Paul grabbed my hand and said, ‘Kate, I’m sorry I didn’t realise I was hurting you so much. I promise never to invade your personal space ever again.’
That was true to a point, but he continued to frequent my work. The management agreed to help me, and when he came in they told him that I was booked, and the wait would be in excess of two hours. Sometimes he would wait, more often than not he would take the hint and leave, only to return for my next shift.
Most of our clients were downright decent men, and knew the score down to a tee. A night would not go by without receiving a gift or two from one of our regular clients. This might be something as banal as flowers, or as exciting as expensive jewellery, but mostly it was perfume or cosmetics. These gifts were always welcomed by the girls and management alike, but if you were given a tip, it was frowned upon. The belief was that you had falsely procured it, namely charged extra for something that was ordinarily part of the deal. Sometimes it was assumed that you’d offered Greek (anal), which was not part of the service, but management believed that they still deserved fifty per cent of their cut.
One time a client who had selected me gave me a Diners Card and asked for an hour. I took the card downstairs, only to find it had been declined, when I returned to the room, he was already in the shower. I told him that his card had been declined. With no evidence of surprise in his wet expression, he told me to wait until he was out of the shower and he would give me an alternative card to try. I waited and waited. I could hear the buzzer going off, to which I responded, my client is in the shower, he wants to try another card. Ten minutes later I was downstairs with an American Express, which also failed. I returned upstairs disappointed for my waste of time. He was also apologetic, so he gave me a $50 tip for my trouble.
When I handed in the tip as instructed I was confronted with: ‘What did you have to do to get this? You were up there long enough and your client came downstairs freshly showered?’ I was hurt by their distrust, but I took my verbal chastisement and returned to the ladies’ lounge. I was visibly distressed, all the girls could see that but only Toni bothered to ask what had brought on my glum disposition.
Each girl in any brothel brings her own unique mix to the harem-like atmosphere. Some guys like boobs, some will like Asian-or African-or Latin-looking girls, some will like arse, some will like blondes and some will like Toni—a girl with a penis. Young guys will always pursue the older women, and then there are the men who like the girls like me, barely legal. I was not always picked first, but as far as everyone bar Toni was concerned, I was public enemy number one. Every week there would be a leader board pinned to the mirror of the dressing room. Not with earnings but with the top ten earners. The fact that my name was consistently on top just meant men liked young girls. This leader board reinforced a sense of envy among the girls not to mention animosity.
‘I hear Kate takes it up the arse,’ was the gossip on how I consistently retained ‘pole position’. So there was general sentiment among the ladies that as long as you didn’t have a dick, I was your competition. Being that Toni was no one’s competition, she was everyone’s best friend, but in particular, mine.
To see me distressed didn’t raise an eyebrow among the other girls, only a faint grin, but Toni swooped in like a mother bird immediately. I relayed what had happened and as always, she had a devious solution.
‘Oh pet, don’t get upset, get cash.’ She giggled. ‘You really must learn to stop being so damned innocent! It is your biggest asset but it is also your biggest curse. Now let Mother Toni give you the real deal. Never declare your tips, no good will ever come from it. Don’t carry a small clutch purse, get a leather handbag, that way they can’t feel the hidden tips in there when they inspect it. Cut a little hole in the lining to slide your tips in, and that way you can always put business cards in there as well!’ Then she went to the lockers and with the discretion of James Bond she pulled out a six-pack of cheap Kmart G-strings and popped them up my shirt.
‘What are these for?’ I asked.
‘First pack’s free. Tomorrow buy your own, sell them to clients after every job. I make an extra hundred bucks a night on these babies, only cost three ninety-nine.’
‘Why would a guy want to buy undies from me that he could buy in Kmart?’
‘Oh bless your cute little country mind! Wear them. For some reason, guys love to keep mementos, particularly ones that have the lingering scent of young *.’
Sure enough, she was dead right, only I made $150. Every girl needs a tranny as a friend and mentor as she is growing up.
15
Brothel or Labour Camp?