‘Now get back in your Mercedes, go home and yell at the real focus of your anger. You may hate me—and I wouldn’t blame you—but I didn’t resign from my career as a corporate giant to become a prostitute. My choices are limited. I’m a widow, trying to do the best by my child. So please do not ever threaten her happiness and security again, she has been through enough. She’s like you, the innocent in this scenario.’
The woman stared at me for the longest time, then with a distinctly audible huff she turned on her heel.
That night I had a call from Sean. ‘Hey Cleo, I’ve been kicked out so I’ve moved into the Hilton, fancy coming over for a few hours of fun?’
46
Risk-Takers and Sexcalations
The weird and wonderful things clients requested never ceased to amaze me. Over the years I’ve seen how the weird has become the norm; when I first started, requests for golden showers were few and far between, by the end it had become a three-times-a-day request. Deep throat was the request that always amused me, because I never really understood it. My immediate reaction was that it surely depended on the dick? Four inches wasn’t going to go anywhere near my throat, six inches, maybe. So I would get the client to clarify and to my surprise I discovered they wanted to go so deep I’d be choking. They were hoping to derive sexual pleasure from watching a girl gagging and gasping for air on their penis.
I referred to this as sexcalation. As time went on and porn became far more risqué, requests became predominantly sadomasochistic in their tone: ‘What do you mean you don’t offer double penetration? Why won’t you let me try to fist fuck you?’ Even the language used in the room I never would have heard ten years earlier. I would even say to the clients: ‘You need to lay off the online German porn my friend, you’re getting weird!’
It used to be a case that for every three calls that came through I would nab one client, but times were changing and now it was more like one in ten. Fifty per cent of clients from the late nineties to the early naughties wanted or expected risky services, namely natural French. Now, we all know the most common lies told on the planet are: Of course I will still respect you in the morning; the cheque is in the mail; and I promise not to come in your mouth. There was no way I was going to risk my health for any amount of money.
My refusal was usually followed by ‘What if I give you an extra $20?’ Like somehow that would make everything all right.
Some clients were so bold as to ask for an entirely natural service and I would occasionally try to point out the stupidity of their request by pretending to have recently had a VD break out. I was always dumbfounded by the number of punters who did not detect my sarcasm and still wanted to go ahead and make a booking. So I gave them the address of the family planning clinic—obviously they needed it more than they needed me.
Herpes was rampant. Every week I would have to send a punter away with the bad news that they had a highly contagious disease that warranted medical attention. Only a few took me seriously but the majority dismissed my diagnosis as prejudice of some sort. Most would try to tell me that the abrasions and boil-like blisters were simply caused by a rather sturdy wank with no lube while wearing a ring. Yeah right!
47
Stalker
One of the more obscure requests that girls like me would regularly get was the voyeur fantasy. This is where the client wants to slip money under your door, then view you discreetly through a bedroom window as you play with yourself or have sex with someone else. I had no problem with this fantasy initially, but I quickly realised that I was opening myself to trouble. My home at the time was a seventies-style brick and tile, with a little three-foot front fence and welcoming, gateless footpaths leading to the back of the house. My bedroom looked out onto the back garden. It abounded with large fruit trees and raised garden beds everywhere and Poppy had a trampoline and a swing set—in other words, there were plenty of hiding places for a sicko to wait while I unwound before sleep or, god forbid, spent the night with a man of my own choosing.
I clearly recall a young-sounding man phoning with a request to watch from the corner of the room as I masturbated. ‘No problem, bring you and your money over.’ I had done this request a hundred times previously and always the client is in his forties. So I was surprised to answer the door to a very good-looking lad of about twenty-two years old, softly spoken, with a slight build. I took his money with no hesitations and within ten minutes he left a happy young man.
Two weeks later he returned, but this time he wanted to watch me from the back garden rather than the corner of the room. To be precise, he said, ‘Can I hide behind the jasmine bush and watch you through the window?’
My instincts were on instant alert. How the hell did he know that my bedroom window was shrouded in a jasmine bush? He had only ever entered through the front door at night, so my bedroom window was a mirror rather than offering a clear view out to the garden.
‘How do you know there’s a jasmine bush outside my window?’
‘Uh, uh, I can smell it.’