A brief history of my life in the sex industry
June 11th 2008 03:55
I first started in the sex industry at the tender age of nineteen, at an inner-city brothel, a very well known one.
That's why I'd chosen it. It had all the large, glossy ads and the most extravagant sales pitch. I was a student, living out of home and completely broke and sick of it.
A couple of years before I'd read an article in People magazine, where the feature writer had gone 'undercover' to apply at this self-same parlour.
It was all so exotic, and so intriguing. The description of the parlour, of the interview with the Madam, her disapproval of the applicant's single tattoo, the description of the formal designer dresses the workers could buy, or could pay off over a period of time, the payments deducted from their earnings for the shift. How workers could make so many thousands of dollars a week. There was even a photo of the outside of the parlour, a man at the gate, a woman in a mini-skirt entering the door, her face blurred.
"I could do that..."
That was the thought that ran through my head. Idly perhaps, but how prophetic it would be.
Of course, with the wisdom of age I now realise that article was probably set up with the owners of the brothel, a sort of advertising for them. Most of those sorts of features are.
Nineteen years old, a size eight with nice, perky breasts and waist-length red hair, and the receptionist practically dragged me in through the door. I was even tattoo-free.
"We don't have any redheads at the moment." The Madam observed approvingly. "One is usually enough, though. It's not as popular as blonde or brunette, but one looks exotic and eye-catching."
Five minutes and I was already flustered. Like most ginger nuts, I'd spent my youth in paroxysms of agony over the colour of my hair, convinced it was hideous. Now that I was finally out of my mother's grip and could bleach it, I had kept holding back for some unnameable reason. I guess, somehow, I knew it'd come in handy...
I was requested to stand up for the Madam and the receptionist to examine me (fully clothed)
"You've got a nice Nicole Kidman, artisocratic look going on." The Madam muttered. This was the common refrain. Back in those days, any Aussie girl with redhair automatically got compared to Our Nic, even though back then I resembled Nicole more as she looks now then she did then. Back then she had a head of frizzy curls and freckles and looked cute. Back then, I had long, straight, strawberry-blonde hair and freckle-free skin, thanks to my mum's vigilant watch during those long, hot Aussie summers.
Usually I rolled my eyes when anyone compared me to Nic, but at that moment I was too nervous to do anything. Too busy worrying about what they might find wrong with me, how I might fail to measure up, whether I was busty enough, classy enough, beautiful enough...
They didn't find anything wrong with me. How could they? I was nineteen and brand new to the game. The only trouble they had was not letting on how badly they wanted me to stay.
And stay I did.
A few things had changed since that article had been published. The wardrobe of designer dresses was gone, there was no longer the rigid dress code and reluctance to tattoos and piercings (though as little as possible was still preferred). I wasn't to know it then, but these were the first hints of the decline of the industry.
Instead I was dressed from a wardrobe of a slightly shabby, rather tawdry collection of mis-matched garments, many left behind by previous workers who'd moved on. I'd never worn lingerie like that before, or heels that high, that made me feel like my ankles could snap in two. The receptionist did my makeup and though I would later come to regard it as pure tart trash, right then I thought I looked grown-up, sophisticated and very sexy. As it turns out, so did the clients, though over the years I would develop several different makeup looks for myself, including a preferred one of soft colours and shadings.
Black was discouraged; instead I was given a long, red lace negligee which clung to my body and draped softly around my ankles. I'd always been told red clashed with redhair, but on me it looked striking and stunning. The heels were six inches high with platforms, clear perspex.
I thought I looked so sensational, but after I got a gander at what the other workers were wearing, how glamorous and polished they were, I quickly found fault and immediately began spending the money I earned on improving my working wardrobe.
And money I earned. I knew I was hooked when I went home my first shift with just over $1500. I was giddy with champagne and triumph, high on my new-worker's appeal.
I worked at that first place for quite some time before I decided to look elsewhere.
Since then I've run the gamult - worked in high class, top of the line places and serious dives. I've done escort, brothel-based, independent. I've done 'elite' level and standard, even a little cheap-as-chips. I've done phone-sex, peepshow, strip, BDSM as Dominatrix and submissive but always stayed away from porn (you only get paid once, the company makes money off you indefintely...). I've seen couples, women, men, transfolk, the disabled and just about any cultural background you can name.
What can I say? I've had a blast.
As for the story of my first client, well... you'll have to tune in next time.
That's why I'd chosen it. It had all the large, glossy ads and the most extravagant sales pitch. I was a student, living out of home and completely broke and sick of it.
A couple of years before I'd read an article in People magazine, where the feature writer had gone 'undercover' to apply at this self-same parlour.
