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 deep pink see-through, baby-doll neglige. I’ve often thought that neglige is a dick of a word, like, Hey, I’ll just slip my neglige on, and then you can see my nipples and thighs! In the Dictionary, neglige is described as such, An easy fitting, un-ceremonious garment … but get real yeah, it’s a Flash-Your-Bits garment. Brides wear neglige’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; 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 others 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.
John is on the bar, and I smile at him, because he gets me my drinks for free, and when I’m 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 usually feel like a drink … or three. John is quick with a joke or to light up your smoke, but I don’t smoke, I just drink the free booze. (Errr, maybe I need to slip another qualification in; I don’t smoke cigarettes, I smoke weed, but Chill Sticks are banned in my workplace.)
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 could 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, because he was a pretty organised kind of guy. 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. 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 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, then 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, 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 have to 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, I got fucked five times today 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 … she 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?”
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?”
“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 my lines, 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, “I can look after the money.”
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 would 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?
I wasn’t smart at school (and part of the problem was that I wasn’t interested or motivated enough to pay attention) so I knew that I was only ever going to be a Lemming following the masses, or else I’d just be another Brick In The Wall. My first job was in an Insurance Company, and my supervisor was so impressed with me that he said, You can be our filing girl.
Wow … I’d spent eleven years not paying attention in school, and now I was Filing Girl.
I hated being a filing girl, and after eight months of filing, I’d had enough. I was probably supposed to file the important documents into their allotted homes, but to me having a job was just like being at school, so I couldn’t focus or pay attention, and I mostly filed everything into any empty cabinet I could find. I knew early on that I wasn’t going to be the CEO of this company, so in a moment of inspiration I applied for a job at Paradise Gardens, and yeah, lucky for me, they accepted me. For the last six months I had been bouncing into work with a smile on my face and a song in my heart (and I also bounce in with a sense of expectation; How many guys are going to pick me tonight?) Working at a Brothel is the ideal job for me, because I guess I’m a nymphomaniac, although the word nymphomaniac confuses me. When you hear the word nymph, it promotes pleasant imagery in your mind, and you tend to think of little fairies fluttering around in a forest; but if you add the word maniac after nymph, the new word takes on a completely different meaning, because the word maniac tends to make you think of a slobbering, crazed lunatic running around with an axe. Maybe the person who invented the word nymphomaniac was dropping acid at the time, and he dreamt about slobbering naked fairies wielding bloodied axes as they scuttled through the forest. Maybe nympho-slut is a more appropriate moniker for me, or even nympho-Nice-Girl, because I was a nice girl. If you saw me in the street or at the local shopping centre, you wouldn’t even me cast me a second glance, and if somebody told you that I was a prostitute, you would probably be shocked; Really? That very plain looking girl is a prostitute? I was a nice girl, but unfortunately, I certainly wasn’t a head-turner, because I was plain, or average, or inconspicuous. I guess I was the Nice-Girl-Next-Door, but I was the Nice-Girl-Next-Door who loved sex.
I loved the very concept of sex; a girl can turn a dangling piece of flesh into an erect piece of flesh, and then the girl can spread her legs and invite the erection into her specifically designed channel. Male and female genitalia are both aesthetically pleasing designs, and in an engineering sense, they are delightfully compatible; erect the male component, then slide it into the female component. I don’t know if there is a God or not (I mean I’ve never been motivated enough to research the issue) but the compatible designs of genitalia has me swaying towards believing in God rather than not believing. Maybe God is just an old perv, and He gets off on watching billions of people fuck every day, like I mean that’s Computer Porn on the largest scale imaginable. I’ve often wondered how many people fuck each day, like that’s the kind of thing that motivates or interests me. Maybe they should invent an App, and people would be required to record details every time they have sex. Then we could tap into the App and see the results; Monday the fourteenth, 768,231,556 people had sex; Tuesday the fifteenth, 584,723,064; Wednesday the sixteenth, 613,513,622 … The App could also be divided into countries, and we could see who the randiest countries were, and that could help some of us to plan our next holidays; Monday the fourteenth, 21.5% of people in Australia had sex, 19.1% of people in the USA had sex, 9.2% in the UK, 31.8% in France, 56.6% in Thailand, and so on.
If you think about sex a lot, prostitution is a great job for you, because it has the effect of lessening how much you think about it, because your job is all about doing it.
When I was working at the Insurance Company, I’d look at the cute guys on the train in the morning, and I’d be wondering, How big is his cock? What’s his favourite position? Then when I was at work, I’d be looking at the cute guys and fantasizing about them blowing me and then humping me, and on the train home, I’d be inventing stories about all the cute guys I’d seen that day, like, Hello young lady, I have two brothers that look like me; can we all gang-bang you? … Sure, what time? I was perpetually horny, and because of that I used to masturbate a lot … no wait, not a lot, heaps; and if they had an App where you have to tap in every-time you masturbated, I’d be pretty sure that you’d find me in the top ten per cent.
