Mattress Actress (5 page)

That night I was there until almost four in the morning and before I walked out I was handed an envelope containing my earnings: my cut from the $980 I’d made was $400. I was only fifteen and I’d earned more in one night than I had earned in a month in the surf shop.

The next night I brought home the same money, and the next night, and the next. A lot of the guys would return asking for me—a sex-worker’s security was in repeat business. I loved my job and even when I wasn’t working I would go to the brothel to see the girls. It became my home and family away from the home and family I no longer had.

One day, I thought I’d pop in for a gossip and found Jodie sitting on the lounge watching TV with a man. This was unusual because Jodie never let anyone slip through her fingers, and certainly didn’t waste time entertaining men if there was nothing in it for her. No one was speaking; what was going on?

‘Can I get you a drink?’ I politely asked, trying desperately to break the silence.

He didn’t speak, just shook his head. He seemed painfully shy. He had red hair and would have been no more than twenty-four years old and looked like he hadn’t eaten in months.

Then out came Peg dressed in black leather, a dog collar and leather hood and holding a whip. I was stunned. Feminine, lesbian Peg, a bondage mistress? I’d heard about this sort of thing but had never witnessed it.

‘Where are you hiding, you snivelling, spineless, mummy’s boy?’ Peg boomed.

With that, the young man jumped up off the couch and ran to her. Within seconds the door was slammed shut. I couldn’t hear exactly what was being said, but I could definitely make out the crack of the whip, and the young redhead screaming, ‘Please,’ or ‘More, Miss.’

After I’d been working at the brothel for about a week, I went out and bought some lacy black lingerie. I had never worn expensive underwear before and I spent nearly $100 on the outfit. I wasn’t working that night and was in my bedroom trying it on when a friend of one of my flatmates arrived. Passing my partially open door, he saw me, paused and then walked right in. I was in front of the mirror and he came up behind me. The fact that he was getting married in a couple of weeks didn’t stop him from placing his hands on my hips. I could tell they were going to be on my breasts within seconds. He asked me where I’d got the money for the clothes.

I told him I was stripping; that I’d lost my job and needed the money. He said that that sounded really sexy and moved his hands around my waist. The guy had met Ben last time he was down and asked me if Ben knew what I was doing.

‘I haven’t had a chance to tell him yet,’ I lied.

‘Don’t you care what he thinks?’ he asked.

‘I’m the only one who has to support me,’ I said. ‘If he wants to lose me over it then fine, but I think he sees more in me than just my occupation.’

He touched me again. I suddenly remembered that men paid to touch me these days. I was worth something.

‘You should ask a girl if she wants to be touched before you take it upon yourself to start fondling her. Leave me alone,’ I said.

He stared at me for the longest time in the mirror, absorbing what I had said. I’m sure it wasn’t what I’d said but more the fact I’d had the guts to be so direct. He walked out of the room and announced loudly to the guys sitting in the lounge room that I had a new job and fancy attire to match. I pleaded with them not to tell Ben if he called and promised I would tell him myself. I had been living with Daryl and Jason since Mum had told me to get out of her home. They were OK guys and didn’t ask too much about my family situation and we stayed out of each other’s way.

At the time it suited me, but about a month after they found out about the ‘stripping’ job, Jason told me he thought it was inappropriate that a young girl was living in a house with two men. Maybe they were worried about their reputations; that my new life was a little too outrageous for them. Heaven knows what they would have thought if they knew what I was really doing.

By this stage I had saved enough money for my own place and as I didn’t want them to find out what I was really doing, I thought it best I moved out.

Finding a place was not the problem; justifying my income was. I found an adorable two-bedroom flat with views of the ocean for $120 a week; I had to have it. I completed the rental application, listing myself as a nanny for Ellen and Peg’s children. Two hours later I got a phone call from the property manager.

‘Hi Annika, I have a few questions about your rental application,’ he said. ‘Are you aware Ellen and Peg don’t have any children?’

I began to sweat but remained silent. He took pity on me. ‘I’ve been renting to Ellen and Peg for years. Look, just pay your rent on time and it’s yours.’

I signed a six-month lease and later the real estate agent and I became great friends; in fact, in return for a few favours he would change the dates on some of my receipts, such as paid through to July rather than June for example.

