Mattress Actress (4 page)

As much as it was uncomfortable living with Mum, I stayed there for the emotional support. Jeffery and I began to disagree constantly. He couldn’t understand why I was not like his daughter, in uni and in bed every night by ten o’clock. Most evenings I wouldn’t even come home. Mum knew it was because of him that I stayed away.

She also couldn’t answer him when he asked why she allowed me so much adult responsibility and free reign. One morning we were fighting about the amount of board I should pay. Mum wanted eighty dollars a week. I thought that was unreasonable considering I slept on the couch, only after everyone went to bed, then was jumped on at the crack of dawn by my brothers, who wanted to watch cartoons.

Jeffrey decided to add, ‘Well, if that’s not good enough, move out.’

Now there’s a thought! Why had this clarity not come from me? ‘Fine, I will.’

‘Good,’ said my mother’s lips but her eyes were hurting—she liked and needed my presence. But this was a call to arms moment: Jeffery was making my mother choose sides and, true to form, she chose dick. ‘If you are still here when I come back from shopping, I’ll throw you out myself.’ With a slam of the door, Mum and her freeloader were gone.

I borrowed next-door’s newspaper and looked up the share accommodation section. I rang a number and asked if I could come over to look at the house. There were two men, Daryl and Jason, already renting the three-bedroom house, and they both appeared to be fairly laid back and, best of all, they didn’t reek of sexual frustration. I moved in that day. I didn’t tell them about the fight I had had with my mother. One of them offered to drive me back to Mum’s house with his ute.

We were just loading the last of my gear as Mum and Jeffrey came home.

‘Where are you going?’ she screamed. ‘Who is this guy? Is this someone else you are fucking?’

When she realised I was going, she began pulling some of the stuff I had out of the trailer, saying it was hers.

‘You’re not taking that bed,’ she said. ‘If you think you have it so tough, let’s see how you cope without my furniture. You can sleep on the goddamned floor.’

I left with nothing except clothes. Thankfully it was summer or I surely would have frozen to death, as she didn’t even leave me with one sheet. It was true the bed was paid for by her, but I had slept on it since the day we arrived back in Australia so I honestly felt entitled.

My flatmates never laid a hand on me, they liked Ben, and I was getting by. Mum and I seemed to like each other more when we were under separate roofs. Every now and then she would even invite Ben and I over for dinner and let us stay at her place rather than driving home in the dark.

So when Jeffrey called me one day to invite me out for a dinner with Mum and him I was happy to agree. Neither Ben nor I could afford to eat out so I was thrilled to try exotic foods cooked for me and paid for by someone else. Ben was away so I agreed to be picked up at seven pm and have a nice meal out with Mum and Jeffrey. I was disappointed when Jeffrey turned up without Mum but I listened to his sad tale of her dreadful, last-minute migraine without any scepticism.

Dinner was Thai, which I had never had. The restaurant Jeffrey selected was a lovely outdoor feast for all of your senses: fairy lights climbed all over the tree, Thai silks draped over the furniture and the most enchanting smells filled my nostrils. Jeffrey was proud to show me the things in life I was going without. He told me he was worried about me. To cut a long story short, he wanted to help me in life by offering me a job and more stability. I listened with the same enthusiasm that I gave to an amateur game of cricket. I was far too absorbed in a red curry with peanut sauce to listen to his middle-aged prattle. I left with my jeans’ top button undone and a giant doggy bag.

When we got back to my house, he walked me to the door then invited himself in. Jeffrey made small talk then left. My focus was on warning the flatmates not to touch my Thai leftovers.

The following morning, I was woken by a very loud and demanding knock at the door. The moment I opened it, I was slapped across the face by my mother, who was wild.

‘So now you’re going after my men? Not enough to wreck my marriage, now you have to take everything I love.’

I was wide awake now thanks to the slap, but my brain couldn’t comprehend her words. Why does she believe that I would have the least bit of romantic interest in her bearded, balding, short, boring, old, geeky boyfriend?

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Just try and deny you and him went out last night to a romantic restaurant behind my back.’

