Call Me Sasha: Secret Confessions of an Australian Callgirl

by Geena Leigh

  Brothels were disguised as ‘Massage Parlours’ in London. I took a bus and Tube that afternoon, introduced myself as Sasha and was told to start work the following day. Only two girls at a time could operate there, because there were only two rooms. They didn’t do out-calls, which I was happy about. Both of the rooms had a massage table, a rubbish bin, a bottle of massage oil and a box of tissues. The rooms were so small that there was barely enough room even to walk around the table.

  I was usually rostered on the same shift as a West Indian girl who was studying natural therapy to become qualified to be a colon hydrotherapist. She was obsessed with colonic irrigation and wanted to talk about it all the time. I had never heard of it before. She told me that the practitioner inserts a rubber hose up a person’s anus and it cleanses the colon. Every day she would talk about colonics. I didn’t want to talk about it; it made me feel sick. I kept changing the topic and would turn on the TV, but the reception was poor. I would get out a book and pretend to be immersed in the story but, no matter what I did, she just wanted to talk about colonics. For fuck’s sake! I wanted to shout at her. This was my big overseas adventure—being a heroin addict almost began to seem more appealing than this.

  I was happy whenever a client turned up, so I could get away from her. But in the middle of one job, after I’d been there for almost a year, I noticed a strange noise from up above me, like someone was scratching or walking on the roof. After I’d shown my client out, I asked the West Indian girl to watch the door. The boss had gone to the bank, so I climbed up the ladder that was attached to the wall for easy access into the roof space; then I pushed back the hatch in the ceiling and crawled in. I could see that the two speakers that blared music—one of them into each of the massage rooms—were loose and not attached to the ceiling, and could easily be lifted. I peered through one of the speaker holes and called out to the West Indian girl below. She ran into the room and looked up at me. I then went to the other speaker, lifted it up and called out to her again. She ran into the other room and we were both disgusted when we realised that our boss had been watching us the whole time.

  There was only ever the boss, two working girls (and the clients) in the building at any time, so it must have been him watching us; we wouldn’t have ever heard him climb up because the music was blaring in the rooms. He would have been watching us and saw when the client climaxed, so he would have snuck back down while we cleaned up and dressed. Then he would have gone back into the reception area, pretended to be absorbed in reading the paper without us ever knowing he left the room.

  I stuck a note next to one of the speakers: ‘You arsehole! We are watching you too.’ He was such a paranoid guy; he had confided to me once that he would circle the block and drive all over London for hours before driving home, just in case anyone was following him. Now I understood why he had a reason to be scared.

  When he returned to the parlour I couldn’t look him in the eye. When the next client arrived, the boss told me to go into one of the rooms. We were supposed to give the boss his cut of the money from each job, but I shoved it all down my bra. When the client left, I pretended to freshen up; then I put on my jacket and swiftly walked past him and the West Indian girl out the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked, walking out after me.

  ‘Fuck you, pervert!’ I said, coolly sliding my sunglasses on.

  He ran out after me onto the busy main street, stomping his feet and waving his arms around, yelling and pointing at me: ‘Thief! Prostitute!’ He gesticulated to the passers-by: ‘That girl’s a prostitute!’

  They glanced at me and couldn’t have cared less. They were more concerned about the deranged man flapping his arms in the air in front of them. They clutched their handbags a little tighter, keeping a keen eye on him as they side-stepped across the pavement.

  On the bus home I looked out the window, wondering what to do next. I had joined a karate club and made a few friends in London. I felt like I was carving out a new life for myself. The West Indian girl had told me she’d been on a diet and, when she’d lost some more weight, she’d go back to stripping. I was a little tired of being groped by pasty English and Irish guys and decided to give it a go.

  I wandered around the sleazy Soho district until I spotted a striptease club on Dean Street that looked interesting. I walked into the Sunset Strip Club and told the woman behind the counter that I was looking for work and that my name was Sasha. ‘You look more like a Barbie,’ she said. She told me to come back the following night and, if I was any good, she would put me on full-time.

