’t enter my head to invest my money in real estate, which would have been a smart move. For financial astuteness, I deserved a zero. The truth was, I felt embarrassed by money—a leftover of the vow of poverty that I had lived for twelve years and renounced only three years ago. I had no difficulty breaking the vows of chastity and obedience, but poverty hung on, with its values of detachment and doing without.
I was still prepared to do some work away from home. One evening I answered a call to one of Perth’s swankiest hotels to attend a party of guys celebrating a business deal. This sounded like a challenge, but I soon realised the guys weren’t ‘regulars’. They were just ordinary blokes out for a wild and naughty night. They had got my phone number on a recommendation from a client, so I felt safe to oblige them.
They were looking rather dishevelled, though still wearing their suits and ties, when I arrived at their large hotel room. It was fitted with lounge furniture, a double and a single bed, and had access to a smaller room. Music blared from the hotel radio and the air was already rank with the smell of alcohol and sweat. I was greeted with various gestures of welcome—especially from Barrie, who had originated the idea—and was offered a drink. I asked for cider. They had none, but it was soon delivered and the merriment began in earnest.
I was wearing a little red skirt and a billowing white silk blouse. I lounged on the double bed while my shiny red shoes were removed by helpful, eager hands. I gulped the sweet
cider. I never normally needed alcohol or any other stimulant to get me going, but having to play up to six men I needed a little bit of help! The music inspired me to dance on the bed, and in moments I was joined by at least three others, all shouting gleefully and slopping their drinks on the covers. The guys began to clap in unison and I got the message: I was to do a striptease before leading them off to their ultimate ruin!
The mattress was really too soft for dancing, so I stood on the long dressing table in front of its large mirror and began to take off my blouse. I was untrained in the art and not sure what to do next, but their appreciation of every move I made was so tremendous that I soon forgot to feel embarrassed, even by the varicose veins revealed when I removed my pantyhose. My legs and body sported a light tan—I had taken to putting my pale European skin under artificial sun lamps to give it a healthy glow. I sang as I gyrated, trying to avoid falling off the dressing table and into their arms or onto the floor, and they whooped as each item of clothing was flung through the air and landed, whenever possible, on someone’s head.
Alcohol had been flowing so freely that nothing was going to stop anyone doing anything he wanted now. I had exposed all, including my tantalising blonde patch of pubic hair—which was quite enough, I thought, when suddenly I was caught up by one man and turned first on my back, then upside down. He held me on the bed while he called out to a mate. To the brutish delight of all present, my fanny was doused in beer while he and his mate held my legs apart. The beer ran into my mouth and hair, and I wriggled in mock distress—‘Let me go, you Neanderthals!’—and, after much laughter on all our parts, they released me. Once upright again, I told them it was time for the real fun to begin, in the small room next door.
There was no margin for finesse as they traipsed in one by one and tried to get it up—an onerous task for the more intoxicated. In the end they were all satisfied, and not nearly so rambunctious when I left after a shower. The room was a veritable shambles: the bedclothes and mattress were soaked beyond saving; booze stained the carpeted floor. I was paid generously and returned home for a well-earned rest, wondering if they would think the night worth it when they received the hotel bill for the damage.
Sometimes things didn’t go quite so well. Like the night I answered a call to a hotel from a captain whose merchant ship had docked in Fremantle. The room I entered was tasteful enough, and so was the dinner, nicely served on a trolley. The captain was dressed in his uniform—no doubt to impress me—and it did the trick.
He was a lightly moustached fellow of about forty-five, spreading a little around the waist from indulgent dining, but looking smart. He took off his jacket and we stood at the window, admiring the view across the harbour. We were a good match in height: he was at least two inches taller than me, even in my high heels. I put my arms around him, my back to the window, and then I made a fatal mistake. Unthinkingly, intending to create intimacy, I stuck my hands in the back pockets of his trousers and patted his buttocks playfully, rocking him gently from side to side. I gave him my best smile, intended to indicate the good time in store for him, and pushed my body closer to his, so he could pat my buttocks too. But suddenly he pushed me away from him, a changed man. ‘You were going to steal my wallet, weren’t you?’ he bristled, his face alight with fury.
I was completely taken aback and could only shake my head in disbelief at his reaction. Was the man so blind that he couldn’t recognise me as an honest woman? What
had
he
seen in me? Nothing but a scheming piece of flesh? Did he think I was play-acting? I had been enjoying myself up to this point—I could never just ‘act’, because acting meant hiding that you were
not
enjoying yourself. I picked up my jacket and bag and left, feeling close to tears.
DURING THAT FIRST
year of self-employment, one of my strangest experiences had nothing to do with work at all. It was the seduction of a famous pianist, with whom I locked eyes in the foyer of a Perth hotel. I was there on business, but he wasn’t to know that. Between clever flourishes on the hotel piano, he gave me his card.
‘It will be more fun if I come over to your place,’ Philippe said on the phone. He was carrying three bottles of chartreuse when I opened the door to him. After scanning me deliberately, he declared me to be beautiful before committing himself by stepping through the door. I had no piano for him to shine on and his manner was more brusque than in the hotel, but I told myself that fame may make a person arrogant as well as intriguing.
He plied me with the pleasant liqueur, but I am one of those people whose brain cells die by the millions when they encounter alcohol. I am even more sensitive to the preservatives in wine, which have a toxic effect on my liver and often a drastic effect on my looks. It was approaching midnight when I felt my energy changing. My musical maestro was lying on top of me, joking about something. As the clock struck twelve, I felt a tiredness flood over me.