Call Me Sasha: Secret Confessions of an Australian Callgirl

by Geena Leigh

  After we cleaned up the cafe at the end of each shift, Rachael, her girlfriend and I would sit at the front bench overlooking King Street and share a bottle of wine (for them) and sparkling water (for me). They introduced me to a new world of chic lesbian clubs around Sydney, or sometimes we would just sit around watching a movie at my place. We three were always affectionate with each other. We lazed around cuddling or resting our legs up against each other—it felt natural.

  I didn’t hang out with them with the intention of stealing Rachael away; I was simply smitten and just wanted to be around her all the time. We began to take ecstasy and dance all night under strobe lights. Somehow I convinced myself that taking pills was okay; yet cocaine wasn’t, because it was addictive. The comedowns were equally as horrific, though. Some mornings we would take another pill and kick on to a day club. I didn’t really look at the other girls; I don’t think they were interested in me anyway. I felt like I didn’t fit in with the typical lesbian crowd, with my long brown hair, make-up and heels. The pills made me not care what anyone thought of me, though. I had as much right to be in lesbian clubs as any of them did. I loved immersing myself in music on the dance floor.

  Rachael was always chatted up. Her girlfriend would stick close by her side, but she didn’t have to—she never had anything to worry about. I thought Rachael would have been the more masculine one—with her tattoos and a chain hanging off her jeans, like a biker—until she shared with me some of her poetry one evening after all the customers had left. She was really quite sensitive. Her girlfriend was the one who called the shots. When I saw Rachael acquiesce to her girlfriend’s every whim, it turned me off her a little—I found it weak. But then the reality hit me—Rachael was totally in love with her.

  Soon, the drug-taking was getting out of control and my waitressing pay wasn’t covering my regular expenses, let alone my party ones. My longing for Rachael began to consume me and it ended up being very painful for me to see her; not being able to kiss her or touch her was frustrating. I hung on her every word and interpreted every touch from her as a subtle sign that she liked me. But then I realised that she was playing with me—she enjoyed me lusting after her, and she held all the cards. I felt ridiculous, like a smitten teenager lusting after a rock star. I also felt annoyed. I didn’t appreciate being perpetually teased. I decided to quit the cafe and return to The Club. Going back to work made me feel like I was taking back control. It was a ‘Fuck you, I’m going to make money!’ reaction.

  Rachael, her girlfriend, another waitress and I went out for cocktails on my last night. After a number of Cocksucking Cowboys and Sex on the Beaches and some mocktails for me, we wobbled down King Street. Rachael’s girlfriend was walking up ahead with the other waitress when Rachael suddenly grabbed me by my jacket and pulled me into a shop doorway, pressing her body against me. She placed her lips onto mine and I melted into her. This was what I had dreamed of for months. I loved this forceful side of her. ‘You drive me crazy!’ she whispered into my ear as she delicately kissed my neck, placing her hand lightly between my legs and keeping me wedged against the wall. I felt powerless under her touch.

  Then she wrenched herself off me and pulled me back onto the street, just as quickly as she had pulled me in. Her girlfriend up ahead was unaware of what had just happened, but still I felt guilty.

  ‘What about . . . ?’ I asked, pointing to her girlfriend.

  ‘We’re having problems. Don’t worry, it’s okay. She won’t know.’

  I was in a bit of a haze when we caught up to them. After I hugged them all goodbye, I hailed a taxi and went home alone. I sank into my bedcovers; my head spun for some time before I fell asleep.

  The next day I decided I wasn’t going to call Rachael. I wasn’t ever willing to be the Other Woman to a man or a woman. I knew I deserved to be number one.

  Rachael called me several times, but I needed some space to figure out what was going on inside my head. It was too confusing, so I confided in her that I’d begun to work at The Club, thinking it would put her off me for sure. But instead, it intrigued her.