I quickly ducked another right-handed slap to the head. ‘Mum, Jeffrey invited me out to dinner with the both of you and then turned up alone, telling me that you had come down with one of your migraines.’

Now she stood erect, letting my words sink in. I could see that she was mentally tossing a coin as to whether I was indeed telling the truth. Then just as quickly as she arrived, she turned on her heel, briefly stopping to throw one last warning at me: ‘Keep the hell away from Jeffrey if you know what’s good for you.’

No apology, no explanation.

Things were going well for a few months until I was let go from my job. Winter had hit and the surf scene was a seasonal business. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t find another job for love or money. I didn’t know what to do. I refused to go back to Mum’s, and I couldn’t live with Ben until I turned sixteen under threat of prosecution from Jeffrey. I knew I would be made welcome by him and every time he came down for a visit he begged me to return with him. But I knew my reputation and my age repulsed his parents. I wanted to stay where I was, close to the drama academy and my agent, who was now starting to get me at least one job a month. I would not rely on other people, I had to be self-sufficient.

I knew what it felt like to be rejected and unwanted by your family, and I didn’t want that for Ben. While I resented his mother’s disapproval for our relationship, I did not want to jeopardise what he had: a loving family.

I’d read the positions vacant advertisement for prostitutes a hundred times. I didn’t have a licence let alone a car, I needed to pay my rent, I needed food, I didn’t even have coins any more to phone up and apply for the jobs I had half a chance of getting. I didn’t have a birth certificate or any ID to present even if I went to a job interview. I assumed that social security was for single mothers and aged people, not for school dropouts like me.

I looked at the advertisement again after realising my alternatives were few and far between. All I knew was that so far my one talent in life seemed to be turning saints into sinners, every man who crossed my path wanted to have their way with me, so I knew I would be a natural in this occupation. I had been called whore so many times that I figured I was already doing the time, I might as well do the crime.

Decision made! I wasn’t prepared to give them my real name, but even coming up with a false name took hours of thought. I was only fifteen years old and legally not allowed even to have sex yet. I thought I’d tell them that I was seventeen, not eighteen, because then the onus was on them if they decided to take me on. The law stated that you could legally have sex at sixteen but you could not work as a prostitute until you were eighteen.

I came up with two names, a supposed ‘real’ name and a working name. I chose Summer to work under and Abigail Winters as my real name, hoping they would not see the summer/winter connection.

I finally rang the number at the bottom of the advertisement. ‘I’m ringing about the ad in the paper,’ I said.

‘Oh yes, how can we help you?’ a female voice asked.

‘My name is Abigail Winters.’

‘Don’t tell me your real name,’ the woman interrupted. ‘Tell me your fake name.’

‘I’m sorry, I’ll have to come up with one,’ I said, deciding not to reveal Summer right away. ‘But I’m only seventeen, is that OK?’

‘Well, as far as we’re concerned, you’re eighteen,’ she said. ‘We want to meet you, when can you come in?’

‘I can be there in twenty minutes,’ I said, and she gave me an address.

I had to walk past the little weatherboard cottage three or four times; it was so nondescript, except for the red curtains, I thought it couldn’t possibly be the right place. I was wearing my very best outfit—a denim skirt and Billabong top from the surf shop—and I remember expecting all the women to be glamorous and worrying they weren’t going to employ me.

The manager, Samantha, greeted me at the door with a welcoming smile. She was certainly glamorous, a bit like an eighties porn star, with peroxide blonde hair, heavy make-up and glossy bright pink lipstick. Even though she looked a little garish, I thought she was beautiful and she seemed equally impressed with me, in spite of my down-market outfit.

Samantha didn’t seem particularly interested in my past or working history. She gave me a run-down about the brothel’s charges, which were set out on a poster behind the back of every bedroom door. There was ‘straight sex’ (missionary position); ‘straight sex with French’ (straight sex with a head job); ‘straight sex with French and full service’ (more than one position) and a host of other items on the ‘menu’. There were different prices for different services and the length of time a client could spend with the girl. The brothel took fifty per cent of whatever I earned, plus something called a shift fee, which they defined as a charge for coffee, tea, tissues, etc. Then ten per cent tax, which was automatically paid for me. I later learnt that was a crock of shit. Had I been smarter, or rather older or more experienced, I would have realised that at that point in my life that they didn’t even have my real name so their taxing me was complete bullshit.

