Let’s be honest, if you have to rely on self-reporting for tax no one would ever declare one hundred per cent of their income—the best the government could hope for is seventy-five per cent They rarely got that out of me. But I was still declaring something, so they should be bloody grateful. I had very few deductions with the exception of condoms because the renting of a premises for the purpose of prostitution was illegal, so there was no declaring a room in your home as a deduction. My car was a deductable because I did out calls—even though I didn’t really. Clothes and lingerie were not deductable because they had to be emblazoned with a work logo to be deductable, and what was the chance that was going to happen?
Most girls didn’t fear the tax man as much as they feared the police for social security fraud. Eight out of ten working girls I knew were not subsidising any other income, but rather took the attitude that this work was part of a five-year plan to save a fortune and buy a business, get out of debt, pay off a house, pay your way through university—or some other such nonsense that never eventuated. I heard a statistic that claimed that after five years, only five per cent of working girls have anything to show for their trouble. Many of the girls I knew let social security support them and clients pay for their luxuries and travel.
I could never comprehend the mathematics of it. Girls earning at least $400 a day as rub-n-tug girls needing to take half a day off work in order to lodge their unemployment form so that they could get $200 per week. For this grand sum, they had to constantly live in fear of being caught and sent to jail. And they had to risk asking clients to sign a dodgy form saying they applied for employment.
I never knew a girl who was charged with social security fraud, but I did meet a number of girls who were given tax bills of $30,000. Interesting the government didn’t have to establish how many days a week she worked, or how many clients she saw for how much money. They didn’t have to show deposits in bank accounts or verify ownership of assets exceeding the girls’ declared incomes. They simply presented these girls with bills and no alternatives but to pay. I imagine that otherwise there would have been a public trial exposing the girls to all sorts of unwanted embarrassment, potential custody issues and threats to their future good name.
The girls I knew who’d had a rendezvous with the special branch of the tax department all paid their debts in full. All of whom did so on their back, well and truly blowing out their five-year plans.
Explaining assets or income was always a concern. Putting any money in the bank was a task to be avoided at all costs. Whenever possible, I paid cash for everything, when it wasn’t possible I put it in a company’s name that my favourite accountant had set up for me.
In Singapore they had a system where you could open a bank account with a birth certificate providing you could deposit $15,000 minimum. Then in Australia you could pay for things using this foreign VISA. The ATO couldn’t tax income derived from overseas, but I had no work visa for Singapore or any of the countries that I visited and worked in.
44
Calls from Women
A day didn’t go by without at least five calls asking if I saw couples. In the early years I thought it was a great perk; instead of $250 per hour I was getting $550: $250 each and a $50 fantasy charge. I didn’t particularly like sex with women, but then again I didn’t particularly like sex with really old, overweight men, so what difference did it make? At least I was getting paid twice the dollars for the same sixty minutes of detachment. The truth was an entirely different reality.
With any job I needed to be on the ball from the moment the client walked through the door: Why was he there? Was he seeking sex or affection or ego stroking? I needed to establish how I should play the appointment. Strong and sexy or demure and let him run the show? Was this guy a potential regular I should be really nice to or was he a brothel rat—a name we used for guys who never saw the same girl twice? Was he on drugs or drunk? So until I’d answered all these questions I couldn’t afford to be detached. Even as I ripped open that condom and put it on with my mouth, my brain was alert and active: How much was he enjoying this? What were the chances I could get him off like this and he wouldn’t be able to muster another erection? I always did this positioned between his legs, with my puss well out of hands’ reach. And I got to watch his face to see how hard he was trying to hold back.
Even during sex I couldn’t afford to detach, I was always on alert. Was the condom still on? Where did he like to be touched? Was he enjoying this or should I try another position? When the occasional client did outlast the standard two minutes, my brain remained switched on: What did I fancy for dinner, I had a cauliflower in the fridge that really should be eaten soon, how about a risotto, did I have bacon in the fridge?
‘Ooh, Cleo, I’m going to come.’
This was where it was my job to say: ‘No, hold on for one more minute,’ or ‘Quick, what’s eight times sixty-four?’ Or, my personal favourite: ‘Quick, think of Shane Warne naked.’ That way when they did ignore all my pleadings and come anyway I could quip: ‘So you’re a bit of a Warnie fan?’
Inevitably they apologised for a poor performance. ‘Sorry, Cleo, I never usually come that quickly, I’ll make it up to you next time.’