  About a week later she turned up at my place unexpectedly. As much as I tried to push my feelings aside, seeing her standing in front of me revived them in an instant. We sat on my bed and watched a movie, just like we used to. But then she leaned over and kissed me. She knew I was in love with her long before I did. She knew she could have me at any moment. She pushed me back on the bed and lay on top of me, kissing my lips and neck and teasingly biting my breasts through my clothes. She pressed her body on mine (lesbians call this ‘topping’) and gyrated her hips against me. The feeling of her breasts against mine soothed me, and my body instinctively trusted and wanted her.

  Rachael slid her hand along my waist and looked deep into my eyes as she slowly undid the button of my jeans, unzipped them and pried them—along with my underwear—off my hips. We both breathed heavily as she glided her fingers along my clitoris, gently slipped two fingers inside me and fucked me with her hand.

  We flung our clothes onto the floor one by one until her warm, slender, naked body topped mine once more. We kissed passionately and longingly. She was ravenous for me, yet not in a gross male leering kind of way. It was more loving—our bodies were in sync and responded to each other naturally and rhythmically. We just knew how to please each other and what each of us wanted. My body writhed in pleasure as she licked my clitoris. She touched herself as she tasted me and we climaxed in unison.

  She bounced onto the bed beside me and we laughed and held hands. I tried not to let her see me wipe a few tears from my eyes, but women are so intuitive. She lightly kissed my neck and tucked me under the covers. I snuggled underneath them, feeling so warm, satisfied and complete as I watched her dress.

  Having sex with a woman is so different than with a man. I had always found that sex felt foreign with a man. And not just with the clients—it was like that with the few boyfriends I’d had too. I’ve never had sex with a man and felt as deeply emotionally and physically fulfilled as I have been with a woman. I was still smiling when Rachael kissed me on the cheek and left. I never heard from her again.

  20

  Craving love, age 35

  After continual moving and becoming homeless every time I broke up with a boyfriend, I wanted an apartment of my own. Sadly, my beautiful dog had been run over. However, that freed me to be able to live in an apartment instead of a house. I thought it would be nice to stay in one place, and not have to get my mail redirected two or three times a year anymore. I decided to start saving for a deposit. Also, after working in prostitution for so long, I wanted to have a tangible asset so that it wouldn’t all be for nothing.

  Even though I was trying to get out of the industry, I just kept finding more reasons to stay in. When was it actually going to end?

  On more than one evening, in between jobs I leaned over the sink to throw up; but nothing came out. What was I doing to myself? Clearly my body was as repulsed by what I was doing as my mind was. I knew it was crazy, but I kept pushing myself forward. Just keep going, Geena—keep going, and don’t stop until there’s enough money for a deposit for an apartment. My routine consisted of going to work; sleeping; putting my money into the bank; watching a DVD or going to the movies; and then doing it all again. It was an isolated, lonely lifestyle, but at least now I had a real goal.

  I bought books on how to purchase property, on negotiation and apartment living. I spoke to a handful of banks and mortgage brokers, until one of them pre-qualified me for a low-doc loan. I looked at a handful of the least-expensive two-bedroom units around inner-city Sydney and anticipated that I’d be looking at a lot more. However, as soon as I walked into the top-floor apartment in Eastlakes, I wanted it. It was north facing, in a block of six, with a balcony and a wonderful view of trees and a park. The morning sun filled the living and kitchen areas with warmth and light. It had been vacant for some time, and my offer was accepted straightaway. I picked up the keys at the
end of the month. This wasn’t a house made of grass, sticks and leaves—I had my own home!

  What a relief it was to know that I never had to move again. I could stay there until I was old and grey if I wanted to. I stood in my new place, feeling triumphant for a few moments. And then I felt a little disgusted—it was a dump!

  I immediately pulled up all the brown, long shaggy matted carpet and rolled it into a number of garbage bags. Most of it disintegrated as I ripped it up. I used a hammer to smash and gut the entire kitchen, piling all the old wood to one side, and then I did a number of car trips to the supermarket dumpster. I laid a mattress down in one bedroom. The kitchen consisted of a microwave on the floor and a fridge. As I went from room to room renovating, most of my items remained in boxes.