  I showed up at 4 p.m. the next day and the woman buzzed the intercom for one of the girls to come up. A woman a few years older than me, Jasmine, came up the stairs wearing a lace robe over her delicate black lingerie. I followed her through the club, which had an old-fashioned theatre, with ruby-coloured carpet and an ornate cream ceiling. Old posters of famous striptease dancers lined the walls, under glass and in gold frames. The tattered red seats curved in a semi-circle around the stage, which had one pole fixed in the middle. Jasmine told me that they sometimes brought out a brass bed with unmade linen to use as a prop.

  ‘So, you’ve never danced before?’ she asked. I nodded. The hinges of the door squeaked as she led me into the dressing room. Colourful feather boas, high pointy boots and lingerie filled the room wall-to-wall. There were three girls in there changing and putting on make-up. They were friendly and smiled at me. Jasmine poured me a glass of wine while I sat on a stool next to hers at the large mirror framed with light bulbs and began to put on my make-up. ‘Dance for one song, strip to the second,’ she instructed me. ‘You must keep your panties on.’ We all smoked, drank and chatted until it was our turn to dance.

  Waiting for my turn seemed to go on forever. I was sweating and smoking nonstop. Suddenly the owner of the club popped his head in: ‘Barbie! You’re up!’ I sculled the remaining wine in my glass, slipped on my long black gloves, draped a black boa around my neck over my black lingerie and walked on stage.

  The heavy velvet curtains opened and I suddenly wished that I’d drunk a hell of a lot more wine. The lights were so bright I couldn’t see the crowd. I walked right up to the edge of the stage behind the glaring lights to see who was sitting out there, but actually not seeing the men made it easier. I danced to the first song and wandered about the stage. When the second song came on, I removed my clothes. I think I took them off too quickly because it felt like I was up there for an eternity, swirling around a pole and wishing the song would hurry up and end. The curtains closed and I heard a few dull claps and a cheer.

  After a few nights I was proficient in feather-boa foreplay and sexily strutting about the stage. Well, I thought so; I was usually so drunk that I could barely stand upright. We weren’t allowed to watch any of the other acts, because the women thought the rest of us would steal their trademark moves. I pretended to go out for a meal one evening and hid behind the audio equipment to watch a few shows. Those women could really dance! There was a real art to their seduction. They made it look tasteful, even beautiful. My dancing consisted of walking around the pole and occasionally dry-humping the thick curtain. Then I took it too far. One evening I threw my panties into the crowd and proceeded to make love to a champagne bottle. That got me fired.

  There were about ten other nudie bars on the same block, so I wasn’t overly concerned about finding more work. Then, while I was emptying my locker, one of the girls told me how she travelled all over Europe dancing in clubs. She offered me the card of an agent who was finding her work all over Europe. It sounded interesting, so I took the card.

  Jasmine helped me pack up all my clothes and make-up, and she invited me to stay the night at her place. I was still very drunk and appreciated the help. She lived in a flat in the East End. By the time we arrived, I had sobered up considerably. She made us some camembert cheese and tomato on crackers for a snack. We listened to soft classical music and chatted. She then invited me to come to
bed, which I didn’t think was unusual.

  After we got into bed, though, her breathing grew heavier and she slid her hand gently across my thigh. She softly kissed the back of my neck and whispered, ‘Is this okay?’ into my ear. I turned towards her, not really knowing what to do. I wasn’t particularly attracted to her, but her chocolate-brown eyes were looking at me longingly and I didn’t want to offend her. ‘It’s okay,’ I smiled. She pressed her soft lips onto mine. My body tingled and I pulled her closer. It didn’t feel strange at all; it felt really nice.

  I started to giggle as her hair delicately brushed across my stomach and she proceeded to kiss my entire body. I quivered nervously, but then the pleasure overtook my nerves as she gently explored my body. She cupped my breasts in her hands and took them into her mouth one by one, teasing me relentlessly by flicking her tongue and sucking on them ravenously. We rolled around laughing and our bodies effortlessly merged.

