God's Callgirl (47 page)

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 him, 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.

Instead, I kept
thinking.
And the more I thought, reasoned and pondered, the more I tired myself out.

Malcolm, a new client, broke down in sobs when I told him I didn’t do sex. He apologised for his tears, but begged me to let him be inside me just once. ‘I haven’t been inside a woman for two years. I want to know if I’m still man enough,’ he added, sombrely.

That last bit made sense to me, even if the rest was a manipulative tactic. Malcolm had brought a condom along, so instead of agreeing to intercourse, I offered to do fellatio, as long as he wore the condom. I instantly regretted it when I tasted the horrible spermicide and antiseptic, a dry astringent taste that stayed in my mouth for hours afterwards, even after several cups of tea, coffee, herbal tea and, finally, wine.

I gave up with the disgusting rubber and said, ‘OK, we’ll do it like you want.’ (You win, because I should’ve known better!) I worked up his flaccidly disappointed penis with my hands till it became enthusiastic, and climbed on top of him. Poor Malcolm; he didn’t really want to transgress my boundaries at all. After one stroke inside me, he gently lifted me away and came inside the condom. ‘That’s all I need,’ he said. ‘Now I feel complete.’

Most of my clients were decent men, agreeable, generous and genuine. There was nothing wrong with them or with what they wanted. The thing that was ‘wrong’ was that I wasn’t used to respecting my own energy or the feelings of my body. And when I didn’t respect myself, I felt bad. What I did didn’t make me a bad woman; it just felt that way.

I found myself giving in to the pleasure of the erotic surge of sex again and again, only to feel more depleted than ever afterwards and disappointed in my lack of judgment and self-control. In the moments before orgasm, in the heat of lusty passion, I fooled myself into thinking that this time it would be different, that I’d still feel good when it was over. But the good feelings subsided very quickly. I didn’t stop because I was addicted: addicted to sex, to the attention I was getting and to easy money. At the time, it was so difficult for me to feel all this completely.

I WAS CONSTANTLY
petrified that my friends or acquaintances might find out that I did relief massage, and more. Consequently, I had few soul-baring conversations with anyone; in fact, my only confidant was my homosexual friend, Shane. He was a charming, artistic, intelligent, beautiful and tolerant young man, whose sole intention towards me was to support me. He came to my house to surprise me with his creative cooking, while his musical voice and sweet presence constantly lifted my spirits. With Shane, I could discuss almost anything. Almost. Even with him, I never discussed my deepest fear of being found out.

Apart from Shane, I developed a friendship with Ruth and Don, a couple who lived a few streets away. Again, we never discussed my lifestyle. I had started part-time teaching, to give the impression that this was my source of income. For two years we visited each other, and had many lively and funny philosophical discussions over dinners cooked by Ruth. My dark secret was my own, and seemed to take on more darkness over time.

There was one other secret I soon had to bear, a secret Don and I would equally share. The trouble began when Don told me he wanted to have sex with me. I looked into those large dark pools of his eyes and saw that our innocent sex jokes had turned into a fantasy for him. I knew that Ruth and Don were both virgins when they married, and neither had ever had another sexual partner. They had joked about taking on lovers, which made me hold my breath—in spite of the love and appreciation they obviously had for one another, this smoke might eventually uncover a fire. Ruth, for one, talked openly about how she’d taken a fancy to someone at work. But it was only something to laugh about; we always knew that her fantasy was going to stay just that.

I was severely taken aback by Don’s request. Even though he was a dear friend, he was definitely not my type for a romantic fling and I’d never dreamed that he might feel otherwise. Was there something wrong with my sexual radar? I decided that, no, Don wasn’t attracted to me, he just wanted to have sex with someone other than his wife, out of pure curiosity. I told him this, but to my surprise he didn’t give up.