  I worked at The Club at night and spent my days pulling out nails, filling in holes and painting. The staff at Bunnings were familiar faces to me now. I hired local tradespeople to lay wooden bamboo floating floorboards, to install LED down lights and perform other jobs that were beyond my basic DIY skillset. I didn’t mind bathing in the kitchen sink for a few days when the bathroom was being done—I’d go to work to have long, luxurious showers. Everything was brand new and exactly how I wanted it.

  Each night at The Club I would work to pay for some shiny square taps, or translucent Moroccan White roller blinds, or an L-shaped leather sofa. For a change of scene I sometimes flew to Melbourne and worked there for the weekend. I flew to Perth and worked for two weeks there, because I wanted to see the city and also to get the money for my new kitchen. The ‘New Girl’ was always popular in brothels. Fresh meat! I always earned more money working at The Club, though, which drew me back.

  Once the apartment was finished, the nesting phase set in. At thirty-five I found myself with intense baby cravings. I hadn’t seriously considered having children since the abortion, and now it was wonderful to feel inside me the desire to care for and love a child. I considered my options for getting pregnant.

  Plan A: Meet the man of my dreams. Plan B: Donor insemination. Plan C: Adoption.

  Meeting the man of my dreams seemed as probable as winning Lotto, because the only men I was meeting were creeps at The Club. To increase my chances, I signed up to a few dating sites and went on about forty dates. I didn’t click with anyone and kept finding reasons why the guy wasn’t right for me.

  Eventually, I decided that a guy wasn’t needed anyway, so I opted for donor sperm.

  There was a handsome manager at The Club; we had known each other for years. There weren’t any other males in my life, so I found a quiet time to talk to him, asking if he would consider being a donor for me. I made it out to be not a big deal, in case it wasn’t something he was comfortable with, but he was flattered and eagerly agreed. I was surprised he wanted to help me. He came to an appointment at the clinic with me a few weeks later and filled out the paperwork.

  His second appointment, to go on his own to donate, was the following week. But he never showed up. I felt embarrassed when the staff at the clinic phoned me and told me about his no-show. I saw him at work later that evening and tried to get a moment alone with him to ask him what had happened. ‘I’m too busy, Sasha. I’m too busy, Sasha,’ he kept saying.

  He started to avoid me at work and wouldn’t take my calls. It was uncomfortable for both of us, but I made some silly jokes to keep the atmosphere as light as possible. Ultimately I just let it go and went about my work. There were plenty of other options.

  I did some research and found a local clinic that specialised in donor insemination. I had every test known to womankind, and they concluded that there should be no problem with me becoming pregnant.

  I scoured an American online catalogue of donors and chose Mr 420117. He was described as tall, with brown hair and blue eyes, and a strong chin. His parents were successful entrepreneurs; his grandparents had lived long lives; he was in the football team at college and liked to run track. He sounded fantastic. I momentarily fantasised about meeting him, and that we’d fall madly in love and raise the baby together. Then I remembered the reality of the situation—that he was fifteen years younger than me and had been a donor to about twenty other women. He was still at college in America and was donating sperm either for money or altruistic reasons—not to find a girlfriend or wife.

  I was excited about the prospect of becoming pregnant and couldn’t keep it to myself. I told Mum, and she was so happy for me. I told Lateesha and Adele at work, and then everyone else found out soon after.

  I purchased the sperm online, and it was shipped to the clinic in Sydney. I attended a pre-insemination appointment and was given some ovulation-enhancing drugs to inject myself with prior to insemination day. As she handed me the packages in a blue refrigerated bag, the nurse queried: ‘Will you be okay with injecting needles into yourself? Some patients find it quite traumatic.’

  ‘Think I’ll be okay,’ I answered coyly, while pondering what the actual tally would be of all the needles that I’d stuck into my arms for pleasure throughout my life.