  She lay on top of me and proceeded to lightly kiss down my neck, breasts, stomach, hips and along both thighs. I momentarily held my breath as she neared my pussy. I raised my knees and started to bite my nails, but when she squeezed my other hand her touch instantly soothed me, so I relaxed and sank into the soft mattress in anticipation. The thought of a woman going down on me was exciting and my head whirled. She parted my legs, and licked my pussy until I climaxed.

  She eased her way up the bed beside me, sweetly held my hand and snuggled beside me. She didn’t expect anything from me, but I was eager to discover what it would be like to please her too, so I glided my fingers across her every curve and kissed and tenderly licked almost every part of her body. She moaned wildly, murmuring: ‘A woman just knows what to do to another woman.’ I had no idea what I was doing, but it seemed to do the trick.

  This was one of the few times I ever felt totally relaxed during sex. I was not sure what it was yet, but I implicitly trusted another woman. It didn’t feel foreign to me, like it did with men. It was a sensual, enjoyable experience, in which we deeply connected; it just felt right. We held each other close and fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  The next morning I showered and got ready to leave. Jasmine lightly kissed my lips and caressed my hair. ‘Call me if you want more practice,’ she said. Walking to the Tube with a crushing hangover, thought and feelings rushed through me, and I wondered if I had become a lesbian.

  I dialled the number of the agent and asked about work in Europe. The interview consisted of my taking off my clothes and walking around in a circle, which felt ridiculous. I took a flight to Athens the following week. I was excited about seeing a new country. ‘At the airport, just tell them you’re visiting friends,’ he told me.

  After Customs in Athens, I found a short, stocky man with a heavy beard holding up a sign with my name on it. I followed him out of the building, feeling a thick blast of humid air as the glass doors parted. There were two girls already in the white mini-van; one of them had been on my flight. They were plain looking, with petite frames and long fine hair. I smiled and introduced myself, but they weren’t very friendly; they seemed irritated that they had been forced to wait for me. One girl was from Hungary; I didn’t understand the other girl’s accent—I thought she was also Eastern European or perhaps Russian—but she spoke quickly as she rapped her fake nails on the vacant seat next to her. Her gaunt features, harsh accent and aloof attitude did not invite conversation.

  The mini-van pulled up at a traditionally quaint motel, where a round woman (who looked much like the man who picked us up, sans beard) showed us to our rooms. The stroppy Russian marched ahead and disappeared into a room, while the Hungarian girl and I continued up a second flight of stairs. The round lady smiled and pointed to a room that had two single beds, and left us to unpack. The Hungarian girl’s accent was thick and she only spoke a handful of English words. When she did speak, it was hurried and she would blurt a few words out at a staccato pace; I had to really concentrate to try to understand what she was saying. It was frustrating. It made both of us feel like we were mentally challenged, speaking in broken English, so we mostly kept to ourselves.

  The mini-van came at 6 p.m. to take us to Stripparama. It was a large white building with red-and-white striped awnings. Like all clubs, inside the lighting was dim and it smelled of stale cigarettes. The maroon carpet captured my attention—if someone was murdered in here, the blood would easily seep into it unnoticed. Twenty round tables were lined alongside two catwalk runways. Each runway wove around different sections, giving most tables a ringside view. Three stripper poles were placed strategically along each of the catwalks, so we could walk, twirl, continue to the next pole and twirl again.

  I was excited about working at the strip club. Having the other women around made me feel safe and as though I belonged. In between the shows, we were expected to sit with clients at the tables and encourage them to buy us piccolas—small sherry-sized glasses containing orange juice—for which the guys were charged a small fortune. (Unfortunately they weren’t alcoholic. I had to smuggle in my own personal supply of ouzo. I needed alcohol to work in the club; it was too daunting otherwise.) The guys couldn’t speak English, so we would just sit at the tables and smile, which was stupid. Some of the guys got a little friendly; but they gave me extra money, so I didn’t mind. All tips were supposed to be handed in to the manager and we were allowed to keep forty per cent. I thought that was ridiculous, so I would stuff notes into my panties and down my thigh-high PVC boots so I could keep it all for myself.

