Sam just wanted to feel a bit of flesh on his skin, so I nuded up and threw myself at him. Mainly he just wanted to taste me for an entire hour. At one point I sat on the end of the bed and did a bit of a show, which he apparently really enjoyed, but I had no way of knowing what he enjoyed—there was no erection or climax to gauge his approval.
When my time was running out, I had to clean him up so as to remove any scent of foreign female, even though my perfume was all over the sheets. I suppose he had that many nurses in his room he could easily explain that little detail away without any problem. Sam’s bigger problem was getting cash, it’s not as if he could just bolt down to the ATM five minutes before I got there. If he ever did go down the shops he was usually accompanied by his wife. So we quickly established a regular bank transfer system that he could easily manage when he was sat in his chair in front of his desk. His computer was amazing, totally wi-fi and voice activated.
I would visit Sam the moment I saw $500 drop into my little account every three weeks. To my surprise, one day I noticed $600 in my account from Sam, and when I turned up at my allotted time I questioned his error. Apparently there was no error, he wanted a little more than the usual.
There was a knock at the door, and I jumped. In walked a friend of Sam’s, who looked at me very quizzically. Without missing a beat, Sam told his friend that I was a sex worker he’d been seeing, and how that because he was incapable of fucking me, he was hoping his friend could do it for him while he watched.
Whoa! I know that I have some awesome friends but I think that’s just a bridge too far for my mates.
This poor guy didn’t know where to look. Finally he said, ‘Sam, I thought I was coming over for lunch not sex. Fuck mate, I’m married. You’re married, for that matter. I know you can’t fuck and, mate, if I could change that I would, but I’m not going to fuck on your behalf.’
The next few uncomfortable minutes felt like hours, I could almost smell the guy’s body odour fill the room from sheer embarrassment. I decided to take my leave, and Sam knew that I would keep him in credit.
Sam eventually did get to live out his fantasy.
Clients in wheelchairs, or wheelies as I called them, were regular callers, but I didn’t really like them. Not personally of course, but because they took up so much time; just getting from the car or taxi to the front door was a half-hour affair. But hey, everyone deserves a good time, so allowances had to be made. They would always call in advance to inquire as to whether I had an upstairs bedroom, so straight away I knew they were wheelies. The poor buggers were limited to who they could see not by finances but by logistics. Most of the time they could perform sexually but it was never about the sex, they just loved the intimacy of a woman.
Often I’d get calls from clients who sounded like they had just been kicked out of a pub. Their voices were slurred and their speech almost incomprehensible, but I quickly learnt to hold off on a terse hang-up because I was now familiar with the strained speech patterns of cerebral palsy or motor neurone disease affected clients. It was a challenge to see these gentlemen because they had such little control of their movements, but it was amazing to see the difference in them as they left my room. Clients would arrive visibly nervous, limbs flailing all over the show, but leave like they were walking a catwalk. From the moment they reached climax, they would just liquefy—except for the big grin on their dials—and for the briefest time they were motionless.
***
There was a discrimination against seeing physically disabled clients with most girls. Clients told me horrible stories about taxi drivers refusing to take them to brothels out of principle. If they did manage to finally make it to an establishment they would often be refused service.
My motto was if you can pay you can play. This was a business after all. I did draw the line at drunks though, the smell of them and let’s not forget brewer’s droop—it just makes for too much work.
ANZAC Day was always the busiest day of the year for phone calls. From eleven am you would start to get calls from sweet old drunk veterans.
‘Hey love, you working today? I’m looking for a busty young thing about a size twelve. Do you think you can help?’
‘Sure let me give you the prices.’
‘What, darling, I can’t hear you, what did you say?’
‘I WILL GIVE YOU THE PRICES.’
‘Hello, is anyone there? I think the phone is broken, I can’t hear her.’ God bless them, ears didn’t work but their old fellas never skipped a beat. I rarely saw the old diggers, they generally wanted to spend $50 because that’s what they were used to spending in the good old days, so I was out of their league. But it didn’t stop them from calling and trying to negotiate a ‘veteran’s/pensioner rate’.
The older clients were truly adorable. They always arrived with gifts in hand, usually of the traditional chocolate or flower variety, the naughtier clients with cheeky lingerie. More often than not they would leave with the question: ‘Do you fancy going to dinner with me one night? No funny business.’
‘Why, have you got a single grandson you want to introduce me to?’
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