I’m not a sex addict, I mean I don’t believe that sex addiction is a real thing, because everybody loves sex, it’s just that some of us are single, and when you’re single you don’t have to wait until your partner gets horny, you can just go for it whenever you get horny. I remember about three years ago I went to a nightclub with my friends Marcie and Beth, and halfway through the night, I was ready to explode. I get tense and edgy when I watch people dancing, because as their sweaty bodies bounce up and down, I’m always afflicted by the female version of the erection. Marcie and Beth hung around with me because I was like them. We all wore glasses, and none of us were strikingly attractive (although Beth has got big boobs) and when we were together, we kind of looked a bit nerdy. We understood early on in our nightclub ventures that we weren’t Pick-Up-Girls; Hey, there’s a group of girls, let’s go and chat them up! We were End-Of-The-Night-Girls; Hey, all the good one’s are taken, so let’s go and talk to the Nerdy ones …
Beth was well-rounded, although the mean guys called her fat, and she wasn’t fat, she was solid, but the compensation was that her solidness meant that she had large breasts. Marcie had been an under-developed teenage girl, and now she was blossoming into an under-developed young woman. The mean guys called her a skinny little bitch, but she wasn’t skinny, she was slim and athletic; and me, well I was average in every way, and the mean guys didn’t call me anything, and maybe that was a bit of an ego-crusher, because maybe I was just too plain to be mocked. The Gods Of Flesh had given me breasts that were two sizes smaller than I had wished for, but I had a very neat and tidy body, and at the very least, I liked standing in front of the mirror and looking at myself naked. (And yeah, if that masturbating App was up and running, I would have to tap in, because I pretty much masturbated every time I took all my clothes off.)
When we were going to nightclubs, occasionally nerdy guys would chat us up, and if they did, we were all over them in a flash. We all thought that it was so unfair that the pretty girls could get sex whenever they want, but we had to wait until the nerdy guys got up the courage to hit the nightclubs. One night I was super-steaming, because there were gorgeous guys everywhere, and the combination of bouncing, sweating bodies and loud, pumping music was overwhelming me. This nerdy guy shuffled over and started talking to me, but he must have been shy like me, because I couldn’t hear anything he said. He was leaning close and shouting in my ear, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying, so I was leaning close and yelling into his ear, I can’t hear you! Then he’d yell, What did you say? And I’d scream, Did you say something? It was almost like a rally in a tennis match, scream into his ear and then wait for the return volley; and in the protracted rally, I heard words like, Do … you … wanta … dance … I didn’t, I wanted something else, so I screamed back, No, but you can finger me if you want to! He yelled, What’s that? ... Bloody Nora, I drew in a breath, and with my lips touching his ear, I screamed as loud as I could, Do you wanta finger me? and yeah, for probably the only time for the night, right at that precise moment, the thumping, pulsating music dropped to half the volume, and quite possibly more than half of the nightclubs patrons heard my impassioned scream. I must have embarrassed the shit out of the guy, because he mumbled, Arhhh, I better check on my friends … and I was no longer super-horny, I was super-embarrassed. Strangely, Marcie and Beth were beaming. Marcie said, Great line Jem! And Beth said, Maybe the guys will think we all wanta get fingered, so they’ll come swarming over! They didn’t though, and the Nerdy Girls were faced with another lonely night. Thinking about it now, that may have been the first night we masturbated together. Beth used to live in the Granny Flat at the back of her parent’s house, and whenever we hit the clubs, we crashed there for the night. Yes, I remember that night well, and I’m sure it was the first time that we let our sexual urges run free.
Three years ago …
Marcie opened a bottle of wine and said reflectively, “We shouldn’t go to the clubs anymore, because it’s getting depressing.”
We all took our nice dresses off and slumped onto the couch in our underwear. As we sipped the wine, Beth moaned and said, “Tonight was super depressing, I mean we can’t even attract guys when one of us screams out that she wants to be fingered by a nerd!”
“Things will turn around for us,” I mumbled, “I mean as soon as one of us scores with a guy, maybe he can tell his friends that we’re all willing and available, and instead of drinking wine in a Granny Flat, we’ll all be flat out on our backs.”
“Yeah right, I mean we’ve been saying that for the last six months.” Marcie replied glumly.
“Marcie’s right, because maybe it’s time we faced reality.” Beth said.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Jem, Marce, I can see our future, so maybe it’s time.”
“Time for what?”
“Basically we’re all celibate, so maybe it’s time to join the Nunnery.”
I pondered, then said, “No, the Nunnery wouldn’t accept me.”
“Well I masturbate, and if I was living in a Nunnery, I’d probably masturbate every night, and thinking about it, probably every morning as well.”
“You masturbate?” Marcie asked timidly.
This particular cat was out of the bag, so I nodded and said solemnly, “Yeah.” I had a sip of the wine, then a thought hit me, so I asked, “Don’t you?”
“Me, no!” she stated defensively.
