Mattress Actress (13 page)

Most shifts went for nine hours, except on weekends, when it varied. We always started at ten am, and the plan was to finish at seven pm, but if you got a client at 6.50 pm you were obliged to take him. So if you had a hot date that you had to meet in town at seven thirty it was either too bad or you told him he has crabs. Seven twenty crabs were fairly common and it worked with every manager but Louise.

One such evening it was seven o’clock, and I was about to knock off. I was tired beyond belief, but still had plans, which I was now going to be late for.

As I was getting changed, Paula said to me, ‘Kate, you have the nicest breasts of anyone who works here.’

I thought nothing of a compliment like that, we were always showering one another with confidence-enhancing comments. ‘Thanks, Paula, big lips, big tits and big hips, it’s a matching set.’

‘You look tired, you want to get some dinner with me, my shout?’

‘Look, you’re really kind, but tonight I have plans and I’m already running late. Can we make it another night?’

‘Sure, I look forward to it.’

The following shift we shared, we agreed to meet for drinks after work. The night was running smoothly until about eleven pm. I had just finished a client and was reapplying my make-up when Roberta appeared in the ladies’ lounge.

‘There is a client upstairs who has booked Paula for three hours but he’s getting restless. He’s paid me to send up another girl, this time he wants a blonde with an ample chest, so it looks like you’re it. So make your way to room six as soon as you get a chance,’ she said.

I wasn’t frightened any more even if he did want a double, this time I knew what to do, I was prepared.

I walked into the room to find them both naked on the bed, as was to be expected. He instantly got up, fetched himself a drink and sat on the love seat. I started removing my clothes.

‘Paula, you were right, she is a beauty with a great set,’ he said as only country men can.

Paula came and took me by both hands. I was still standing but had my back to the bed. She took a step forward, staring into my eyes intently. I kept thinking, Gee, Paula’s good at this, she’s almost got me convinced. I thought she was going to kiss me so I took a step back, and kept moving away until my heels met the edge of the bed. Her guiding hands lay me down on the bed. I was about to try to swivel around so that our feet would be facing him, as I had been taught to do by Toni, when Paula leant over and kissed me passionately on the lips.

It felt weird, it felt soft, and it felt small. It tasted different. It was nice. She stroked my arm, and the kiss seemed to linger. I felt her breast touch mine. It was a different sensation, foreign but nice. It was smooth and supple. Her tongue reached out for mine and I reciprocated. Her hand was now on my stomach with strength and gentleness all at the same time. Every nerve in my body was heightened. Her lips strayed to my cheek, to my ear, to my neck. I could feel the softness of her skin. I could smell her, sweet and feminine. Her hair lay on my shoulder like a thousand soft feathers.

Her lips grew restless again. I was nervous yet excited all at the same time. And then she seemed to find her target. Is a woman’s tongue built differently? Why had it never felt this good before? Her hands caressed my breasts and she pinched my nipples with her small and delicate fingertips. My body was swaying with every gentle tickle of her tongue. Her hand strayed from my swollen breast, her lips retreated back to my hungry mouth.

My hands that until now had been dormant found a life of their own. My fingers slowly inched their way towards her pert breasts. When they found them the sensation was awe-inspiring. Did my breasts feel this good? All at once I had to taste them, to hold her nipples between my lips. As my tongue caressed her nipple my lip sank into her flesh. My hand fed my mouth. My head turned and the other was equally satisfying.

She pulled my head back to hers. We embraced yet again. Our hips collided in a ravenous manner. She was taller than I was but it made no difference. Our hips were aggressively rubbing, and my frustration was intense. Her hips pulled away from mine, and for one short second I felt denied. Then I felt her hand on my pubic hair line. The tempo had altered. Her kisses became soft again, and she was leading me with her touch. She was kissing my face again. Her fingers seemed to know my body. One finger searching, just teasing, barely touching my tender skin, when the other fingers followed, they already knew where to go. I felt the full weight of her hand. All at once her fingers divided, each one with its own directive. I felt wet through and her fingers easily slid over my most intimate area.

