CHAPTER ONE
Paradise Gardens
It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday … and the regular crowd shuffles in … there’s an old man sitting at the bar, making love to his tonic and gin. I’ve never seen the guy before, so I mark him down as a potential target. I’m wearing a low-cut G-string (jeez, I hate those things) and I’m wearing a pink see-through, baby-doll negligée. I’ve often thought that negligée is a dick of a word, like, Hey, I’ll just slip my negligée on, and then you can see my nipples and thighs! In the Dictionary, negligée is described as such, An easy fitting, un-ceremonious garment … but get real yeah, it’s a Flash-Your-Bits garment. Bride’s wear negligee’s on their wedding night, and the brides don’t wear them because they’re looking for an easy fitting, unceremonious garment, they wear them because they’re looking for a little action; Hey, check me out New Hubby; you can see most of my bits, so you want some of this, huh? I was also sporting a new hairstyle which I loved, because it was very manageable, and I think it made me look a little bit sluttier (think of David Bowie on the cover of his album Aladdin Sane.)
On this Saturday night, I was one of the four Floor-Walkers, and we had six other girls who were ready and waiting for inspection. Our regulars knew that the Premium Girls would be waiting to be inspected, and if the girls presented themselves favourably enough, they would then get fucked. For money. For good dosh.
Paradise Gardens was a good brothel … actually, maybe I should qualify that, because seeing as how this was the only brothel I’d ever worked at, I guess I didn’t really know a good brothel from a shit brothel.
Parading around in a see-through Flash-Garment and a microscopic G-string that seems like it’s slowly sawing my arse in two, I gazed around to see how many other potential clients I could identify.
I see Davey sitting at the bar, and my spirits lift. Davey is in the navy, and he probably will be for life; but that was okay, because I can handle seamen’s semen.
Davey will probably pick me because his favourites weren’t on. We had Premium Girls, but we also had a couple of Superstar-Premium Girls, although the Superstars rarely worked on the Saturday night. One of the Superstars (Evie) said that after midnight on a Saturday night, a fair percentage of the customers would be so drunk that they wouldn’t appreciate how stunning she was, so what was the point putting out for buffoons who wouldn’t even remember who they humped. (Evie was stuck-up, and I mean stuck-up Big Time). Our other Superstar, Shana, apparently said one time that the peasants (and by that she meant the rest of us girls) should be forced to deal with drunks who sometimes threw up on the bed, or more alarmingly, couldn’t get it up. Prostitution is basically a time-and-money game, and occasionally things can fall in favour of us working girls. If a customer pays for a full hour and then shoots his load inside fifteen minutes, two things can happen; either the customer will spend the next forty-five minutes feeling us up (which I don’t mind at all) or the more likely occurrence is that the customer will scamper away, and that then gives us an already paid for forty-five minutes to hustle our next customer in. If the customer isn’t shooting though, that does present problems, and sometimes we have to spend the entire hour trying to coax the semen out. And that’s hard work okay, like you’re thinking, Jeez, how many beers have you had? Just like Evie, Shana was super stuck-up (and I hate admitting this, but Evie and Shana had every right to be stuck-up, because they were both drop-dead gorgeous). When Davy dropped in on a Saturday, he knew that the Superstars wouldn’t be on, so he normally picked me because I treated him like a King. Davy always booked a full hour, and because he worked for the Royal Australian Navy, he was a pretty organised kind of guy. I guess when your workplace always operated on an organised and regimented schedule, you could be influenced to conduct your social life in the same manner. Davy wasn’t regimented when he came to Paradise Gardens, he was horny, although he was always organised, because he knew what he wanted. He always asked for a massage (fifteen minutes) then he massaged the girl (another fifteen minutes) and then the sex (usually seven to ten minutes) and with me, after the load had been shot, we’d kick back and have a drink and a chat until the buzzer went off. Sometimes I’d ask him, So how’s work, what have you been doing? And Davy would reply, I’m sorry, I can’t tell you Rube, because it’s Top Secret. I would then stroke his penis or tickle his balls, and he would gush, Actually, I’ll tell you what we’ve been doing, but don’t tell anybody else. Over the last six months Davy had told me about a variety of Top Secret training drills and manoeuvres that the Navy conducted, but his secret was safe with me, because when I’m stroking someone’s penis or tickling their balls, I’m not really paying attention to anything else. I mean the Russians or the Chinese could interrogate me and ask threateningly, What are the secret drills and manoeuvres that the Navy conducts? And I would shrug my shoulders and mumble, I don’t know, it was like he was on a frigate or something, and the frigate is in the ocean, and that’s all I know … ohhh, but I can tell you something important … Davy shaves his balls. Maybe the Russian and Chinese spies wouldn’t be interested in my information, although it does pose an intriguing question for me; do Russian or Chinese sailors shave their balls?