  Sitting among the crowd, I noted that many of the girls really were dancers—they were clearly trained in jazz or ballet. My walking along and grinding up and down the poles must have looked like a joke compared to their skilful pirouettes and leg lifts. I felt sorry for the ballerinas, because their talent was wasted in this dive. They probably felt sorry for me, too, stumbling up the catwalk with a ladder in my stocking, with no rhythm.

  We were paid in drachmas, which converted to a miserable wage. I soon realised that this wasn’t a place that was going to make me rich but it was enough to get me around the city, eat at nice restaurants and shop a little. A few of the clients offered me more money to meet them after work, and that made my income more tolerable. The mini-van would drop us back at the hotel at 2 a.m., and I would then walk to the main road and take a taxi to the hotel address scrawled on a business card.

  One of these side jobs involved two young Greek Adonis-type police officers. When we arrived at the motel they emptied their pockets, which were full of sachets of cocaine, and placed their guns on the dresser. I giggled at their flagrant disregard for the law. ‘I have big cocaine company,’ one of them told me. We all fell onto the bed laughing as he showed me with his hands the size of the huge mound of cocaine that he had at his home.

  My Hungarian flatmate soon grew annoyed by my late-night antics. ‘Where you go at night?’ she asked one day.

  ‘Out for a drink,’ I replied, thinking that I’d never met such a boring and conservative stripper in my life.

  The following night after work she was particularly upset with me: ‘Why you let men touch you, Sasha? We not prostitute, we dancers!’ She looked like her mummy was about to read her a bedtime story, standing there in pink flannel pyjamas with bunnies printed on them.

  ‘Look, I’m here to make money,’ I said, swigging the last mouthful of Robola wine out of the bottle. The bottle missed the wastepaper basket, clanked against the wall and dropped onto the floor. She said something disapproving in Hungarian. I left it on the floor and slipped on my semi-sheer satin nightie; then I plopped into bed and said ‘Goodnight.’ She may have muttered something more, but it didn’t matter, because I had already passed out.

  I liked seeing clients for sex at my discretion. I felt like I had more control over my situation. I was also excited to be in a foreign country seeing and experiencing new things every day.

  During the day I would explore ancient Athens. It was surprisingly easy to get around, to or
der food and converse. When you’re on your own and no-one speaks English, it’s amazing how quickly you can pick up a language. After a few months I could generally understand what people were saying. I also got pretty good at charades—such as, for instance, flapping my arms at the waiter, saying, ‘Brrrooooooook brrook brrook brrook’ and pointing to the menu when I wanted chicken. Seeing what dishes came out would sometimes be a surprise, and I soon learned that salata (salad) and psomi (bread) were safe options.

  Athens was littered with derelict columns and ancient ruins. I explored the city by foot most days and once joined a day-trip bus tour and meandered around the Acropolis and the Parthenon. But, after a few more weeks, I’d seen enough old rocks to last me a lifetime and the routine of working at Stripparama was becoming dull. My roommate was growing increasing uptight about my late-night escapades and constantly gave me disapproving sneers. So, I contacted the agent in London who had arranged this job and asked if he knew of any strip clubs outside of Athens, so I could see more of the country, particularly the Greek Islands.

  He put me in touch with his contact in Athens—Anwar, whom I met for coffee to discuss options. He was a shortish man with a thick moustache who gasped for breath in between cigarette puffs. In his basic English he told me about an opportunity at a strip club about three hours’ north. After that, he would find work for me on one of the islands. A few days later I took a bus up to Istiaia to start work at the Boobie Magic Bar.

  Tucked in between a row of restaurants along the main road, this bar was a much smaller venue than Stripparama, and the intimacy of it appealed to me. There was a long corridor that led to one main room. The carpet was worn in places and had two distinct parallel lines that weaved from one of the tables to the exit—it looked like the marks of two heels indicating that someone really heavy had been dragged out of there recently. There was a bar along one wall with a bartender who didn’t really know how to mix drinks; he did, however, have a permanent smile that made everyone feel welcome. There were about ten small round tables with wooden stools placed haphazardly around the room and one long couch that I never saw anyone sit on. There were floor-to-ceiling mirrors covering about a third of the room’s walls, while black-and-white squared tiles lined the floor of the dancing area.