I may have been earning good money but I was still pretty naive. I seemed intent on learning the hard way. One evening a client came in drunk, with a serious case of verbal diarrhoea. He kept on and on about how beautiful I was, but I dismissed his words, since he’d soon be sober and wouldn’t even remember his visit. However, the next day he was waiting outside for me when I arrived at work. He fell all over me, telling me how fabulous and awesome I was, and invited me to his place for a drink the next day. I said yes because I didn’t realise I could say no. I thought surely he knew the drill—I go to his place and he’ll pay me and I might get to keep the lot for myself. I didn’t tell any of the other girls, which was a pity because they would have put me straight.

When I arrived at his house, he poured me a lemonade as I didn’t drink alcohol. He proceeded to seduce me on the couch and I let him; why wouldn’t I—I was getting paid, right? Afterwards, when I was dressed, a woman walked in. It was his wife; I listened, dumbfounded as he introduced me as someone selling linen door to door. She was asking me tricky questions like where were my samples and I suddenly had a lightbulb moment: this guy didn’t care about me—he was just after free sex! Why was I backing up his bullshit? He had no intention of paying me! How ignorant I was not to have said no in the first place. I got even with him before I walked out by telling her how we’d met and that we’d just had sex.

I tried to stay in regular contact with my agent in Brisbane. I began getting work as an extra in films and video clips. Once, while we were on location, I went drinking with the crew after work. Someone thought it would be amusing to slip me something with a bit more kick than my soft drink. Uninhibited, I began dancing to a Meatloaf song and the cameraman secretly filmed me dancing.

The clip of me dancing around the campfire ended up on the desk of the big boss of Gala Records. This man was obviously impressed because he rang me and asked to meet in relation to doing video clips. I told him I lived up on the Sunshine Coast and if he was ever up that way to call me. Although I was happy to come down to meet him in Brisbane, his schedule was erratic and I thought it best to leave it with him.

I was still under sixteen but managing to get in to local nightclubs on my nights off. I preferred weeknights as the men weren’t as drunk. My clients were mainly divorced and looking for sex without complications. Sometimes they were out-of-town businessmen who felt a bit naughty being away from the wife and kids. Surprisingly, a lot of the really young guys didn’t choose me. They preferred the older women.

I did get a lot of handsome footballers. Many were regular clients; they had a high sex drive, so I would often see them two to three times a week. At first it was beyond me why they would need to pay for sex, but after talking to a few of them I understood that it was easier for the football stars to pay me for sex than cope with the football groupies following them around, hanging off their every word and teasing them with their bodies. If they had sex with these girls, the girls would assume they were dating. Two weeks of teary phone calls would eventually degenerate into ‘You’re such a using prick’, accusations and even threats of ‘a drink in the face next time I see you’. I could see their point, and I thought it admirable that if they were not looking for a relationship, but needed sex, they should see me.

Surprisingly, it was a client who gave me my first orgasm. I was really tired, I’d been dancing until four am, working since eleven am and it was now eight pm. John was a surf life saving coach and personal trainer for the men in the professional football teams. In his day he was probably a champion himself, but now, the only thing he was boasting was the shiniest head on the beach. While John was showering, I lay naked on the bed and closed my weary eyes. The light from the bathroom woke me as John returned.

He stood at the foot of the bed for a long time, then said, ‘Don’t move, I just want to kiss you all over, you look so delicious.’

I was not about to argue. He massaged me with talcum powder, and then began kissing my neck, slowly but surely inching his way down my body. His tongue felt so good on my nipples, his hands seemed to know my breasts, and he greeted my stomach like an old friend. With his lips on my inner thigh, his fingers began to stray and for the first time my body welcomed this attention. His tongue, lips and fingers were massaging my most intimate areas and I couldn’t get enough of it. My breathing had quickened; my hips were gyrating to a music my ears couldn’t hear. His touch was intensifying and I didn’t want this feeling to ever stop. I was fighting a war within myself—my mind said hang on but my body couldn’t handle any more; I reached my crescendo. I let out the biggest sigh. I was elated but I wondered why I had I not shared this experience with someone outside of work. Why hadn’t my Ben been able to do this?

I got a phone call from Norm, the president of Gala Records. He said he had one of his bands playing on the coast that weekend. He could get me a ticket and we would all have dinner afterwards. The band he mentioned were consistently in the top ten at the time, so I was very excited to be meeting people who were so famous. He said to be at the door at seven pm and if I mentioned his name someone would escort me backstage. It coincided with my sixteenth birthday but of course I was still under eighteen and I prayed there would be no ID checks at the door. Not that I even had an ID.

