Mattress Actress (31 page)

There were some acts that no girl enjoys, yet clients insisted on trying them on me. I was of the opinion that if this man was going to be a regular, why be made to feel uncomfortable more than once. Clients who hocked up a big wad of saliva, then attempted to use it as lubricant generally had their hand slapped away and were told, ‘I tell you what, let’s use lube, no extra charge!’

Clients who used the oil driller—attempting to squeeze three fingers into me then madly making a turbo sawing motion, back and forward, back and forward—were swiftly stopped and put right. Finally clients who pushed my head down while I gave them French resulted in me removing their hand from the top of my head and saying, ‘I know the drill, up, then down, up, then down.’

Not every client wanted to improve his sexual prowess. I have met some wonderful men—kind, handsome, wealthy, funny, the whole package—but my god were they useless in bed. It was beyond them why girls didn’t return their phone calls. It was definitely not my job to tell the truth, that would have been financial suicide. Instead, I commiserated with them. Every now and then I would suggest a few things, maybe a little nibble, only to hear that he had indeed tried that once and he didn’t enjoy it.

One of these clients quickly became besotted with me, and begged me let him jump the chasm from client to boyfriend, but had I done that I would have to forever forgo the wonderful orgasms that I had grown to like so much. In its place I would be wealthy, regularly treated like a princess, spoilt rotten, have a gorgeous, famous man on my arm, and always mix with the fashionable people. To me it was hardly a choice: I chose good sex. I did stay in touch with him and he eventually got married and is blissfully happy.

‘Let me take you out’, ‘I want to buy you dinner’, ‘Let me look after you’, ‘You would be perfect for me’ were all phrases that were heard once a day.

In my more cynical moments I would play along. ‘So what are you offering? I already get plenty of dick, I have loads of money and my lawn is mowed for free. Where would you fit in?’

Austin and I had had a ten-year, roller coaster-style relationship. I loved him and yet at times couldn't stand the sight of him, but for the life of me I couldn’t let him go. He was my constant. Every working girl has one, he’s the guy you shag when you need a cuddle. Clients are all about them, their pleasure, their needs. Austin became my Clayton’s boyfriend, the boyfriend you have when you don’t have a boyfriend.

Some days you could shag ten guys and not have one orgasm, so it was nice to know that there was one man in the world who knew your body, knew your likes, and cared about your pleasure. Sure I was being used, but then again so was he.

These faux boyfriends tell you everything you want to hear, they accept you warts and all, but they just don’t take you seriously. Austin would come over twice a week, Wednesday and Saturday nights, for dinner and a movie. Sometimes he would drop in for lunch. If I was with a client, he would chat with the receptionist and make himself a sandwich while I worked. Sometimes he sat with us at night for security; he enjoyed being a part of this perceived underworld.

I mistakenly took this all to be acceptance. Why didn’t he make me stop and support me to get out of the game? The answer is that he derived too much pleasure from being the man who dated the girl everyone wanted to fuck. It made him feel somewhat superior. He was the man I craved, so he had one up on all the men who had access to me.

Nobody understood what I saw in him. Yes he had a hot gym physique, but he had no great charismatic personality, he was not intelligent or witty. What I liked about him was that he was always there on demand. I truly believed that if I could get out of the game he would take me seriously and perhaps marry me. More fool me. Every girl I ever worked with had an Austin, the guy who drops by with chocolates or delivers lunch. More often than not they were blood suckers who ended up bleeding the girls of their hard-earned cash under the guise of investing their money in his dream, whether it be restaurant bills, paying for mining tickets or qualifications, computer courses, you name it, working girls always over invested in their faux boyfriends. I never gave Austin a penny, but I did fund his children in a substantial way, but I loved them and was happy to help.

It is not until the chips are down that you realise who your true friends, loved ones and family really are. Unfortunately my hot streak ran for ten years, so I was a little slow in learning. Or he just met my immediate needs.

My financial, emotional, mental and romantic collapse came when I was exposed for what I really was: a whore. Poppy hit puberty and was Little Miss Popularity with all who came into contact with her. She started to hear a few giggles behind her back about her mother and a certain website. She was the first to defend me, but how could I defend the indefensible? The truth was my only sword.

With all the risks about my progressing age, Poppy’s maturity and a sex industry in decline due primarily to the onset of numerous websites advertising partners for free anonymous sex, I knew my life needed to change. And I knew honesty with myself was long overdue.

I did try to rebuff Poppy’s curiosity for as long as I could but when she started to hate me for lying more than she hated me for being a sex worker I knew the jig was up. I was one hundred per cent honest with her but left out the graphic details. The only tears shed that night were by me, she just embraced me and reassured me that her love for me was undiminished. I decided then and there to change my ways and find another occupation. I shut down the website immediately, cancelled all ads and shut down the phone lines. It was impossible for me to go cold turkey, due to my financial obligations so I kept seeing regulars to make ends meet.

I went from earning $4000 per week to earning $600 per week. God bless Poppy, she never uttered a word when I told her that I couldn’t afford this or that when she asked for something. She understood completely and was proud of our new found poverty. Thankfully I had done such a good job with her that she was awarded a scholarship—the first of many—to continue on at her prestigious school. She took every hurdle in her stride.

I, on the other hand, was collapsing mentally. I could live without, but I hated that I had to deny Poppy anything. I hated myself for hurting the one person in the world I had sworn to protect and provide for. I quite literally couldn’t live with the thought that Poppy was being ridiculed because of me.