I was told that there would be a knock on my door ten minutes before the client’s time was up. It was a lot for me to take in—and I was so innocent I had to ask what ‘French’ was; I assumed it meant kissing with tongue. Until that moment I had always referred to that act as a ‘head job’ or ‘blow job’. But I needed the money desperately so I told Samantha I could start straight away.

She said she would supply a sponge for the first night. A sponge? She explained that it was a sterilised sea sponge that you insert before sex. To sterilise it, the sponge was soaked in a jar containing a dash of Listerine mixed with boiling water. It was then wrung out and you inserted it into the vagina. If the condom broke, the sponge would catch all the semen and limit the chances of catching diseases or getting pregnant. If a client had dirt under his fingernails when he fingered your vagina, the sponge would also act as a sterilisation agent. When you had your period the sponge soaked up the blood and stopped any evidence getting on the condom. I thought all that made sense, but I wondered how I was going to fit both a dick and a sponge inside me.

I was sent home to get changed and told to return at six pm. Now I was really worried—I was already wearing my best outfit, so I returned promptly wearing nothing but a black satin nightie and heels. I knew from experience that satin nighties seemed to drive men crazy.

Because it was a slow night, I had a chance to meet all the women as they turned up for their shifts. Jodie arrived and I found her interesting. She was very pretty with long brown hair. She claimed to be nineteen and from some small town, where her parents still lived happily. After Jodie finished Year Twelve, she turned up at the brothel looking for work. I could immediately tell that she was a very placid and giving person.

Then two younger girls arrived, introducing themselves as Pepper and Toby. They both looked about fifteen years old and it was only their second night. The older women sent us three young girls on a cigarette run; this meant going to the shop to get whatever the older women needed or wanted. While walking to the shop, the girls asked me how old I was. I was surprised by the suddenness of the question. Was my youth that transparent?

‘Seventeen.’

‘I’m sixteen next month and she’s fifteen,’ said Toby.

Although they were my age in calendar years, as they chatted away I thought that they were too young and a bit silly; they hadn’t suffered enough to make this occupation the last straw. They’d both run away from home because they weren’t allowed to stay out late at night.

‘Is it hard?’ I asked.

‘No, it’s dead easy and great money too,’ Toby informed me.

Later that evening I heard the real story about her first night and discovered Toby was full of shit. Her first client had returned her to the front desk a blubbering mess although she did manage to finish the evening with no further emotional outbursts. They say that if you can handle the first night you can handle any night.

When we returned from the cigarette run there was another woman called Tia—named after Tia Maria, of which she drank copious quantities—sitting comfortably on the sofa. What struck me about Tia was how very average she was. She was about thirty-five years old, divorced from a philandering ex-husband and she had three children. She seemed particularly close to Samantha, who also had children and a deadbeat baby daddy, so they mostly spent the night drinking and exchanging anecdotes about the shortcomings of the entire male population.

Soon the owners, a lesbian couple called Ellen and Peg, arrived to give me the official once over. To say I was intimidated would be an understatement. I’d never knowingly met a homosexual person before, let alone a lesbian couple. Peg was a large, lovely woman—the sort of person who could keep you fascinated for hours; she spoke eloquently and dressed impeccably. This was in complete contrast to Ellen, who resembled an ugly Maori man with tits and tats and had a good vocabulary of coarse language.

Peg and Ellen truly believed the sex industry was a legitimate business, and that women should be paid for their ‘affections’. They also strongly believed in each other and were a demonstrably loving couple.

What hooked me into the industry that night was sitting talking to the girls. They were so open and talked about men like they were scum; not only scum, but useless scum. Everyone was swapping stories and there was no judgement—only acceptance. It was like a family. Although the way they talked about the job was light-hearted and funny, I couldn’t help thinking that men had seriously wronged these women in the past; they seemed, sadly, to have lost all hope of romance and of being sincere.