Anyway, whenever Davy massaged me, I told him to concentrate on the important areas (don’t worry about my brow, calves, elbows or knees, just tickle my clit) and because his work environment had conditioned him to obey orders or instructions, I always blew one out with Davy from the Navy.
Happy and eager, I approached him and cooed, “My, my, look at this, a representative from the Royal Australian Navy has graced us with his presence.”
Davy offered an embarrassed smile, then he said, “Hey Rube, how ya doing?”
“Good Mister Seamen, how are you?”
“Pretty good,” he replied, then he muttered, “I’m just waiting for Lyla.”
Bugger … I wanted to start my shift off with an orgasm, but apparently he’s already been snared. I liked Lyla (Bree), because she’s one of the really cool chicks, so I offered a smile as I said, “Be nice to her, and I’ll catch up with you later.”
“I’m nice to everybody,” he replied, “Because I love you girls.”
I gave him a peck on the cheek as I said, “Have a good time.” Then I wandered away and surveyed the scene. The old man making love to his tonic and gin would be my next target. He looked about fifty to sixty years ols, although I find it hard to tell, because any guy over fifty just looks like an old guy to me. My dad is forty-nine, although if I didn’t know how old he was, I would have said that he looked like he was between fifty to sixty. I tried not to think of my dad when I was at work, because I dunno, it seemed kind of creepy or something. A strange thought hit me, and I wondered if my dad had even done what this man was doing; sitting at a bar and sipping his drink while he waited for a young woman to proposition him. I wouldn’t blame my dad if he did do this occasionally, because my mother (and I’m trying to be kind to my mother here) is a snobby pain in the arse. So dad, I wouldn’t blame you if you occasionally strayed, but don’t you dare ever stray here, or else your wife would start World War Three, and I would be the object of her wrath.
The man at the bar had a wrinkled brow and a full head of greying brown hair, but what he looked like wasn’t important to me, because I was more interested in how he could assist me. He looked like a potential contributor to my electricity bill that was due in two weeks, and he also looked like a potential contributor to the sleek satin dress I had seen at my favourite clothes store, and most importantly, he looked like a potential Saviour. I had one minor psychological issue that most normal people would see as a problem (although I regarded the issue as my own personal bonus) and that issue was that I loved sex. I loved being touched and caressed, I loved being probed and handled, and I loved being reamed or rammed. I liked orgasms most of all, but when you’re a prostitute, you must eventually accept that orgasms will only come if the customer can be bothered. Guys who pay cash to have sex with women are always more concerned about their own orgasms, and yes, granted, they were paying money to hump someone and blow; but I always felt like saying, Hey Mister, we’ve got fifteen minutes left, so I’ll give you back twenty dollars if you blow me! I was doing four to five customers a shift, and depressingly for me, my orgasm ratio was running at about one-in-five. I shouldn’t complain though, because for someone like me who loves sex, I had actually found my perfect occupation. Other young women my age who were doing normal jobs might complain, My job is so boring … or they might reflect, I’m not sure that I can do this for the next forty years … or they might even think, I can’t see myself advancing in this occupation … but then you had me, and I would boast, Last night I took all my clothes off, then I got molested and tampered with, and I got fucked five times and I had one orgasm. Women who work in the Public Service sector or in big companies like banks or Insurance companies don’t often come home after work and say, Gee, what a day I had! I got fucked five times and I had one orgasm … but I do. My employer never says to me, Hey, can you get the filing up to date … or, Hey, can you spend five hours on the computer and review these reports … my employer says, The middle-aged guy just booked you for thirty minutes. I loved my job, because I loved sex, so I guess I was the Happy Prostitute, or the Very Happy Hooker.
