KELLY AND I discussed my working from home. Our house in Floreat Park was well-suited: it had its own separate entrance at the back to a bedroom, and the bathroom could be reached without entering the main living quarters. I offered to let Kelly and her son stay on rent-free, and she agreed. She continued to look after little Caroline while I worked. Caroline and Jimmy got on well together and I made good friends with Kelly.
Kelly was taking a risk, living with me, as she could have been considered an accessory. It was perfectly legal for a girl to work on her own, but to have help in the house amounted to running a brothel—or so I was told by a client who sent me into a spin when he identified himself as a cop. ‘It’s all right,’ he said in a fatherly way, ‘I won’t do you in. But be careful.’ Kelly was even more nervous after that, but then she was the worrying type anyway.
I placed a small advertisement in the West Australian, among much more prestigious escort notices, and waited nervously. I was a woman on her own—would anyone notice me? The phone gave me a fright every time it rang. When would it be my first potential client?
One day I answered the phone to the give-away beep-beep of a long-distance call. It was a gent who said he was ringing from Sydney. ‘Hello, Carla. I liked your advertisement! My name is Michael.’ (I knew I didn’t have to believe that.) I listened to his voice, and knew he was doing the same. A phone interview to determine whether we would meet up or not! I felt the thrill of this game: the excitement of the unorthodox and the potentially dangerous.
‘Do you like chocolates? And roses?’
I laughed. It was just the thing to ask a woman who might feel a little awkward at being wooed for a sexual interlude with a stranger! Michael was due to arrive in Perth in three days’ time, and was scheduling some recreational activities among his business appointments.
‘I have two rows of standard roses at home,’ he explained when we met face to face and he handed me his gift. (Swiss chocolates, dark: my favourites.) ‘Red and white.’
Roses were obviously his passion and he was genuinely delighted to talk to me about them. Michael’s suit showed a superior taste and he gave the appearance of being in charge of any situation, but underneath he was eager to please. I made the first move as we continued to talk, undoing his expensive tie. He smiled. Yes, we were well suited for this sort of encounter. I felt the pleasure of initial success, of a dare paying off. If this was wicked, it was a glittering wickedness, conjuring up the sensuousness of the 1920s. It was completely satisfying, a mixture of luscious leisure and eager excitement. When we had finished, Michael put money on the mantelpiece for me. It was more than I had asked for.
‘Do you get many clients from interstate?’ he wanted to know before he left. ‘You are my first client,’ I confided. ‘That makes me very special indeed!’ he flattered, then gave me his advice as a businessman. ‘Be very choosy,’ he said. ‘Businessmen like me want to feel safe with a person who doesn’t have too many different clients.’
I understood what he meant, and now I knew what to aim for. Michael wanted a mistress, not a hooker. There are some distinct differences. He wanted to get to know me, to make me like him and want to take care of him. He also did not want to be seen entering a known establishment—a mistress provided better discretion. Sex without condoms is always unsafe, but with me the risk was very much reduced because of my high standards of hygiene. From then on I specified ‘businessmen only’ in my advertisement, and gave preference to clients from interstate. These men became my regulars and a mutual trust developed.
Being a mistress in my own home suited me superbly. I could be generous with my time and friendship and I enjoyed having sex with men who knew and respected me, and with whom I did not have to pretend.
My house was usually filled with flowers from satisfied customers, one of whom was a florist, a wrinkly, good-humoured man. He often left bunches of flowers at my back door early in the morning. I would smell their fragrance upon waking—such a nice way to begin the day!
I felt myself wholly a woman, in love with sex, enjoying men’s compliments and attentions—and they did me the honour of paying me well. Payment, to me, was a form of appreciation, of approval; it gave me a sense of self-worth. But I didn’t really know what to do with the money. I bought peacock-blue silk furniture that reminded me of the 1920s, but it was in danger of being ruined by the two toddlers. It didn’t enter my head to invest my money in real estate, which would have been a smart move. For financial astuteness, I deserved a zero. The truth was, I felt embarrassed by money—a leftover of the vow of poverty that I had lived for twelve years and renounced only three years ago. I had no difficulty breaking the vows of chastity and obedience, but poverty hung on, with its values of detachment and doing without.