I could take no more. Reflexively, I straddled her, just to realise there was no point. I wanted her inside me. As thorough as she was she couldn’t comply and my insides seemed to ache. Paula tossed me on to my back. Now she was straddling me, my breasts cupped in her hands. Her mouth alternated from left to right only to settle in between. Her fingertips yet again pinched my nipples, but this time much firmer. Her torso was resting on my hips, as she slid herself down, my legs parted. My mind was racing—I knew what was coming. My fear had reached its crescendo. But when I felt Paula’s moist tongue greet my wanton puss, all fear dissipated.

My mind was at war with my body. I didn’t want to come, for if I did, surely that would make me a lesbian, but my body was winning the argument. My own hands were betraying me: they were on Paula’s side, and my thumbs and forefingers were firmly planted on both my nipples. Paula’s hands had total control of my inner thigh, her thumbs teased my greedy opening until I lost all ability to fight her any longer. My body heaved and convulsed stronger than it ever had before. In one movement, Paula was on top of me kissing me yet again. I could taste myself on her lips.

My brain was still reeling when I felt a weight on my hips. I opened my eyes to find that our client had joined us, mounting Paula doggy style. With every thrust, Paula’s puss hit against mine, which was still extremely sensitive. Paula looked totally engrossed in what he was doing, mind you, I knew better. When he came she kissed me again, like he wasn’t even part of the equation.

The three of us lay on the bed stroking and talking but my ears heard nothing of their conversation. I was having my own internal debate, wondering whether I was gay: It all made sense, I’d never had an orgasm from penis penetration, only ever from tongue, surely that made me a lesbian! But I hated the look of vaginas, I had no desire to go down on another girl, so surely that made me straight? I had been known to knock back a cupcake because it had a hair on it, so never in a million years would I crave hairy puss! God, I was so confused!

Would I still be able to face Paula once we left this room, without feeling embarrassed about what we had just shared? Was she gay and would she misconstrue this as more than a job? Would she tell the other girls that a female tongue sent me off like a firecracker?

He wasn’t my client, so I decided to take my leave. I went downstairs, shaken. I couldn’t really face another client, but that was not to be.

At the end of the night, Paula grabbed me.

‘Kate, do you mind if I take a raincheck on our dinner tonight? I’m totally spent.’

I didn’t know how to take it, was she now uncomfortable with me? Or did she no longer need the pretence of buying me dinner? Or was I looking too deeply into it?

I told her, ‘No, I’m totally knackered too, let’s do it another night.’

That night I went home and thought of Ben. I had made mad love to him hundreds of times, but he had never gone down on me or made me come. But I knew I loved him and was still satisfied by every touch he ever offered me. I wondered if I’d be as satisfied by my relationship with Ben if I wasn’t getting the occasional orgasm at work. Why hadn’t he ever asked me if I had climaxed? Why hadn’t he ever wanted to go down on me? I knew he wasn’t a selfish prick, so why didn’t he seem to care about my sexual pleasure?

The other shift manager at Felicity’s was Ken, yin to Louise’s yang. He was always polite and kind and always made a point of finding something nice to say about each and every one of us on any given night. He still did his job admirably but without hurting anyone’s feelings: ‘Ilka, why don’t you touch up that chin with a bit of powder, there’s a good girl?’ While Louise would say, ‘Cover that hideous zit before you go out to greet our clients!’ Ken would offer the girls a mint as they were leaving the ladies’ lounge, whereas Louise would just be officiously blunt: ‘Christ, you stink of cigarettes, sort that breath out before you breathe on our customers.’ The different approaches were completely obvious: Ken saw all the punters as our clients, but Louise saw them as
Felicity’s
clients.

As each evening started with the lady parade to room one and so forth, Ken would stand at the door, saying, ‘Nice earrings, Abby. Smoking new dress, Barbi. Cindy, what is that enchanting perfume?’ The most Louise could muster was a simplistic, ‘Presentable!’

