All the stress from Paul had taken its toll, add that to dancing three nights a week, rehearsing four hours a day and four to five eight-hour shifts at the brothel, and I was completely wiped out.
The strain began to show on a Monday night at Felicity’s. From the moment I walked in to work, the receptionist informed me that I already had four regulars waiting in various rooms. As much as I like making money, I was looking forward to a leisurely night of gossip and giggle with the girls. This was obviously not going to happen.
What men pay for and what they received were often two entirely different things. Most men believed they couldn’t have quality sex under an hour, or fantasised back to their youth when they could come three times in a night. They seemed to forget that was twenty years ago, when the body was young and virile. Nonetheless they wanted to believe that their virility and stamina would return.
‘I’d like to stay for the hour, Kate, I’m allowed to come twice in that time, aren’t I?’
‘Sure, you have a shower and I’ll take the money downstairs and come straight back.’
The first five minutes usually consisted of undressing, stroking, relaxing the client by talking, then it was straight into French. If he survived that I’d straddle him. The average man can stand about one and a half minutes of that. If he proved to be a persistent little bugger, doggy style was guaranteed to tip him totally over the edge. If I wanted to quicken him up I just made lots of noise – if he thought you were getting off, his enjoyment was enhanced.
Most often, after minutes they’d say, ‘Oh Kate, you’ve worn me out, darling, I don’t think the little guy’s up for another round. I think I’ll have a shower and go home, I hope you’re not disappointed.’
‘Come on, I’m sure I can change his mind,’ I’d say with my tongue firmly planted in my cheek.
‘No, I better go, I’ll make it up to you next week, I’m obviously just too tired tonight.’
‘Well, OK, if you insist, but you owe me one.’
And that, my friends, is how you do three or four hour customers in one hour and earn around $720 per hour of which you get half.
In dollar value that sounds great, but on this particular evening it was more than my tired little puss could handle. After knocking off the four clients I had waiting, I realised I was in a spot of bother. Something down there was starting to hurt—it felt like a blister was starting to form. I told Louise that I was in pain, and that I didn’t think that I could continue.
‘Show me where it hurts, because if I find out this is just a ruse to get out of work, I will sack you. I hope you’re not thinking that you have made sufficient, so why hang around for the dead of the night.’
‘If I have a blister down there from constant rubbing and if it bursts, my chances of catching something are far greater. Louise, I’m in pain, give me a break.’ At this point I was close to tears.
‘Oh grow some balls, Kate, and suck it up!’ she paused. ‘Fine then, take these tablets, and rub this on it, it’s a numbing cream, then make yourself a coffee and take a ten-minute break.’ I’m sure she thought this was a huge concession.
I did as she said, and fifteen minutes later I felt no relief but my headache had gone. The pain was so intense it even hurt to walk, or cross my legs.
‘Kate, I can’t keep these guys waiting any longer, fix your lipstick and go to room three, then room four. You’ll like these guys, one is a footballer, and the other one is young and handsome,’ Louise said almost compassionately.
I nearly burst into tears upon entering the room. Sitting before me was a giant of a man, at least six foot five. In the other room were two tiny young guys—I later learnt that they were both jockeys. I didn’t have to think twice about who I’d prefer to choose me, the decision was obvious: whoever had the smallest dick. If you don’t want to see a client it’s easy to get out of it, you just start scratching your puss right in front of them. That way they will get the impression that you have crabs and thus won’t select you. But here I was caught between a rock and a hard place: I knew the young boys were going to be hung like donkeys; the smaller the man, the larger the dick and vice versa. On the flip side the footballer looked like he’d be a muff-diver, which I was in no mood for. I decided to go for dick size and was ever so pleasant to the footballer and scratched away in front of the jockeys.
Needless to say, the jockeys found favour in one of the other girls, while I took the footballer to the room. There he told me he wanted to stay for the hour. I was not impressed; I knew this was not going to be a twenty-minute hour. He was about twenty-two years old, from a Polynesian background, which meant only one thing: I was going to be nibbled on for at least thirty minutes. This client was certainly in his sexual prime; this was going to be a marathon.
‘You don’t mind if I inspect you first do you?’