I was still prepared to do some work away from home. One evening I answered a call to one of Perth’s swankiest hotels to attend a party of guys celebrating a business deal. This sounded like a challenge, but I soon realised the guys weren’t ‘regulars’. They were just ordinary blokes out for a wild and naughty night. They had got my phone number on a recommendation from a client, so I felt safe to oblige them.
They were looking rather dishevelled, though still wearing their suits and ties, when I arrived at their large hotel room. It was fitted with lounge furniture, a double and a single bed, and had access to a smaller room. Music blared from the hotel radio and the air was already rank with the smell of alcohol and sweat. I was greeted with various gestures of welcome—especially from Barrie, who had originated the idea—and was offered a drink. I asked for cider. They had none, but it was soon delivered and the merriment began in earnest.
I was wearing a little red skirt and a billowing white silk blouse. I lounged on the double bed while my shiny red shoes were removed by helpful, eager hands. I gulped the sweet cider. I never normally needed alcohol or any other stimulant to get me going, but having to play up to six men I needed a little bit of help! The music inspired me to dance on the bed, and in moments I was joined by at least three others, all shouting gleefully and slopping their drinks on the covers. The guys began to clap in unison and I got the message: I was to do a striptease before leading them off to their ultimate ruin!
The mattress was really too soft for dancing, so I stood on the long dressing table in front of its large mirror and began to take off my blouse. I was untrained in the art and not sure what to do next, but their appreciation of every move I made was so tremendous that I soon forgot to feel embarrassed, even by the varicose veins revealed when I removed my pantyhose. My legs and body sported a light tan—I had taken to putting my pale European skin under artificial sun lamps to give it a healthy glow. I sang as I gyrated, trying to avoid falling off the dressing table and into their arms or onto the floor, and they whooped as each item of clothing was flung through the air and landed, whenever possible, on someone’s head.
Alcohol had been flowing so freely that nothing was going to stop anyone doing anything he wanted now. I had exposed all, including my tantalising blonde patch of pubic hair—which was quite enough, I thought, when suddenly I was caught up by one man and turned first on my back, then upside down. He held me on the bed while he called out to a mate. To the brutish delight of all present, my fanny was doused in beer while he and his mate held my legs apart. The beer ran into my mouth and hair, and I wriggled in mock distress—‘Let me go, you Neanderthals!’—and, after much laughter on all our parts, they released me. Once upright again, I told them it was time for the real fun to begin, in the small room next door.
There was no margin for finesse as they traipsed in one by one and tried to get it up—an onerous task for the more intoxicated. In the end they were all satisfied, and not nearly so rambunctious when I left after a shower. The room was a veritable shambles: the bedclothes and mattress were soaked beyond saving; booze stained the carpeted floor. I was paid generously and returned home for a well-earned rest, wondering if they would think the night worth it when they received t
he hotel bill for the damage.
Sometimes things didn’t go quite so well. Like the night I answered a call to a hotel from a captain whose merchant ship had docked in Fremantle. The room I entered was tasteful enough, and so was the dinner, nicely served on a trolley. The captain was dressed in his uniform—no doubt to impress me—and it did the trick.
He was a lightly moustached fellow of about forty-five, spreading a little around the waist from indulgent dining, but looking smart. He took off his jacket and we stood at the window, admiring the view across the harbour. We were a good match in height: he was at least two inches taller than me, even in my high heels. I put my arms around him, my back to the window, and then I made a fatal mistake. Unthinkingly, intending to create intimacy, I stuck my hands in the back pockets of his trousers and patted his buttocks playfully, rocking him gently from side to side. I gave him my best smile, intended to indicate the good time in store for him, and pushed my body closer to his, so he could pat my buttocks too. But suddenly he pushed me away from him, a changed man. ‘You were going to steal my wallet, weren’t you?’ he bristled, his face alight with fury.