It is an interesting endeavour to commence applying for straight work as the girls referred to it. What was I qualified for? Customer service? Sales? Luckily for me I had a degree but was working on my post-grad qualifications so couldn’t work full-time anyway. Social security sent me to an employment service who attempted to assist me in preparing a resume.

’So what have you been doing since leaving school?’ the woman at social security asked as though it was the simplest question in the world.

I hesitated. Then the solution came to me. ‘Can I take the form home with me?’

With the help of my old clients, who would always hold a soft spot for me, I put together a resume to impress any human resources department. I had amazing letters of recommendations from top executives, touting the honesty, reliability, strong work ethic and brilliant interpersonal skills of Annika Cleeve. My resume had no time gaps in it. Every day of every week of every month of every year was accounted for. According to my resume I had never been unemployed, which is interesting seeing as I didn’t have a red cent in superannuation.

I still had way too many expenses that needed a dire pruning. According to my lifestyle, I needed a job paying about $100,000 a year. It is usually at this point where most girls slip back into old habits or compensate their income with the odd client. First job out I knew I was never going to earn what I needed, particularly considering I had a university bill that I couldn’t climb over.

I had job offers coming at me from every direction, though most had never received my resume, they had just been recommended to hire me through a mutual friend. But I had been so isolated for so long that I wondered if I really did know how to work alongside people for more than an hour.

I quickly realised that working is a love–hate relationship. I loved knowing that I could be appreciated with my clothes on. That my brain, my ideas, my creativity, my knowledge and my personality were valued.

The best thing about working was the honesty of it. I could finally, proudly, reel off a title, a venue and my duties to people who asked what I did, without crossing my fingers behind my back. I had always had an answer for this question, every smart girl does. Mine usually involved some job that was very rare or obscure, like consulting or language translating. Some career that no one would ever call you on. People can be very nosey, almost to the point of being rude, but ‘Mind your own fucking business’ was my standard response to those weighted, probing questions.

One of my former coworkers claimed to be a personal trainer, so she was forever inundated with friends wanting to book her services. This particular girl wouldn’t know a femur from a lemur, so she would come to work exhausted from taking a friend for an hour-long workout in the park. She quickly learnt to tell all future inquirers that she was booked out months in advance. The best answer was always that you worked as temp staff. That way you could always tell friends and family that you had to go to work, but never where. Oh what a tangled web we weave.

But no longer, I could be honest and proud about my job. Until someone asked me what I’d done before. I had prepared an answer for that: ‘I can’t remember, I’ve blocked it out!’ This always conjured a giggle, and called an end to further probing. Many people can relate to trying to forget their pasts, but for me, I could not recall the fabrications on my resume.

Working straight was wonderful, but juggling life was hard. My previous life had been heavenly in comparison. I had a receptionist come in everyday promptly at eight thirty; she tidied the house, cleaned the dishes, cleaned the clothes, made the bed, ran all my errands throughout the day. She even bought groceries when needed. All I had to do was prepare the evening meals, study and do my essays, and fuck ten or twelve clients. In the evenings I could simply eat, help Poppy with her homework then relax. Now I had to work a nine-hour day plus travel for an hour, come home and do all that shit myself—without the fucking. I was knackered. This Debby Doorknob lifestyle sucked.

I realised that I had never really cleaned and I had no idea how to do it. I quickly learnt though. Another lesson that was forced upon me was budgeting. I had been used to being paid daily, and always having $300 to $400 walk-around emergency money in my purse. I was used to buying fresh food every day. I was used to balancing my life with work and play quite nicely. Once a fortnight I would treat myself to an evening out with a friend to a nice meal or a concert. But now even those small luxuries fell way outside the confines of my budget. Planning and budgeting were killing me, but like most things, they took practice and self-discipline to master.

The irony of my life was that I had become so good at masking my history that I came across like some sort of superwoman. People wondered at my amazing abilities: obtaining a post-graduate qualification while working full time and being a fully engaged single mother who coached the school netball team. And still managed an overseas holiday each year. You can’t very well tell people the truth, but the fabrication is so implausible. For example; somehow I was able to afford my lifestyle in a five star suburb, with Poppy attending the most expensive school in the state, all while only working a thirty-hour week. All of this is possible without the assistance of any well-to-do baby daddy chipping in. Most people on two incomes couldn’t manage that.

So people often made the false assumption that I must have come from a wealthy family who fully supported me, my daughter and my excessive lifestyle. I was frequently told, ‘What would you know about the real world or struggling, you live in your ivory tower, where everything has been handed to you.’ This sentiment made the hairs on my neck stand on end and prickle with fire and animosity.

In my younger years I indeed struggled to provide a roof over my head and to be safe from harm. I had truly struggled to provide Poppy with what I felt she deserved and needed to have a good childhood. Emotionally I had struggled, but once I had established my financial worth had I really struggled? Probably not. I will say that I consistently chose not to simply survive but to thrive at the expense of societal norms. My career had rarely forced me to shed one bead of sweat. It was often an effortless task physically but that does not mean that it was easy. Even with my learnt ability to detach emotionally, some clients were painful and taxed my soul.

I recall that a lot of the clients who couldn’t last past the head job would often feel ripped off and comment that I’d made easy money. Sometimes I let that statement wash over me but other times I would ask what they would charge to do what I’d just done. And of course they would generally quote a lot more than I had taken from them fifteen minutes earlier. I always believed that no matter what your occupation, there were always great aspects to make the cringe-worthy tasks bearable. Mine was no different.