I tried to stay in regular contact with my agent in Brisbane. I began getting work as an extra in films and video clips. Once, while we were on location, I went drinking with the crew after work. Someone thought it would be amusing to slip me something with a bit more kick than my soft drink. Uninhibited, I began dancing to a Meatloaf song and the cameraman secretly filmed me dancing.
The clip of me dancing around the campfire ended up on the desk of the big boss of Gala Records. This man was obviously impressed because he rang me and asked to meet in relation to doing video clips. I told him I lived up on the Sunshine Coast and if he was ever up that way to call me. Although I was happy to come down to meet him in Brisbane, his schedule was erratic and I thought it best to leave it with him.
I was still under sixteen but managing to get in to local nightclubs on my nights off. I preferred weeknights as the men weren’t as drunk. My clients were mainly divorced and looking for sex without complications. Sometimes they were out-of-town businessmen who felt a bit naughty being away from the wife and kids. Surprisingly, a lot of the really young guys didn’t choose me. They preferred the older women.
I did get a lot of handsome footballers. Many were regular clients; they had a high sex drive, so I would often see them two to three times a week. At first it was beyond me why they would need to pay for sex, but after talking to a few of them I understood that it was easier for the football stars to pay me for sex than cope with the football groupies following them around, hanging off their every word and teasing them with their bodies. If they had sex with these girls, the girls would assume they were dating. Two weeks of teary phone calls would eventually degenerate into ‘You’re such a using prick’, accusations and even threats of ‘a drink in the face next time I see you’. I could see their point, and I thought it admirable that if they were not looking for a relationship, but needed sex, they should see me.
Surprisingly, it was a client who gave me my first orgasm. I was really tired, I’d been dancing until four am, working since eleven am and it was now eight pm. John was a surf life saving coach and personal trainer for the men in the professional football teams. In his day he was probably a champion himself, but now, the only thing he was boasting was the shiniest head on the beach. While John was showering, I lay naked on the bed and closed my weary eyes. The light from the bathroom woke me as John returned.
He stood at the foot of the bed for a long time, then said, ‘Don’t move, I just want to kiss you all over, you look so delicious.’
I was not about to argue. He massaged me with talcum powder, and then began kissing my neck, slowly but surely inching his way down my body. His tongue felt so good on my nipples, his hands seemed to know my breasts, and he greeted my stomach like an old friend. With his lips on my inner thigh, his fingers began to stray and for the first time my body welcomed this attention. His tongue, lips and fingers were massaging my most intimate areas and I couldn’t get enough of it. My breathing had quickened; my hips were gyrating to a music my ears couldn’t hear. His touch was intensifying and I didn’t want this feeling to ever stop. I was fighting a war within myself—my mind said hang on but my body couldn’t handle any more; I reached my crescendo. I let out the biggest sigh. I was elated but I wondered why I had I not shared this experience with someone outside of work. Why hadn’t my Ben been able to do this?
***
I got a phone call from Norm, the president of Gala Records. He said he had one of his bands playing on the coast that weekend. He could get me a ticket and we would all have dinner afterwards. The band he mentioned were consistently in the top ten at the time, so I was very excited to be meeting people who were so famous. He said to be at the door at seven pm and if I mentioned his name someone would escort me backstage. It coincided with my sixteenth birthday but of course I was still under eighteen and I prayed there would be no ID checks at the door. Not that I even had an ID.
Alas I was out of luck. The Neanderthal doorman insisted on seeing my driver’s licence before he would let me in. I even tried dropping Norm’s name, but the doorman still wouldn’t budge. Later, someone I knew gave me their pass in so I at least made the concert. I had no idea what Norm looked like so I just had a party, dancing around at the front of the stage. I noticed the keyboard player kept staring at me and I turned around and winked at him.
After the concert I asked one of the roadies the keyboard player’s name. He simply said, ‘Paul.’