Out of the blue, an old man arrived at my door. He was dishevelled and seemed unable to keep eye contact, rather he was taking in the surroundings much like an artist might before placing oil on canvas. His timing couldn’t have been worse. There were half-naked girls a-plenty, multiple phones ringing off the hook and clients being escorted out. I was dreaming if I thought I could down play this scene but I gave it a crack. Needless to say, he didn’t buy it.
I finally received a letter in the mail denying my insurance claim, under the terms that I was running a business from home. I was straight on the phone with my assessor arguing that I had purchased a home business policy, how could they refuse my claim because I was running a home business? To that they had no response except to say they had a morals clause.
I got straight onto the phone to all my favourite lawyers, and they rallied to my defence. My argument was that the insurance company had no objection to taking the money for policy premiums from a sex worker, but they took exception to paying out a sex worker. The insurers argued back that I was attracting trouble by welcoming into my home all sorts of society’s degenerates, that this was an open invitation for thievery and harm.
‘What, like doctors, lawyers and politicians?’ I questioned how many criminal lawyers had their firms insured by them. Surely more of ‘society’s degenerates’ would pass through those doors than my humble abode? My attitude was that until the profession was deemed illegal, they had to pay up. After much toing and froing, they did. However, they then cancelled all other policies that I held with them such as my home-owner’s insurance, my income protection policy and even my car insurance. From then on I decided to declare everything upfront. Luckily for me, I knew a few insurance salesmen, who had no issue with finding me a company prepared to take me on.
36
Gifts and Drugs
I hate drunks and I hate drugs. In my earlier naive days, I couldn’t really tell when someone was affected, but the older I got, the more I became aware of the questions to ask before you accepted any cash. Drunks were easy to detect, they reeked of alcohol, which was bad enough, but the biggest issue with alcohol is performance. Alcohol seems to disrupt the communication channels between the brain and the dick. So instead of a nice simple service where the client did his part (got hard and shagged me) and I did my part (provided head and acted compliant), I had to work my lips off, knowing all the while that this dick had the same chance of getting hard as I did of growing three inches.
As reality set in for the client that it was probably not going to happen, I inevitably heard the old: ‘Well, that was easy money for you.’ Or on worse days they might even refuse to leave until they had reached climax. It’s a fine line to know when to just try to be nice and commiserate with their situation or when to put on my best headmistress personality and give them a mouthful: ‘Mate, thanks to you and your inability to handle your booze I now have lockjaw trying to breathe life into that flaccid thing, so don’t blame me! I don’t need to own one to be an expert on dicks and alcohol. Why don’t we test this theory of my inadequacies and you come back on a sober day and we’ll see who really is to blame for today’s fiasco?’
The worst part of the session with a drunk was sitting down afterwards with them while waiting for the taxi to arrive. It was awkward indeed, so I generally left it to my receptionist to make small talk with the guy who was now embarrassed or angry. Often I had to resort to taking client’s car keys from them so they didn’t get back in the car to drive home. I’ve had to call police on angry clients or insistent drivers far too many times to count.
In addition to drunk client dilemmas were the drug-affected clients. The scenarios differ depending on the drug, but cannabis had the same general effect as alcohol: sleepy dick syndrome. But speed was the real problem drug in our industry. While there were no hard and fast rules, in general, clients still couldn’t achieve climax. Erections seemed to come and go, but the client was convinced that he was perpetually moments away from climax, so he begged for me to grant him just a few more minutes of head-board banging—after all, that’s what chicks really dig—even when it was soft, they still pumped away none the wiser.
Clients were not always so in the dark about their abilities on speed, some were completely aware of their erectile shortcomings, but still wanted to splash out on a bit of intimacy because the drug made them over-the-top horny. So it was not unusual to receive a phone call inquiring about the rate for cunnilingus (referred to on the phone as mutual French). The belief was that if it was $300 per hour for a full service, if a client could pick and choose the services he required he’d be getting less than a full service so should therefore be paying less. Wrong! Unless of course they want just French (oral on them), then the prices go up. This always seemed to shock clients: ‘But why, I don’t even want sex?’
‘Is that right, Mr Clinton? Put it this way: in an hour service I may have to give you a ten-minute head job, but you are now asking me to give you a twenty-minute head job, or longer, so why would it be the same rate?’