Call Me Sasha: Secret Confessions of an Australian Callgirl Page 10

  The next morning we were woken by a different man, who was pushing the same trolley. He was dishing out breakfast, which was exactly the same green–brown soup/food/mush as last night. Everyone eagerly took their bowl. I took mine and pretended to eat the mud-tasting sludge, to try to fit in. While a few of the women were still finishing their meal, I placed my bowl on the ground and gestured to say, ‘I’m so full’ and ‘That was good.’ I rubbed my belly and murmured ‘Mmm’ (for extra effect) as I went off to have a shower.

  As I walked to the showers a young Latino-looking man handed me a roll of toilet paper and said: ‘Take it. Pay later.’

  I really wanted the toilet paper, but my money was strapped to my chest. ‘I don’t have any money,’ I said, pushing the roll back to him.

  But he wouldn’t take it. Meanwhile, three of his buddies had quickly surrounded me, and in an instant he’d forced himself onto me and was kissing my lips. I was shocked as I felt his wet tongue in my mouth.

  I pretended to be flattered and playfully pushed him off me. He let go of his grip around my shoulders and his mates were all smiling. ‘Pay me later,’ he said, and they walked away.

  I didn’t want to pay him in the currency he had in mind—I didn’t want the toilet paper at that price. I started to feel concerned about how and when he expected the rest of his payment. Looking around, I noticed for the first time that all the other women went to the showers in pairs or groups of three.

  Even though the toilet-paper incident was not good, after having a shower for the second time and not being raped or killed, I was starting to feel hugely successful. But as I stood in the hallway leaning against one wall, mostly to get away from the intense atmosphere of the cell, I noticed an angry blonde girl standing against the opposite wall a little further down the corridor. She was shorter than I was, and a little stocky. She was transferring her weight from one foot to the other, refusing to take her hate-driven eyes off me. I acknowledged her by nodding my head, and stood my ground as her eyes continued to try to drill a hole right through me. Then she pushed herself away from the wall, obviously contemplating whether to approach me or not. I tied my hair in a tight ponytail.

  Moments later, a guard’s voice began to echo down the corridor: ‘Australia girl! Australia girl!’

  ‘Yes! Yes!’ I yelled back.

  I followed the voice—past the angry blonde, who was still eyeballing me, past the Latino who wanted to kiss me again—and caught up to the guard. He took me into an official-looking room, where I paid for my plane ticket back to London. The guards then took me to the multi-coloured Egyptian pyramid, where I pried my suitcase from the pile. After twelve days of doing nothing, I was now a little disorientated from being rushed around. I was thrilled at the prospect of leaving Greece but part of me didn’t quite believe it was actually going to happen.

  Two guards escorted me to the airport in a cramped pale-blue Mini. As I walked through the boarding gate to get on the plane, I glanced over my shoulder. The two escort guards were smiling and waving goodbye to me. I waved back.

  •

  I was only twenty-one, but I feel like I aged about ten years in those two weeks. I ended up being banned from Greece for seven years. I’d previously been banned from bars, due to bad behaviour, but being banned from a country was new to me. I never got to see the Greek Islands, but that’s okay—I’m pretty sure that I can have a happy life without ever setting foot in that country again. The seven-year ban has since expired; however, I have no desire to ever go back to Greece.

  I rang Mum and told her I was homesick. She encouraged me to come home. I didn’t tell her about the imprisonment until years later. A few weeks after I got back to London, I took a flight to Australia. I stayed with my mother at her caravan park in Brisbane for a couple of weeks. She was happy to see me, and I was happy to see her.

  My early arrival back in Australia was unexpected for all of us. Aiden, who was now thirteen, was living with Mum full-time. The sound of Green Day was coming through his bedroom door when I knocked. He slid the door open and instantly embraced me. He looked so good—he’d lost some weight and was back to his usual cheerful nature. I felt relief flood through me.