I was completely taken aback and could only shake my head in disbelief at his reaction. Was the man so blind that he couldn’t recognise me as an honest woman? What had he seen in me? Nothing but a scheming piece of flesh? Did he think I was play-acting? I had been enjoying myself up to this point—I could never just ‘act’, because acting meant hiding that you were not enjoying yourself. I picked up my jacket and bag and left, feeling close to tears.
DURING THAT FIRST year of self-employment, one of my strangest experiences had nothing to do with work at all. It was the seduction of a famous pianist, with whom I locked eyes in the foyer of a Perth hotel. I was there on business, but he wasn’t to know that. Between clever flourishes on the hotel piano, he gave me his card.
‘It will be more fun if I come over to your place,’ Philippe said on the phone. He was carrying three bottles of chartreuse when I opened the door to him. After scanning me deliberately, he declared me to be beautiful before committing himself by stepping through the door. I had no piano for him to shine on and his manner was more brusque than in the hotel, but I told myself that fame may make a person arrogant as well as intriguing.
He plied me with the pleasant liqueur, but I am one of those people whose brain cells die by the millions when they encounter alcohol. I am even more sensitive to the preservatives in wine, which have a toxic effect on my liver and often a drastic effect on my looks. It was approaching midnight when I felt my energy changing. My musical maestro was lying on top of me, joking about something. As the clock struck twelve, I felt a tiredness flood over me.
Philippe stopped speaking mid-sentence. I watched his horrified eyes, as he elbowed himself off me, shouting with sudden abhorrence, ‘You’ve become ugly! U-u-gly!!’
His mouth convulsed with repulsion. His reaction was so unexpected that I felt very calm, even amused, in spite of the insult. I was exhausted, and after so much alcohol I couldn’t possibly hide it. I felt like Cinderella in the coach that turned into a pumpkin on the stroke of midnight. The thought made me laugh, but Philippe was deadly serious. He got into his clothes, ran for the fridge to retrieve the rest of the chartreuse, and left without saying goodbye.
No manners from this French beau! Midnight might have turned him into a rat, but the whole thing was so funny, and the evening had been so exhausting, that I was glad to reach for the light switch and go to sleep without even bothering to brush my teeth.
MY THEATRICAL SIDE came out to play. I took to wearing a shiny top hat with anything that seemed to go with it—knee-high boots, sometimes a dinner jacket, lace gloves—and I smoked small port cigars, although I was never a smoker before and I didn’t know how to inhale. I wore this marvellous gear at home for some of my guests, and to parties with my friends.
I posed as a lesbian at my friend Victor’s party. Victor was my masseur at the clinic I frequented; he was from South Africa, an easy talker, young and muscular, exuding sexual charm as if he was the originator of it. On that cold evening, I greeted young women as they entered the door, offering to warm their hands or fetch them a hot cocktail, leading them to the fireplace, making complimentary remarks about their make-up or their hair, and asking them to sit on my knee. It was funny to watch their surprise—at first pleasant, if a little overwhelmed—then see it change to suspicion, and eventually, without exception, to wordless rejection.
I expected the shake-off. I would have been embarrassed if anyone had taken me seriously! In mock disappointment I joined a group of gay guys, imitating their stance and manners and enjoying their wit. However, I had to admit to myself how nice it was to feel female hands; something women don’t often experience. I realised that there was a real lesbian inside of me, who could come out to express herself, if she chose to.
The occasion presented itself one lovely magical day.
‘Julie is my girlfriend,’ said Andy, when he rang and asked me to join them in their hotel room. Andy was one of my less attractive customers; a lecherous streak in him made me hesitate. On this afternoon, he wanted to see what a threesome would do for him.
As it happened, Julie and I gave him a first-class demonstration of how two women can enjoy each other. We clicked immediately, and seemed to understand without saying that although the plan was to please Andy, we were going to ignore him altogether. I felt such pleasure and pure abandon at throwing myself into Julie’s arms, and feeling hers around me in a welcoming feminine embrace.