Alas I was out of luck. The Neanderthal doorman insisted on seeing my driver’s licence before he would let me in. I even tried dropping Norm’s name, but the doorman still wouldn’t budge. Later, someone I knew gave me their pass in so I at least made the concert. I had no idea what Norm looked like so I just had a party, dancing around at the front of the stage. I noticed the keyboard player kept staring at me and I turned around and winked at him.

After the concert I asked one of the roadies the keyboard player’s name. He simply said, ‘Paul.’

I asked him to tell Paul: ‘The girl in the midriff top at the front of the stage has a keyboard in her pants and he could tickle her ivories any time.’

Next thing, Paul came from the back of the stage and was standing about ten feet away from me. He was surrounded by girls and I knew that if I didn’t make a move I would lose him. So I went right up to him.

‘I bet you have been dying to meet me all night,’ I said.

‘You’re really funny . . . what are you doing later?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Would you like to come out for dinner?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, I was supposed to go to dinner with you guys tonight,’ I said. ‘And Norm from Gala Records.’

He looked at me a bit sceptically. ‘Why don’t you pack up your gear and come to the Gold Coast with us tonight?’ he said.

I didn’t need to be asked twice! He took me back to my house in a limousine. I grabbed my clothes. During the three-hour trip, I read him all my poetry. He seemed to like me and must have seen something a bit deeper than simply tits and arse, because even though I stayed in his hotel room, he didn’t have sex with me that night.

All of the band were already humming tunes to my verses, saying, ‘That’s a hit record, Annika.’ I was very excited at the thought that people would hear and appreciate my words, my sentiments and relate to my perspectives. Little did I know that these were cloud conversations. We went to breakfast the next morning and Norm from Gala met us at the table—I recognised him by his heavy English accent. When I was introduced he looked at me and realised I was the girl who was supposed to meet him the previous night. He was surprised I was there but didn’t ask any questions.

Later we boarded a yacht and sailed out to an island; the band jammed and I danced on the beach. Paul suggested that they use me in their next film clip.

I returned to the Sunshine Coast after four days on an emotional high—my career was going to take off!

Ellen read me the riot act for not turning up for my shifts but she wasn’t really angry with me. What I didn’t know was that the police had been hassling her and she was venting some of her frustration. The following day she called me to apologise, but she also had bad news: she wanted to cut down on my shifts because of my age. She was still under the impression that I was seventeen but you couldn’t sell sex until you were eighteen.

‘You can’t do this, please, I need the money,’ I pleaded.

‘I’ll give you shifts at another house, but not here, the police are all over us like the plague. You’re a hot potato right now, babe, I can’t afford to know you. Nothing personal.’

There was another girl who had been put up in a private house and didn’t want to work all day, every day, so Ellen let me work under her name, which was Joy. Guys would ring up asking for Joy and I would be her. Apparently the cops now knew about a young girl working by the name of Summer and so I couldn’t advertise under this name.

One night, Ellen and Peg invited me to their home for a chat; they said they’d found a way for me to work legally and earn twice as much. Of course that spiked my interest, but for some reason my gut was churning.

Their home was as seedy as their business. It was decked out in mirrored tiles, red carpet and crimson velvet wallpaper. We sat facing one another on black vinyl couches. They were being uncharacteristically friendly. After much ado, they got onto the subject at hand. One of my Asian clients was looking to take four or five young attractive blonde girls to Hong Kong for work. I would be guaranteed to earn at least $2500 a week. I may have only been sixteen but I was by no means stupid. I needed to turn this offer down without inciting their wrath. The solution hit me like a bolt of lightning.

‘I don’t have a passport!’ I exclaimed.

‘That’s not a problem; we can get you one within two weeks,’ Peg countered.

I squirmed. ‘But I would still need my mother’s consent.’

I could see their anger rising by their reddening cheeks and I knew they were trying to stay calm.

Peg’s eyed narrowed. ‘Why do I get the feeling you don’t want to get a passport? Is it because you’re not really seventeen?’

‘All I’ve ever wanted was to be an actress or a dancer and it’s finally starting to happen for me, I can’t leave the country now.’

Their stern looks told me our conversation was over. The phone rang and Ellen spoke briefly into the receiver. They looked grim but offered to drive me back to work and I accepted. I got out of the car and waited for them to get out so we could walk in together but Ellen, who was at the wheel, drove off at breakneck speed, the rear wheels spraying gravel. My stomach was doing somersaults and I put it down to the fact that I would probably be seeking new employment tomorrow.

I didn’t understand what was going on but tried to push what had happened out of my mind as I walked into the house. Upon entering I noticed that the girls had been kind enough to save me a client. I looked at this man alone in the waiting room in his dark suit and white shirt and in my perkiest voice said, ‘Hi, I’m Summer, what’s your name?’