  He told me that Mum had saved him, her placid nature giving him the space he needed to breathe. She was nursing at the hospital while Dad was getting ready to move back to New Zealand—again. This was to be his final overseas move. He had no kids to cart around anymore, but he desperately begged Aiden to go with him. Aiden desperately begged Mum to let him stay with her. Mum threatened legal action if Dad dared take him.

  I was still angry at Dad. I was glad he had moved back to New Zealand. My two sisters were also both living in New Zealand with their boyfriends. We rang each other infrequently to chat, but never about anything serious. Looking back I guess I kept them at a distance so I didn’t have to explain what I was doing with my life at the time.

  After a couple of weeks of adjusting back to civilisation (well, as close as a caravan park can get), I packed up my gear and headed to Sydney. My parents didn’t know that I had worked in prostitution while overseas, and they didn’t know that I was planning to do it in Sydney either. But Sydney was a big city, and I didn’t know anyone there. I doubted they would find out. It was time to earn money.

  11

  The Club, age 21

  The smell of chlorine overpowered the smell of sex as soon as you walked into The Club. The darkness of the bar contrasted with the brightness of the lights above the pool table and the back-bar mirror. The armchairs and sofas were comfortable—too comfortable, because the guys would often sit around for hours before making a decision.

  We did a health check before every job. We showed the client to the room and looked at his penis under a spotlight, hoping not to see any spots. If a guy failed my health check, he got a refund and I showed him out the back exit. Sometimes the guy would want to go back into the bar area, but I wasn’t going to let him near any of the other girls. Of course, none of us was a doctor, but I knew what a dick was supposed to look like; if it looked abnormal in any way, it was not going inside me.

  There were spas in half of the rooms. They could hold eight people comfortably, and often did. No-one was allowed to have sex in the spa. Not many people did, not because we did what we were told but because it was slippery and uncomfortable. Each room housed a large mirror that had a stencil design of frosted glass in a row of diamonds imprinted across the top and bottom, plus a marble basin and a shower with multiple showerheads. A royal blue bed sheet and crisp white towels rested at the end of each bed. I always dramatically lowered the lights—I told the men this would ‘make it more romantic’, but the real reason was that the sight of the men made me feel depressed.

  There were televisions in every room, playing non-stop high-quality porn. I sometimes found myself transfixed to the screen, zoning out like I did with regular TV. Some women turned it off when they got to the room because it offended them, which I found strange—how could watching sex offend someone who was having sex? That didn’t make sense to me. Porn made my job easier. I also liked the distraction and would rather look at a buff porn star instead of the guy on top of me any day.

  I’d like to say that I only did ‘it’ a few times yet I did ‘it’ thousands of times. I just got used to ‘it’. I didn’t know what else to do, so I stayed there. I’d like to say that I only did ‘it’ when I was young and silly and didn’t know any better, or that I only did ‘it’ because I was being trafficked or because I was being beaten up by my pimp, who made me go back each night. But this wasn’t the case. I did know what I was doing. I was there by choice—essentially being my own pimp.

  It might make me look better if I said that I only worked in high-class establishments and that my clients were all A-list celebrities; but, in addition to those few nights on the streets early on, I also worked from a friend’s flat and in a few slum-like clubs (until The Club), and my clients were of varying degrees of lineage. It’s
true that I did give a well-known rock star a blow job after his concert and I did have sex with a foreign prince on a luxurious yacht; but these were the exceptions among a multitude of suits, tourists and teenage virgins.

  After I’d earned my money, I’d feel so lousy the next day that I would go shopping or plan an overseas trip or do anything to try to feel better. I could relax when I was in another country where no-one knew me—I made friends easily and I wasn’t likely to bump into clients, it was a welcome distraction from work and I could give my body a break from having continual sex. In this way I did experience slivers of happiness from time to time. But when the money ran out, I needed to go back to work.

  It was a cruel cannibalising cycle that I was caught up in for years and years. I didn’t even value the money. I tended to feel ashamed about what I’d done to earn it, so I would (unconsciously) get rid of it through travel, shopping or simply by accumulating a succession of parking tickets. I hoped that, when the money left my hands, it would take my sadness along with it. It didn’t.

