One afternoon we were sunbathing by the pool when one of the ladies expressed how unhappy with her lot she was. She was starting to regret her discussion to break up with her husband.
‘I am so sick of living hand-to-mouth, begging Tom for every penny he gives me. Compromising on my personal style for lack of funds, driving a car that should have been put out to pasture five years ago. There are so many things I never thought about when we were together. Like having a $25 pedicure. Now $25 is three days’ groceries.
‘I’d never seen a Visa bill, nor an insurance bill, nor a car repayment bill before. I have never paid house repayments. My only job was to care for the children and keep the house. Tom never questioned my spending and for that matter, neither did I. So why was I so unhappy? I haven’t worked since before the kids were born. I have no sellable skills. Tom wasn’t so bad, in fact I never saw him often enough for him to get on my nerves in the first place. I had it so easy! Free rein on my spending, all in return for one evening of sex on a Sunday, and that only ever lasted four and a half minutes at the most.’ All the women laughed.
She went on: ‘Sometimes I would give him a bit during the week as well, he was so agreeable just after a bit on the couch. If I wanted something particular all I needed to do was put on the charm and a particular nightdress and he was putty in my hands.’
All the women were nodding in agreement. I wanted to ask why had she left him, but thought it better to stay schtum. She was describing my profession: sex in return for financial gain. When I pointed out to her that I had seen a job advertised in the back of the paper in Tweed Heads that I felt she would be qualified for, she did not see the humour in it. I have to admit I was only half joking.
One of the other ladies chimed in. ‘What you need is a night on the town. Sue and I went out the other night to a club in Main Beach, between us we had $35 dollars, cover charge was $5 each and the taxi home was $12. Mind you, we never had to part with taxi money—we managed to con some poor desperate sod to drive us home. What a delusionoid! He honestly believed he was in. He was not a happy chappy when we jumped out of the car with not so much as a kiss or a phone number. Somehow the next morning I still had $15 left.’
I asked her how she managed to get completely smashed for the entire evening and still have money left in her purse.
‘Men paid for everything! We didn’t even know them, or care to get to know them. All you need to do, Annika, is sit beside the man with the biggest, fanciest watch. Give him a sexy little smile, show a bit of charm, laugh at everything he says, and you won’t have to buy another drink all night!’
‘What if he is boring or ugly or not even the slightest bit amusing?’ I knew the answer all too well, I just wanted to hear her say it.
‘What difference does that make? You don’t want to marry the guy, you just want him to buy you drinks.’ They all laughed and agreed. They seemed to think it was a big joke to take advantage of a man’s generous nature. To lead him on all night, then make fun of his physical flaws behind his back after the event.
‘So let me get this right . . . It’s OK to prostitute yourself for alcohol but not for upfront cash?’
They didn’t answer me, but it was clear to me they felt their actions were justified. And prostitution was never acceptable—except in its most subtle form.
A cold breeze moved in. We all gathered our towels and moved to our respective homes. I felt that we had simply had a difference of opinion, and all would be fine come the new day but that wasn’t so: I was an outcast from then on, as was Poppy.
The ladies I started referring to as the gin and tonic hookers organised a birthday party for one of their children who was six months older than Poppy. Everyone in the complex received an invitation except for us. I was furious! To take out your anger on an innocent three-year-old was going too far.
One evening the manager of the complex, Phil, came to my house to inform me that he was fully aware of my ‘comings and goings’. He assured me that he had no personal problem with what I was doing or any moral objection. He told me that the neighbours had orchestrated an around-the-clock monitoring schedule. They had even gone to the trouble of keeping a tally of the number of visitors as well as their licence plate numbers. He warned me that my eviction was imminent.
Phil was one of the sweetest men around. He backed me to the hilt, but to no avail. In fact, his support of me cost him his job.
28
Outed to my Family