All our condoms and lubricant were supplied by the management and were placed in bowls in the dressing room. In those days there was a one-size-fits-all policy. I had never seen small, medium or large like there is today, but often different companies would promote their new varieties at Felicity’s before they were sold in chemists, or more to the point, before they were sold to the regular public. Mind you, I never recall being asked for an opinion on any particular brand or flavour. So one week we had all ribbed, next week extra lubricated, then passionfruit flavour. We were never given any choice, Louise or Ken ordered the condoms, and we had to use what was provided.

One week, Louise had selected an entirely new condom for our use: fluorescent. We were all very amused and couldn’t wait to see if they really did glow in the dark. Most of us work with our eyes closed so I don’t recall any hilarious anecdotes being spun in the ladies’ lounge over the evening.

But everyone was giggling, gossiping and smirking the following evening when about six clients came in furious and taking out their wrath on Louise. Apparently the condoms left a phosphorescent coating on the gentlemen’s penises, so when they all returned home from ‘a late night at the office’ with a glowing prick, there was hell to pay! Time and time again throughout the evening we heard Louse being abused by last night’s clients, who were demanding compensation: ‘Who’s going to pay for my fucking divorce lawyer?’ Or there were demands for their hotel accommodation to be paid for by Felicity’s, until the missus calmed down.

Instead of ‘I am so sorry, sir’, we could hear, ‘Well, who tied you down and forced you to have sex outside of your marriage?’

In the ladies’ lounge, we were in stiches and loving seeing Louise on the other side of a tirade for a change. We even tried to rub it in her face: ‘God, what’s all the hoopla going on out there? Sounds really nasty.’

‘None of your fucking business, throw out all the fluoro condoms, now!’

No matter where you work, there will always be busy days and quiet days. Quiet days can be financially stressful, but they are often very entertaining and informative. While we wait for the clients to knock on the door and seek our services, the girls all corral in the ladies’ lounge. There was a TV there and an ironing board, a coffee table and a little kitchenette. At the far end was the mirrored dressing room where we got ready. It was always awash with a supply of cosmetics of every brand imaginable. The girls had a great camaraderie for each other, so it was commonplace to leave your cosmetics on the table safe in the knowledge that it would still be there upon your return.

Girls always took turns making coffee or tea for each other, and shared magazines and groomed one another in our spare time. The only job the girls had outside of servicing clients was to fold towels, which had to be done in a very specific way and placed on the shelf round side out. Even now I still feel obliged to fold my towels in the same way.

Technically we were not allowed to talk to each other about personal matters or about clients, but everyone ignored that rule unless Louise was around. Even if we did know someone’s real name we never called them by it on the premises, which was a major faux pas. However we did often share our real world lives as to do otherwise would be unnatural. It takes superhuman strength not to give away titbits of yourself.

I would more than often come into work with my dancing clothes on (sneakers and aerobics style outfit), straight from a gig, rehearsal or from a job I had with Gala. So it was perfectly natural for the girls to ask, ‘What’s with the get up?’

Things always have a way of slipping off the tongue, small personal tells that give you a window into someone’s personal lives like mentioning ‘my husband’ or saying something happened ‘at the hospital today’. One of the more common slip-ups was, ‘I have one boy in my class’, which told us that she worked as a teacher as her ‘straight job’.

Roughly half the girls I have worked with had other careers, the other half either had university, children or debt. I fell into the latter. So it was not uncommon that once the towels had been folded the ladies' lounge became awash with uni books, study material, or kids' homework to be marked.

When it was quiet and the lounge was full, out came the ugg boots, reading glasses, knitting, cross-stitching and cigarettes. We would all try to chip in and help each other in any way we could, from flash card testing to spell-checking and proofreading.

One of the more common stories that brought girls knocking on the red door was credit card debt. Holiday expenditure blowout was a common theme. There seemed to be a cohort of girls who would work for three months then travel for six with their savings. I was so envious, but without a signed passport I knew it was just outside my reach.

About a third of the girls were married, which I always found to be a bit bizarre. I knew one girl who was working at Felicity’s to pay for her in vitro fertilisation treatment. Husbands would drop their wives off and return on demand at shift's end with a kiss on the cheek, as would many of the lesbian partners of my co-workers.