I was surprised, because all three of us were constantly on heat, so I turned to Beth and asked, “Do you?”
Beth’s cheeks flared into a dazzling crimson colour as she said, “Arhhh no … not really.”
Marcie faced her said, “Huh, what? How can you not really masturbate?”
“No, no, I meant I don’t ever … I mean never … like no, I don’t.”
To me this was our Waterloo; we had been defeated … again; so now was not the time to bullshit. I was depressed and half-pissed, although my clitoris had recovered from the severe embarrassment that I had subjected it to, and I muttered, “I think about sex all the time, so I masturbate whenever I get the opportunity.”
“God, aren’t you scared about your parents finding out?” Marcie asked.
“Jeez Marce, it’s not like I leave a note on the kitchen bench that says, Hey mum, dad, that movie got me horny, so I might go to bed and masturbate; is that okay with you guys?”
“I guess if we’re being honest, I might have masturbated once.” Marcie admitted.
“Ummm, once or twice, I can’t remember.”
“What about you Beth, I mean you’ve got the perfect set-up here in this flat.”
“Get real Jemma, I mean my Granny used to live in this Granny Flat before she passed away, so I could never do anything disgusting in here.”
I pondered, then asked, “Why?”
“Well you know, her spirit might be lingering over the flat, and if I tried to do anything, my Granny would be wondering, Hmmm, I wonder what my Grand-daughter is doing down there? And then maybe the bed would start shaking or the windows would crash open or something.”
“God you’re an idiot,” I laughed, then I said, “Besides, masturbating makes you happy, so if your Grannies spirit is lingering around, she can go, Ohhh yeah, my Grand-daughter seems happy tonight!”
“Okay, it’s time for a change of subject.” Beth announced.
“To what?” Marcie asked, “All we ever talk about is guys and sex.”
“How about our jobs?” Beth suggested, then she asked, “How’s your job going Jem?”
“The office is the worst place in the world! I mean I can’t concentrate because I’m always distracted. I’m always looking at the hunky guys and thinking, Ohhh yeah, you could do anything that you want to me, or … Yeah you, I’d place minor restrictions on you, but pretty much it’s anything goes, or to the nerdy guys I’d be thinking, I don’t want to kiss you, but you can finger me whenever you want.”
“Jeez, you’re coming over as a bit slutty Jemma.”
“Marce, I wanta be a slut, I mean I want guys humping me and giving me orgasms, but since that’s not happening, I have to do it myself.”
“How often do you, you know, masturbate?” Beth asked bashfully.
“How many days are there in the week?”
“Everyday?” Marcie asked curiously.
“Every night.” I replied defiantly.
“Holy crap.” Beth muttered.
“Beth, Marce, we’ve been on the pill for more than eighteen months, and in that whole time I’ve been humped twice, so masturbating is like my consolation prize. We made the pact two years ago that we were going to be slutty, but right now we are more like nuns.”
“We didn’t say that we were going to be slutty, we said that we were going to be more adventurous.” Marcie argued.
“Marce, being more adventurous means being sluttier.”
“I interpreted our pact as meaning that we needed to slut it up a bit Marce.” Beth advised.
“Well look, there’s always next weekend, so we’ll have another crack on Saturday night,” Marcie began, “When you think about it, we’re only nineteen and we’ve got our whole lives in front of us.”
I pondered, then I said, “That’s true, but when our missions fail, and let’s face facts here, they always do; so when they fail, I’m going to reach out for the consolation prize.”
“And what’s that?” Beth asked hesitantly.
“Put it this way, if your Granny is lingering, ask her if I can blow one out, because I’m so fucking horny.”
“You going to masturbate here, in her Granny Flat?” Beth asked in shock.
“Yeah, and the way I’m feeling, it’s gunna be sooner rather than later.”
“Arhh Beth …”
“Maybe ask your Gran if I’m allowed to do it as well.” Marcie mumbled.
And thus it began, Beth’s Grand-mother’s Granny Flat became our masturbating den, or in my case, it became my weekend masturbating den; and as we became less embarrassed and more adventurous, we couldn’t wait for the weekends to roll around. Sometimes we didn’t even bother hitting the clubs, we’d just get half-pissed in the flat and then masturbate all night. One time me and Beth double-dated these shy, awkward guys, and the guys were going, What do you girls want to do; have dinner and see a movie? I said, Nahhh, we’ll just buy some booze and go back to Beth’s place … Beth and me got humped by both of the guys, and female orgasms were blowing out regularly, but maybe we were too aggressive for the shy, awkward guys, because we never heard from them again. And that’s like strange, isn’t it? Isn’t that a guy-fantasy thing; you know, hook up with two girls who are only interested in sex? If I was being kind to Marcie, Beth and me, I would say that we were all pleasant looking, or if I was stretching the boundaries, I would say that we were all cute; but maybe guys just didn’t have the imagination required to see our external beauty. Didn’t matter though, because if we didn’t pick up, we now had a Plan B that sat very comfortably with all of us.