  It was ironic that I was paying money to import sperm from the United States, while working in the most sperm-rich environment that existed. The Club had more sperm excretions on a Friday night than the donor-clinic storage facility had all year. By the wee hours each Saturday morning, the yellow biohazard wheelie bin would be unable to close, with tissues and small plastic bags overflowing the brim. I’d hold my breath within a two-metre distance of that bin. I was never tempted to use any of the clients’ sperm—I didn’t want any of those men’s sperm, and there was no certainty it was safe.

  Each week I would buy children’s clothes and books and get the spare bedroom ready for the baby. I had it all—cot, stroller, car seat, clothes, books and toys. I expected to fall pregnant straightaway.

  Insemination day was very matter-of-fact, clinical and professional. It’s not a romantic or fun way to get pregnant, as the traditional route can be. My jeans lay on the chair next to me, my feet were in stirrups and a CD of dolphin sounds was played in the background. (I have no idea why there were dolphins screeching in the background while I was trying to relax.) The nurse took the phial of sperm out of the container and sucked it up into what looked like a turkey baster. Having sperm inside me made me feel slightly repulsed; it felt unnatural. Within a few minutes, though, it was all over.

  I pulled on my clothes and wandered to my car feeling a little vague. Was a baby already growing inside me? Over the next two weeks I didn’t go to the gym, take hot baths, get into the hot spa at work or do anything that could dislodge the embryo. After Day 15 I took seven pregnancy tests, to see if I could get an early reading. They were all negative. My period came, which was heartbreaking.

  Seven thousand dollars later, and after eight more months of inseminations and experiencing feelings of terrible heartache each time my period came, I decided to increase my chances of success and began IVF. The drugs were significantly stronger, and my hormones went wild. I could snap into sharp anger within moments and stay there for hours, and later collapse in sadness. Amid the tears one summery Sunday afternoon I asked myself: ‘Should it really be this hard to have a baby?’

  I calmly and emphatically answered that question. ‘No.’ I cancelled the treatment mid-way. I decided that if I was supposed to have a child, then it would fall elegantly into place and with ease. It never has.

  21

  Dating, age 36

  I met Mark on a dating website. He ticked all the boxes—he was tall, dark and handsome, with an athletic physique. He was a doctor specialising in endocrinology. But I was never sure about him; around him my heart never sang, even though I did feel chemistry between us. A counsellor later talked to me about chemistry and explained that the thing that creates the spark is a feeling of familiarity. My father had always had a certain bravado about him—he was often the life of the party, just like Mark.

  Mark was very sweet when we first met. Too sweet. He continually told me that I was b
eautiful. Looking back, I realise the only compliments he gave me were at the beginning, when we started dating, and they were all about how I looked. He never once acknowledged me as a person or for the things I had accomplished, such as my persistence in finishing university or my success in buying and renovating an apartment all on my own. Instead, he told me how pretty my hair or my nails looked. I was used to hearing a lot of compliments from the clients and, even though their opinions did not mean anything to me, I was kind of addicted to hearing them. I guess it made me feel reassured—valued.

  I was physically and emotionally burned out from working, but I had spent all my money renovating and I had no emergency fund. I didn’t even have enough money to pay the fortnightly mortgage. I was getting ongoing grief from my neighbours—they could hear every footstep I made, because I had taken up the carpet and now had polished floorboards, and they complained to the strata company that managed the building. One afternoon as I sat in my fully renovated beautiful apartment feeling incredibly empty, I asked myself, ‘Is this all there is?’ I had isolated myself from the few friends I had and any potential new friends, and from my family; now I had this beautiful home, but I had no-one to share it with. I had achieved my goal, and yet I was unfulfilled.

  So, I decided to sell the property. I had achieved my dream of owning my own place, yet I didn’t need it anymore; it didn’t give me pleasure. I was confident that I could own property again at a later point. Right now, the most important thing to me was reducing financial pressure so I wasn’t as bound to prostitution. I took some photos, placed an advertisement online, hosted an open house and sold the apartment within three days. I made a profit of $37 000.