To which I always responded, ‘You owe me one.’
Of course every client was different, every hour had its variations, but in general it all started the same and it all ended the same. Differences were only apparent somewhere in the middle ground, namely if they want to go down on me. That only occurred about fifty per cent of the time and really came down to the nationality or culture of the client. There are no hard and fast rules where cunnilingus and country of origin are concerned but I will say that when I first started working it was a rarity. In later years of my career, men seem to have adopted a new definition of satisfaction, which included providing good sex. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been bounced around a bed for about fifty minutes, only to have the client amazed that in all that time I hadn’t reached climax.
Female clients were nowhere near as easy to please as their male counterparts. They defined satisfaction completely differently to male clients. Men wanted to rip off their gear and get down to it, while women would arrive with a bottle of bubbly and ask where I kept the champagne flutes. In my dollars and cents brain, I was thinking, Do you really want to spend fifteen minutes getting to know one another over drinks at $9.20 per minute? My bet is hubby doesn’t. Then they wanted to take a five-minute shower only to come out of the bathroom redressed, so that I could undress them seductively. That would be fun in the real world while you’re passionately kissing but in Cleo’s world there was no kissing allowed.
So now I had twenty-five minutes left to sexually gratify both clients, see them both showered, dressed and out my door. I knew all the while that was never going to happen, but I’d give it a whirl. Just like men, women will try to suspend orgasm, it’s just women are better at accomplishing that feat. Women would beg me not to make them come yet, because they wanted to prolong the experience, totally oblivious to the reality that I was looking at the clock on the wall.
If I told a man he had eight minutes remaining he would climax within two minutes. However, if I told a woman she had eight minutes remaining she would vent: ‘What, am I on the clock?’ In reply, I’d direct my question to hubby: ‘Does it take your wife an hour and a half to watch 60 minutes on Sunday?’
Arguing was futile, and that thirty-five minutes of buttering up was now gone. The moment the fantasy ceased to exist in her mind, attempting to reignite her was a lost cause. As clients, women defined a good hour-long threesome experience as ninety minutes of mutual sexual satisfaction.
I didn’t mind being a mattress actress but don’t try to head fuck me. Men would talk to me about the weather and the football, maybe comment on my home. I really didn’t need the get-to-know-you-better-style conversations. Not women, they wanted to know every detail. They just didn’t get that, once you walked through my doors, it was a liar’s paradise. Every client was John the accountant, except of course for John the actual accountant—he was a pilot with Qantas, or an officer with ASIO. The guy that owned a Jim’s Mowing, he apparently started the franchise. Liars were welcome any time in my home, because I was selling fantasy, so keep the fuck out of my reality!
45
Wives
In any given month there would always be one phone call from a woman who found my number in her loved one’s pocket or phone and decided to investigate. Our standard obligation was always not to betray the client, because he’d be angry and respond with either aggression or punishment, by finding a new girl to hand over his hard-earned cash to. These calls were never pleasant – as a woman, I hated lying to these poor souls but business was business. So when they inquired who they were speaking to I gave them the name Cleo, and simply told them that we were moving interstate, and had about twenty different ads in the Sunday Times, selling everything from fishing and diving gear to golf clubs, and every possible household item you can think of. That usually placated them.