I dreamed of having someone to go home to, who would cuddle me at night after a long tiring day, but I just couldn’t imagine how I would be able to be honest about my day with someone I loved. I missed Ben ten times a day, and called him once a week, but reserved my stories to my dancing, the weather and him.

Like me, many of my co-workers dreamed of being a famous actress. We would often work together memorising lines or practising monologues in front of the mirror for our next audition. Some of the girls spent large portions of their incomes on head-shots, acting classes, management fees or other such expenses pursuing the dream.

Some of the girls did get lucky and landed commercials or TV roles, but more often than not they just ended up sleeping with supposed directors/producers/casting gurus for free. It was always a big thrill when one of us did get on the box. While envy did exist, there was genuine pride in knowing that one of us had made it beyond the red door. It gave us all hope that we too had the same potential.

It was common knowledge that I was the youngest girl in the corral, so there was a sense of protectiveness and pride that the other girls shared for me. Particularly when I too got lucky and landed straight work dancing. Gala called me about once a week with work for me dancing with bands or on film clips. They also put me in touch with agencies that needed the odd stunt double. It was exciting work, but I quickly realised that my fortune was not going to be made in film and television. Everybody I met in the industry was broke and desperate for work. I was paid about $200 a day for film clip work, but I could earn that an hour on my back. If I did a tour with a band I was paid $650 per week and was expected to sleep with one of the musicians—fuck that! I was earning over $700 a shift behind the red door. Stunt work only paid marginally better, about $300-$350 per day, which was still a far cry from Felicity’s. But every foolish budding actor believes that every small underpaid job is a stepping stone to your big break, so I sucked it up.

However, sex work eventually began to change my mind about being a professional actress. It just seemed like acting and sex work were one and the same: sex for money. I would go to many wrap parties for video clips or movies which always ended up in a drinking binge or coke-fuelled orgy. It was presumed that the girls trying to make it in the industry (like me) would participate in these to garner the approval of the men that made a difference. Without meaning to sound repetitive—fuck that! I was used to cash up front, not fuck me now and maybe later I will hook you up for an audition somewhere down the track. There were too many ifs for my liking. I had lost my faith in false promises.

I did know girls who had found success in acting, straight from Felicity’s to the silver screen. We would sit around together and cheer her on from our little ladies’ lounge. They would all do the same for me when one of my music videos came on. It was no different when one of the girls passed an exam—we viewed it as one step closer to a life beyond the red door.

It was expected that you would have ambition outside of sex work. In fact, girls that whiled away their free time doing crosswords and reading
Cleo
were really frowned upon, unless of course they had children. The belief was that if you had no outside purpose you were working to feed a habit. In the era of HIV, girls with habits were pariahs. For this very reason girls would commonly talk about what they spent their money on. Because girls that didn’t accumulate or pay off debt were assumed to be spending their cash on drugs.

These quiet hours also gave us time to compare notes on Felicity’s regulars and their various proclivities. Who liked to try and slip the condom off when we were in doggy style position? Who liked to try and slip it in your ass without asking? Who liked to bite, or give your arse a big whack and say ‘You’ve been a naughty girl and Daddy has to smack you’? Or better still—who was a maestro between the sheets?

All the world’s problems could be solved on quiet days. Who were the greatest lovers? Hands down the French and the Portuguese. Or who were the worst, the biggest, the smallest, the weirdest?

Our favourite pastime was to hold the Mattress Actress Awards with categories like Best Fake Compliment or Best Bullshit Story to Get a Big Tip, but my personal favourite—Best Fake Orgasm. Nominees included Lola for her ability to climax with Daryl, who suffers from premature ejaculation. Martha for her ability to climax with a dick in her mouth and one in her puss. And the Giant Dildo Award this week goes to . . . Gina, who managed to fake an orgasm while being fucked by Harry Mc Sweatsalot! A massive round of applause would follow, with echoes of ‘Speech, speech, speech!’ ‘Can I just say thank you to the academy for this honour. Secondly I would like to thank my parents for really screwing me up. My voice coach, for being able to squeal through the six-inch fur coat that is Harry. Thank you all.’