  I kept my work in prostitution secret from everyone I knew. I pretended that I had a job in an office doing data entry. It was my private joke that, little did they know, my work involved a different kind of entry.

  After about three years at The Club, new owners bought it and I was one of the first girls to meet our new boss, Nathan. He sat on one of the bar stools in an elegant suit sipping lemonade. He was tall and dark and we clicked instantly. I approached and propositioned him, thinking he was a client. His co-owner walked over laughing and told me that he was our new boss. ‘I’m wearing a chastity belt!’ Nathan said as he stood up and gripped his trouser belt buckle. ‘I can’t go messing around with the staff,’ he said, trying to convince himself more than me. Disappointed, I looked at him; then I smiled sweetly and moved on to a legitimate prospect, who was sitting on an armchair in a darkened corner.

  Nathan and I flirted continuously. I’d adjust my bra and teasingly straighten my suspender stockings in front of him. I thought it was harmless flirting until the day he pinched my behind. When I turned around, a little startled, he said, ‘Meet you in Room 3 in five minutes?’

  ‘Okay,’ I said.

  I went into Room 3 and pretended to fix my hair in the mirror. I was excited by the possibility of being with Nathan. I felt powerful and flattered that he had selected me. He walked in, shut the door and barricaded it with an armchair. He pushed himself up against me and kissed my lips passionately. His arms were around me and he walked me backwards until my lower back rested on the cool marble ledge of the basin. He kissed my neck and breasts, and slid one hand up my dress and into my panties. He touched me for a few moments and I widened my stance and clasped his rock-hard cock in one hand. He groaned, looking deep into my eyes.

  Then he dropped to his knees, pulled my underwear aside and paused, in awe of my pussy. I always enjoyed being able to mesmerise a man. I wasn’t sexually attracted to him, but I moaned, pretending to enjoy it like I did with other clients. Then he licked my clitoris vigorously, like he had been unleashed.

  After a few short minutes we heard the receptionist calling, ‘Nathan! Where’s Nathan?’ outside the door. He thrust his tongue one last time deep inside my vagina and then got to his feet. Adjusting his penis inside his trousers, he said, ‘If I think of my grandma, it will go down in a second.’ We both laughed. ‘I have to go. Call me,’ he said and took one of his business cards out of his wallet along with a $100 note, handing both to me. He pulled the chair away from the door, grinned at me one more time and then disappeared down the hallway.

  I slipped the card and money under the opaque elastic top of my stocking, fixed up my smeared make-up and tousled attire, then strolled back out to the bar nonchalantly and began to flick through a magazine until I heard the familiar squeak of the unoiled door hinge as a new client walked in.

  I knew it was risky fooling around with the boss, but later I came to realise that it had its advantages too. Nathan spoke highly of me to his staff and they were always polite and kind to me. Some girls would get reprimanded for being late or not showing up for work. I turned up and left anytime I wanted and no-one seemed to mind.

  I rang Nathan a few days later and we arranged to meet at an inner-city apartment at lunchtime.

  ‘Sometimes I’ll have money and sometimes I won’t,’ he said.

  ‘Well then, sometimes we’ll have sex and sometimes we won’t,’ I replied.

  ‘I like you because you’re not afraid of me,’ he said the next time we met.

  I hid my surprise. Fear him? Why on earth would anybody fear him? Actually, he annoyed me. He made his money by capitalising on messed-up young women. I could never respect a man who owned a brothel. He handed me $300 and so I undressed.

  Nathan and I continued to meet up sporadically for about ten years—in different apartments around the city, in a nearby hotel or in a room at The Club. I thought he would grow bored with me soon enough, but he was always excited to see me. I didn’t realise it at the time, but I had become the ultimate challenge for him. He didn’t want me to ever fake an orgasm, so I didn’t. He always wanted me to authentically come for him, yet I never did. As long as I didn’t orgasm, I held the power card. He tried his best, for hours sometimes, yet he would always concede defeat and come first.