It was all so exotic, and so intriguing. The description of the parlour, of the interview with the Madam, her disapproval of the applicant's single tattoo, the description of the formal designer dresses the workers could buy, or could pay off over a period of time, the payments deducted from their earnings for the shift. How workers could make so many thousands of dollars a week. There was even a photo of the outside of the parlour, a man at the gate, a woman in a mini-skirt entering the door, her face blurred.
"I could do that..."
That was the thought that ran through my head. Idly perhaps, but how prophetic it would be.
Of course, with the wisdom of age I now realise that article was probably set up with the owners of the brothel, a sort of advertising for them. Most of those sorts of features are.
Nineteen years old, a size eight with nice, perky breasts and waist-length red hair, and the receptionist practically dragged me in through the door. I was even tattoo-free.
"We don't have any redheads at the moment." The Madam observed approvingly. "One is usually enough, though. It's not as popular as blonde or brunette, but one looks exotic and eye-catching."
Five minutes and I was already flustered. Like most ginger nuts, I'd spent my youth in paroxysms of agony over the colour of my hair, convinced it was hideous. Now that I was finally out of my mother's grip and could bleach it, I had kept holding back for some unnameable reason. I guess, somehow, I knew it'd come in handy...
I was requested to stand up for the Madam and the receptionist to examine me (fully clothed)
"You've got a nice Nicole Kidman, artisocratic look going on." The Madam muttered. This was the common refrain. Back in those days, any Aussie girl with redhair automatically got compared to Our Nic, even though back then I resembled Nicole more as she looks now then she did then. Back then she had a head of frizzy curls and freckles and looked cute. Back then, I had long, straight, strawberry-blonde hair and freckle-free skin, thanks to my mum's vigilant watch during those long, hot Aussie summers.
Usually I rolled my eyes when anyone compared me to Nic, but at that moment I was too nervous to do anything. Too busy worrying about what they might find wrong with me, how I might fail to measure up, whether I was busty enough, classy enough, beautiful enough...
They didn't find anything wrong with me. How could they? I was nineteen and brand new to the game. The only trouble they had was not letting on how badly they wanted me to stay.
And stay I did.
A few things had changed since that article had been published. The wardrobe of designer dresses was gone, there was no longer the rigid dress code and reluctance to tattoos and piercings (though as little as possible was still preferred). I wasn't to know it then, but these were the first hints of the decline of the industry.
Instead I was dressed from a wardrobe of a slightly shabby, rather tawdry collection of mis-matched garments, many left behind by previous workers who'd moved on. I'd never worn lingerie like that before, or heels that high, that made me feel like my ankles could snap in two. The receptionist did my makeup and though I would later come to regard it as pure tart trash, right then I thought I looked grown-up, sophisticated and very sexy. As it turns out, so did the clients, though over the years I would develop several different makeup looks for myself, including a preferred one of soft colours and shadings.
Black was discouraged; instead I was given a long, red lace negligee which clung to my body and draped softly around my ankles. I'd always been told red clashed with redhair, but on me it looked striking and stunning. The heels were six inches high with platforms, clear perspex.
I thought I looked so sensational, but after I got a gander at what the other workers were wearing, how glamorous and polished they were, I quickly found fault and immediately began spending the money I earned on improving my working wardrobe.
And money I earned. I knew I was hooked when I went home my first shift with just over $1500. I was giddy with champagne and triumph, high on my new-worker's appeal.
I worked at that first place for quite some time before I decided to look elsewhere.
Since then I've run the gamult - worked in high class, top of the line places and serious dives. I've done escort, brothel-based, independent. I've done 'elite' level and standard, even a little cheap-as-chips. I've done phone-sex, peepshow, strip, BDSM as Dominatrix and submissive but always stayed away from porn (you only get paid once, the company makes money off you indefintely...). I've seen couples, women, men, transfolk, the disabled and just about any cultural background you can name.
What can I say? I've had a blast.
As for the story of my first client, well... you'll have to tune in next time.
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Comment by RubySoho
Music Zone
Thought Zone
Comment by Starlet Harlot
Starlet Harlot - Blog of a Sydney Callgirl
Of course, but there is in any industry. In any aspect of life.
I will get to them over time. But they may not be what you think they will be...
Comment by RubySoho
Music Zone
Thought Zone
Comment by Rebecca 1
Famous Zoo
Ranting Rebecca
Guilty Pleasures
A Little Giggle
Cheers,
Bec
Comment by Raoul Duke
Style of Eye
Which reminds me of a joke ...
A: I'm going into business
B: Oh? what's the business?
A: Prostitution
B: Prostitution, huh? So, how's business?
A: Screwed.