I would more than often come into work with my dancing clothes on (sneakers and aerobics style outfit), straight from a gig, rehearsal or from a job I had with Gala. So it was perfectly natural for the girls to ask, ‘What’s with the get up?’
Things always have a way of slipping off the tongue, small personal tells that give you a window into someone’s personal lives like mentioning ‘my husband’ or saying something happened ‘at the hospital today’. One of the more common slip-ups was, ‘I have one boy in my class’, which told us that she worked as a teacher as her ‘straight job’.
Roughly half the girls I have worked with had other careers, the other half either had university, children or debt. I fell into the latter. So it was not uncommon that once the towels had been folded the ladies' lounge became awash with uni books, study material, or kids' homework to be marked.
When it was quiet and the lounge was full, out came the ugg boots, reading glasses, knitting, cross-stitching and cigarettes. We would all try to chip in and help each other in any way we could, from flash card testing to spell-checking and proofreading.
One of the more common stories that brought girls knocking on the red door was credit card debt. Holiday expenditure blowout was a common theme. There seemed to be a cohort of girls who would work for three months then travel for six with their savings. I was so envious, but without a signed passport I knew it was just outside my reach.
About a third of the girls were married, which I always found to be a bit bizarre. I knew one girl who was working at Felicity’s to pay for her in vitro fertilisation treatment. Husbands would drop their wives off and return on demand at shift's end with a kiss on the cheek, as would many of the lesbian partners of my co-workers.
I dreamed of having someone to go home to, who would cuddle me at night after a long tiring day, but I just couldn’t imagine how I would be able to be honest about my day with someone I loved. I missed Ben ten times a day, and called him once a week, but reserved my stories to my dancing, the weather and him.
Like me, many of my co-workers dreamed of being a famous actress. We would often work together memorising lines or practising monologues in front of the mirror for our next audition. Some of the girls spent large portions of their incomes on head-shots, acting classes, management fees or other such expenses pursuing the dream.
Some of the girls did get lucky and landed commercials or TV roles, but more often than not they just ended up sleeping with supposed directors/producers/casting gurus for free. It was always a big thrill when one of us did get on the box. While envy did exist, there was genuine pride in knowing that one of us had made it beyond the red door. It gave us all hope that we too had the same potential.
It was common knowledge that I was the youngest girl in the corral, so there was a sense of protectiveness and pride that the other girls shared for me. Particularly when I too got lucky and landed straight work dancing. Gala called me about once a week with work for me dancing with bands or on film clips. They also put me in touch with agencies that needed the odd stunt double. It was exciting work, but I quickly realised that my fortune was not going to be made in film and television. Everybody I met in the industry was broke and desperate for work. I was paid about $200 a day for film clip work, but I could earn that an hour on my back. If I did a tour with a band I was paid $650 per week and was expected to sleep with one of the musicians—fuck that! I was earning over $700 a shift behind the red door. Stunt work only paid marginally better, about $300-$350 per day, which was still a far cry from Felicity’s. But every foolish budding actor believes that every small underpaid job is a stepping stone to your big break, so I sucked it up.
However, sex work eventually began to change my mind about being a professional actress. It just seemed like acting and sex work were one and the same: sex for money. I would go to many wrap parties for video clips or movies which always ended up in a drinking binge or coke-fuelled orgy. It was presumed that the girls trying to make it in the industry (like me) would participate in these to garner the approval of the men that made a difference. Without meaning to sound repetitive—fuck that! I was used to cash up front, not fuck me now and maybe later I will hook you up for an audition somewhere down the track. There were too many ifs for my liking. I had lost my faith in false promises.