‘Constable M, now, what’s your real name?’

Having already been prepped for such an event, I knew not to carry any ID in my handbag.

‘Abigail Winters,’ I replied, giving him a bogus address and date of birth.

‘Mind if I inspect your bag, Abby? You don’t have any prohibited drugs do you?’

Knowing I had nothing in my bag, I gave it to him along with one of my best smiles. I was home and hosed, stupid pig. In my mind I was laughing at him, but not for very long.

He rummaged in the bag and found a letter from Ben, addressed to Annika Cleeve at my address. Inside he’d written: ‘Sweet Sixteen, my darling Annika.’

The constable took me by the arm and escorted me outside. Tears started to well in my eyes.

‘Annika, I know you’re a good girl, get out of this now. There is some serious shit going down over the next few months. Don’t trust your bosses. It’s no coincidence Peg and Ellen aren’t here. Someone as young, talented and beautiful as you can do better than this.’

Constable M surprised me with his kindness and his apparent knowledge of me. They must have been watching me for quite some time, both inside and outside of work. I wanted to give him the biggest hug, but I simply thanked him and promised that I would heed his warning.

It was 1987 and the Fitzgerald Inquiry into police corruption was underway.

Over the next few weeks, Constable M and I got to be great chums. He told me that police were going to start knocking down all the parlours because of the inquiry. Names were going to start entering newspapers.

Occasionally, suited-up gentlemen would turn up on my doorstep and with a wink of their eye, I would let them in. Their only questions were ‘Staying out of trouble, Summer?’ or ‘Seen Peg and Ellen lately?’ M was trying to help me financially in his own little way, by referring clients onto me. He never admitted it was he who was the anonymous contact, but occasionally a shiny badge could be seen in the client’s pockets.

Clients could be so funny – they liked to believe they weren’t screwing around, they were simply helping a poor wayward girl. They saw the formality of handing over the cash as similar to an uncle at Christmas time, with his nondescript envelope laden with money. As he hands it over, he says, ‘Put this to good use now, darling.’ Clients loved to believe if it wasn’t for them the poor wretch would probably be living on the streets. They needed to believe, even in only a small way, that the girl was doing it for the sheer love of sex, and the money is a bonus. That without the cash, the girl would still be enamoured by the client’s power and virility.

If I had to pay for sex I would feel a tad useless, but most clients feel empowered by the transaction.

Eventually I took M’s advice and moved to Brisbane. I stayed with some people from Gala Records. They weren’t offering me permanent work, just the odd film clip here and there and some back-up dancing, so I quickly fell into the old game. Because of the Fitzgerald Inquiry we weren’t allowed to say that we were having sex with the clients, we had to advertise as massage parlours.

I had never worked in the city before. The city girls didn’t appreciate new girls, not to mention young new girls. There just wasn’t enough work to go around anymore, so no one needed the competition, and they made their opinions known in no uncertain terms. I was not used to hostility, I was used to camaraderie. Paranoia was denser in the air than cheap perfume. It was farcical – we were sitting in a waiting room dressed to the nines, stiletto heels, sexy lingerie, make-up done to perfection and the piece de resistance, long nails painted every colour of the rainbow, all in order to provide massage therapy. If one girl in the mix performed any other service and was discovered, she was going to be the undoing of us all. We were warned that if news ever got out that this ‘massage parlour’ offered sexual services, we would all be busted.

I had only been working there for about two weeks when the manager let me go. Her reasoning was that business was just too slow. ‘Last to start, first to go’ was how she put it, but I think that she, like others, questioned the veracity of my being eighteen. I felt for the first time the heaviness of the industry. Everyone was frightened of the police. Brothels were being busted every night. Some girls even suspected other working girls of being undercover police.

I didn’t want to do it any more. If I got busted my mother would be called in because I was only sixteen. I began looking at my life—I was doing well with my dancing and Gala Records were happy with me. They often went out of their way to find me modelling jobs and on occasion stunt work in TV. But these charity jobs were few and far between and I needed to start earning real dollars. Many of the girls I knew were getting out of Queensland all together, for places with more liberal laws. It was a prostitute exodus.

I had to follow the work, so I decided to pack up all my lingerie and dance gear and head to Sydney. I did have back up plans; Gala had their headquarters in Sydney so I was put in touch with the national manager who agreed to give me work. I also had my Dad and brother Dieter in Sydney now, so I wouldn’t be completely friendless if all else failed.