We rolled on the bed, indulging our every whim to touch, nudge, caress, lick, suck and delight every part of our bodies. Julie’s hair was long and fragrant and her pubic area was clean and oh! so new and delightful. We both knew instinctively where we liked to be touched. The sensation of her naked body against mine told me what it might be like for a man to feel soft breasts against his chest. It was wondrous to suck her nipples and know exactly how she was affected by what I did. She found mine: they were large and prominent from having breastfed my baby for a year, and ecstatic to be caressed by her gentle mouth.
We were shameless in our desire for one another and didn’t let Andy in until we were both satisfied and had gently rolled down into a soft blissfulness. Andy couldn’t have asked for a better performance, but of course he was peeved. I vaguely remembered hearing his calls for attention, but we couldn’t have cared less. He had his revenge later when I asked to see Julie again and he refused to let me have her phone number. I suspect that she wasn’t his girlfriend at all, but another pro like me. I gave Andy the flick after that, and I hope Julie did too.
After that wonderful experience, I hung out at a gay pub in Perth for a while, the Red Lion, and watched the dynamics between the lesbian clientele. Would I meet another woman like Julie? I saw women who had rejected men dressing like men and imitating their behaviour. I also witnessed jealousy and outrageous cattiness. I was turned off and decided that was enough to know that I was bisexual, but definitely leaning towards heterosexuality. I would not go looking for lesbian sex. In honour of Julie and everything I had experienced with her, I would keep one perfect memory.
NEAR THE END of this first year of my new career, my lovely blonde pubic hair became home for a despicable brood of insects. I’d vaguely heard of crabs, but hadn’t considered them a real possibility in my world. It got prickly down there, but not exactly inside my fanny, so I didn’t think it was anything serious. I ignored the itch, scratching absentmindedly now and then.
A client who’d hired a waterbed at a hotel by the Swan River surprised me with, ‘What you got down there, sweetie? You sure didn’t get them from me!’
He pointed and I had to look close to discover the rude creepy-crawlies in my hair, sucking red blood from my body. I was so shocked that I jumped out of bed screaming and ran towards the door stark naked, as if I could run away from them. George said good-humouredly, ‘It’s not so bad, you know, Carla. Calm down!’
>
I stopped screaming. Nobody out there appeared to have heard a thing, or if they had, had taken no notice whatsoever. I had screamed blue murder and no one had come running. That was sobering in itself. ‘Get yourself some DDT cream,’ was George’s sensible advice, and I did that very same day.
When I confided in one of my gay friends, he took pity on me and did the kindest thing ever: he carefully shaved off every bit of pubic hair around my infected vulva to remove the vermin, eggs and all. Now I had the French look, he told me, but the initial eroticism soon wore off with the regrowth of short scratchy hair. No way was I going to keep up the shaving routine—my hair being blonde, I didn’t even use a shaver on my legs! I kept the DDT cream for years, just in case, but never had to use it again.
ON THE FERRIS WHEEL OF LIFE
JAMES RETURNED TO Perth to live. He had regained his usual placidity and often came around after work to play with Caroline, and sometimes stayed for dinner. It was good to be friends with him. We didn’t speak about the past, or about my new lifestyle. James was without criticism. He seemed to have come to terms completely with our separation, so he scared me one evening by predicting that eventually I would come back to him, just like the woman in the movie Ryan’s Daughter. He was so sweet and undemanding that my heart started to soften towards him. Should I go back to him?
It was during one of those evening visits that Fate made a dramatic entrance: James brought with him his best mate from work, Hal.
I was sitting at one end of the oval dining table, doing some sewing, when I looked up and was stunned by a sudden sense of inexplicable familiarity. I saw a Japanese kamikaze pilot in the shape of the tall Caucasian man standing at the other end of the table, being introduced to me. What gave him away was not his leather jacket, but the way he lounged with one arm on the edge of a chair and the other on his hip. I recognised this stance, however silly that may sound, and his easy grin was also familiar. From that moment, I couldn’t get Hal out of my head—even while I was thinking about going back to James. He was like a puzzle, a magnet.
God's Callgirl Page 32