‘You should have seen my Oscar-winning performance the other night; he really thought I was coming.’

‘You should have seen the dick on the one I had last night—the condom fell off, it was so small.’

I’d been brought up to believe that women should please men, not ridicule them. I also thought women shouldn’t talk about sex; yet here were these women talking quite openly about it. They joked about how men fell for their mattress-acting performances.

I felt at home with these girls. They taught me that sex didn’t have to be bad or forceful. They explained how I could make sex better and how I could actually enjoy it; what not to let a man get away with and what I should get in return. They told me it was all right to doubt men and it was okay to be distrustful; in fact, it was better to be that way—their way.

I knew then that even if I hated the sex part of the job, I would want to come back the next night because I felt so at home. I could be myself and not what everyone expected me to be. I knew that if I told them I didn’t enjoy sex that would be OK. I knew if I told them I had my period they wouldn’t call me dirty. If I told them I was ashamed of my figure they would tell me that I was gorgeous. These women gave me confidence, support and the chance to be like a family. Best of all, in their eyes, it wasn’t a bad thing to sleep with men for money or any other sort of gain. In fact, you were a fool if you gave it away. I felt completely empowered in one evening.

They talked about their future plans; I had never considered my future. They talked about buying houses and cars, and I hadn’t thought about those things either. They gave me advice about how to dress and do my hair and make-up. I couldn’t help noticing that in all their expressed hopes and dreams, there was no mention of marriage and children. Their self-sufficient attitudes really impressed me.

There was a knock on the back door and I was disappointed at the interruption; I wanted to continue talking. Three men had arrived, sailors by the look of them. Ellen sauntered over to the men, saying she had a treat for them—a new girl. Me. One of the big guys asked for his ‘special cupcake’ and Samantha, obviously recognising his voice, removed her thick glasses and warm slippers, climbed into her heels and was gone.

‘Hi, I’m Jodie, come with me, gorgeous,’ Jodie said enthusiastically to one of the other two men. He was given no say in the matter. At the time I questioned why Jodie would be so keen to be groped by this intoxicated sailor. Later I came to understand that he wasn’t a ‘drunk sailor’; he was rent or food for a week or maybe just a new handbag.

I got stuck with the other skinny young drunk. Ellen warned him to treat me right. She made me feel like a debutante, but at that point all I felt was petrified; not worried that he would hurt me, but that I would somehow be unsatisfactory.

His eyes lit up when he saw me. ‘God, you’re stunning,’ said Mr $100.

Alone in the room with him, I found I wasn’t nervous at all. The girls had made me feel pretty comfortable about the whole business. I deserved money for what I was going to do, not the grief I’d received in the past. Suddenly, I believed I was worth something and I couldn’t wait to get the money in my hot little hands.

He gave me the money, which I took out to Ellen. When I returned, I began to remove my clothes and lay on the bed. I started kissing his neck and stroking his penis. Nothing was happening. He was almost unconscious.

He turned to me and said, ‘Look honey, I’m only here because my mates pushed me into it. I’m too drunk to do anything—you’re beautiful but I’m too tired. Can I just sleep here for a while?’ I told him no, and that he would have to leave and to hop off the bed and have a shower. After he’d showered, he thanked me and said I was great. Wow! I didn’t have to do anything and I got paid. My body and my time were finally worth something.

Later, when I told the other girls what had happened, they ridiculed him because he couldn’t get it up. I was then given a quick lesson in the reasons why men don’t get erections—mostly it was alcohol, sometimes it was medical, occasionally it was age. As I also discovered through my own experience later, guilt and nerves could play a large part.

By the time I reappeared in the reception room, men were lined up waiting. I did one job after another and I had to perform, but didn’t care—I could see my value. I was going to be a millionaire one day. With each man I would close my eyes and think of my beloved Ben. I wasn’t making love to these guys; I was just performing a simple sex act and getting paid for it, chalking it up to acting experience. Apart from the skinny sailor, I don’t remember any of them, I don’t even remember how many men I had sex with that first night. I did try to remember so that I could count in my own head how much money I could anticipate, but they all sort of blurred into one another.