  I never climaxed with him partly because I didn’t like him, but also because his touch and technique just never did it for me. He was too frenzied and rough with me. My body cannot relax and reach a climax when some ape-man is groping and flinging me about the room as if we are wrestling, or ramming his tongue so far down my throat that I can barely breathe. I know some women enjoy that kind of thing, but it just wasn’t for me. I kind of had to keep seeing him, though. I couldn’t reject my boss or he may have become bitter and made it uncomfortable for me to work there. He liked the power, too.

  •

  The receptionist at work, Stacey, confided in me that she did the occasional private job on the side.

  ‘I know that,’ I told her.

  ‘Does it say “I’m a hooker” on my forehead or something?’ she asked.

  ‘No. I’ve just seen you flirt with some of the clients and the other receptionist scowls at them.’ We both laughed.

  Stacey was a few years older than me. She wore a clip-on hair extension that almost matched her natural ash-blonde hair. The Club management uniform was black trousers and a black blouse. Stacey, however, usually wore tight-fitting jeans, low-cut crocheted tops and knee-high boots. The boss didn’t mind. One day she told me she was friends with the manager of a famous rockstar, and asked if I wanted to come to a concert with her that Friday and do a private job with the singer afterwards.

  Fridays were typically the biggest night at The Club. Everyone would do well, and even the most beauty-challenged girls would make close to $1000. Taking home $1400 or $1600 for the night was not uncommon for me. I didn’t really want to miss a Friday night, but I figured a celebrity like that would pay well and I could always go into work afterwards.

  The Club had a strict policy that forbade private jobs. If any girl was caught she would be fired instantly, as it was essentially stealing from the company. Despite this, most girls did it from time to time. Although they could avoid giving a cut to The Club, the downside with private jobs was there was no security. The doorman at The Club was a well-preened, fierce, pro-wrestler type, and he helped enforce the policy that the girls needed to be treated well. In truth, this was essentially an illusion, because he was not going to risk getting messed up for any of us, yet most of the clients commented on his muscular physique, so he must have made an impression. He was sometimes propositioned to join us inside The Club, but he would reject such invitations ferociously though he looked quite flattered by them.

  The chance to do a private job with a rockstar sounded like a one-off opportunity and, since I was sleeping with the boss (for money), I figured I had a bit of leeway with the rules if anyone found out. It�
��s possible that Stacey had a similar leeway, which might account for how she never wore her assigned work uniform.

  On the night we caught up at the Capitol Theatre. I wore dark-blue jeans, strappy black heels and a modest, yet sexy, tight-fitting red top that had soft folds around the neck. Stacey looked surprisingly sophisticated in dark jeans, ivory heels and a tailored smoky-black jacket with a soft cream blouse underneath. Her hair was set in large ringlets that sat gently on her shoulders. When she gave me my ticket, she suggested we do a couple of lines before we sat down.

  ‘Sure,’ I said, and we raced up the stairs of the theatre to the nearest ladies room.

  I was a bit surprised that our seats were so crappy. The singer, running around on stage, looked as little as a Lego man. We had our feet up on the chairs in front, singing and giggling along to the songs. Stacey was throwing her hands in the air and shaking her head around to the music—I wasn’t sure if she really liked his music or if she had taken a pill before she met me. After a couple more songs I was a little bored and clapped apathetically, wishing we were there to see 50 Cent or Madonna instead.

  Just before the concert ended we were escorted through a maze of passageways backstage to a spacious room. At least twenty elegantly dressed men and women sat on wide cream leather couches or stood around in small groups drinking champagne, watching the concert on a large screen. After a few minutes the singer came in and shook everyone’s hand. ‘Thanks for coming, thanks for coming.’

  I blushed as he shook my hand. ‘Hi, I’m Sasha,’ I said. Moments later Stacey and I were whisked away in a black SUV with three other women and taken to the Shangri-La Hotel.