My first client was a Singaporean man named Chan. He was very unassuming, impeccably dressed and softly spoken. He didn’t go in for much small talk like the others, rather he was a man on a mission, and he wanted a white girl with big breasts who had an air of the girl next door. He invited me to visit his home. I realised I had no idea when to broach the topic of fees. Was it inappropriate to declare my fee upfront, and if so, what should that fee be? I discreetly asked Warren for his suggestion, and he happily informed me that Chan was a regular and that he would probably just slip me $800 as he dropped me back.
Chan’s home was a palatial apartment overlooking the water that he shared with his out-of-town wife. They had no children. Every surface of his home was covered with expensive art works and ornaments from all over the world. His paintings were individually lit, he had numerous photos of himself shaking hands with other Asian men and dignitaries on display. I was left with the distinct impression that he was a definite someone.
Chan didn’t muck around. He ushered me into his boudoir, where he allowed me to undress myself. He watched attentively. He then undressed and got down to business. Within twenty minutes we were showering and returning to his Mercedes for the drive back to the office. Upon arrival, he handed me a wad of cash and thanked me for my time. I thought it gauche to count it in front of him, but every fibre in my being wanted to for fear of being ripped off. I refrained. Sure enough, I later found there was $800 in crisp US bills.
A week later Chan returned to the office, chatting with all the ladies available. Every now and then I observed him whisper into their ears a little something that I could not hear, and girl after girl would give a polite head shake. I was very curious, but in this environment it was not done to inquire about what was transpiring. Slowly he made his way over to me, and reluctantly made a little small talk about the humidity in Singapore. Then he leant over to whisper directly and quietly into my ear: ‘Would you let me film us having sex? It is just for my viewing pleasure, it will never be viewed by anyone but myself, I promise.’
My first reaction was hell no, but I wanted money, so I pondered for a moment. One arse was the same as another, so providing I kept my face out of the shot I should be fine. All things considered, I already had my face plastered on the internet, and in photographs in Mr Peters's photo album and god knows where else he had put them.
‘How much are you offering?’ I knew I was breaking the rules by even asking on the premises but surely this qualified as an exception.
‘I was thinking $1000 would be fair?’ I detected the rising of his voice at the end of the statement, like it was more of a question.
So I jumped: ‘I was thinking $1500.’
To my delight, he didn’t even take a moment to think, he just smiled and took my hand.
We returned to the same apartment and as before got down to business. He set up the cameras while I pictured the angles I would need to pose in to minimise my exposure. He could have as much boob and vagina as he wanted but my identity might come in handy one day.
I never saw the movie when it was complete—all eight minutes of it—but I think he was pleased with the raw nudity and gyrations. I also think he could tell friends that it was a pop star and no one would be any the wiser.
***
It wasn’t uncommon to go to two formal dinners a night. You quickly learnt to order small meals if you were taken to dinner at seven because chances are that you would be at yet another restaurant by eleven with an entirely new group of men.
I had been working at Mr Peters’s establishment for about four days when he invited me to move into his apartment with some of the other ladies. I was overjoyed, yet very cautious. At least in my own hotel I had some privacy. But the benefits far outweighed the negatives, for example, if you stayed in his apartment he would often call during the day and whoever was around got a job overseas or a quick $700 afternoon delight. The apartment was luxury plus. It was a three bedroom with gym, squash court, enormous pool, sauna and house maid.
Lilly was the maid. She was such a happy woman, always talking, but no one could understand what she was saying. Lilly had a pretty good thing going with Mr Peters. She had accumulated a fairly high gambling debt, so in return for her maintaining his apartments he would clear her debt. We of course were supposed to know none of this. After a couple of hours of vacuuming and washing and ironing, Lilly would stand there with her hand out. Once a week we paid her SING$25 each.
Little did Mr Peters know that she was making money out of the girls by telling us that her cleaning was on top of rent. I was her newest target.
‘Would you like me to iron those clothes hanging in the closet, they are very crushed? It will be no trouble, I have finished all my cleaning.’
‘OK, Lilly, that would be nice, thank you.’ When all my clothes were pressed she came up to me with her hand out for $20. That ended up being the only time she got me.