I was reserved by nature, and out of work hours, I had always been a bit timid about strolling up to a guy and starting up a conversation, but when you work in a brothel, you know that the guys are only there for one reason, so it becomes easier to strike up a conversation. In the outside world, guys normally proposition girls; I mean guys proposition girls in nightclubs or in bars or at work (anywhere really) although in a brothel, it was a complete role reversal, and the girls did the propositioning, Hello mister, what’s your name, and what are you looking for? I knew that the Magical Fairies weren’t going to pay my electricity bill or buy me that dress, so I wandered over to the fifty-to-sixty-year-old guy and said, “Hi.”
He glanced at me, his gaze dropping from my face to my chest very quickly, and without lifting his gaze, he muttered, “Hi.”
“What’s your name?”
He muttered, “Jam- errr, Trevor.”
Hmmm, Jam-errr-Trevor; what an unusual name. I was tempted to say, So James, you wanta come with me? But no, respect his confidentially, because I wanted his money. Back in the early days, one time I said to a customer, I haven’t seen you here before, and later on one of the girls told me that you never say things like that, because it makes it sound like you spend all your time there. I had refined my conversation-starter, and I used my new one as I asked, “Is this the first time you’ve been here?”
He nodded.
Obviously he was reserved, and that made me a little more confident, so I said, “We have ten girls on tonight, four of us on the floor and six out the back. If you like, you can check out the girls in the back, or else you can choose one of the girls on the floor.”
He looked at my chest again, then he asked, “What’s your name?”
“Ruby.”
“Ummm, Ruby, how much is it for you know, like half an hour or an hour?”
I smiled and replied, “One hundred and forty dollars for the half hour, two hundred and forty for the hour.” I tried to smile seductively, but I knew that the smile would come across as sweet. I’d spent hours in front of the mirror trying to produce alluring smiles, but I found that I looked more like a grinning idiot rather than a seductive siren, so these days I just let my natural sweet smile spread across my face.
He asked, “So what happens, who do I pay the money to?”
Wow … that was quick and painless, and I didn’t need to trot out any of the lines that I had permanently stored in my sex obsessed mind; If you choose me, I can do THIS for you, and I can also do THAT, and my boundaries are rarely reached, so I’ll give you an experience that you’ll remember forever … Trying to procure the seductive siren voice that I still haven’t mastered, I said, “We’ll just stroll by reception and they’ll take care of it.”
Jam-errr-Trevor looked at my boobs again (and thank-you nipples, thank-you for still being erect) then he said, “Where do we go?”
He pulled his wallet out, then I said confidently, “Take my hand, and I’ll show you.”
I always took the customers hand because I thought it might help to relax the customer. Here we were at the starting line; two strangers holding hands, flesh-on-flesh, the coupled hands giving the customer a sense of more intimate flesh-on-flesh experiences in his immediate future. I guess the holding of hands was like our two-minute courtship, and after our hands got to know each another, other bits of our bodies would also get to know each other, and then we wouldn’t be strangers anymore. He was excited because he was going a hump a girl who was a couple of decades younger than him, and I was excited because he would give me some of his money, so everybody wins. And ladies and gentlemen, if everybody wins, this Very Happy Hooker will continue to be happy.
What’s that you ask; who am I? My name is Jemma Hoskins, and I’m one of the working girls at Paradise Gardens (you can call me Ruby.)
I’ve been working at Paradise Gardens for almost six months now and I considered myself to still be a rookie, or a newbie, or an apprentice; yeah, maybe that sounds best; an apprentice prostitute.
How did I become a prostitute?
Well, how about I tell you how it all began.
