PANTS DOWN IN PARADISE; BOOK ONE

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CHAPTER TWO

Significant Lifestyle Changes

My boring job at the Insurance Company and the lack of multiple-person sexual activity in my life had me thinking about my future, and whenever I thought about my future, I became depressed. I remember fretting about my future, because I had been a girl who whisked through High School having never been kissed or chatted up, and I envisaged that I would become a young woman who would sit by the phone waiting for someone to ring up and ask me out; and later on I may become a middle-aged woman who was still sitting by the phone, and as my child-bearing years whisked past me, I would have to buy a cat to keep me company; and eventually I may become a lonely old spinster, and I’d probably have a dozen cats.

Luckily for me, one day I was flicking through one of those girlie magazines (you know the ones; topless girls on every third page, and stories about sport and beer) and in the middle of the magazine, there was an eight-page spread for brothels. A few of the ads caught my attention; Our girls know how to please … Exciting and decadent … Have the time of your life … and the ad for Paradise Gardens enticed, Climb the Stairway to Paradise … I knew brothels were simply places where guys paid money to hump girls, but the ads seemed to suggest that they were places where all your erotic fantasies could come true. At the age of twenty-two, I had about fourteen thousand erotic fantasies continuously swirling around in my mind, and I wanted to make at least one of them come true, so over the next few days I wondered whether I could do it; I wondered whether I had the courage to become a prostitute. In a physical sense, I had the right equipment to become a prostitute (boobs, butt, pussy) and in an emotional sense, I was hankering to be touched and humped every day, so one night, I sat in my room, and after scoffing back half a bottle of wine, I rang Paradise Gardens; Hi, I’m just wondering what qualifications you need to work there. Stupid question really, I mean the qualifications one needs to become a prostitute are as above; boobs, butt, pussy … The lady was very nice, and she told me everything about the brothel, and she said that it was one of the most exclusive and reputable brothels in Melbourne’s inner south-eastern suburbs. I had another gulp of wine, then I asked timidly, So, when can I come and see you?

When I went for my interview at Paradise Gardens, I was really nervous, and also hesitant, because I could imagine the interviewer saying, No, sorry; you’re just too plain … The owner of the brothel was a middle-aged Vietnamese woman whose name was Hien, and she asked me, Why you want to work here? I replied timidly, I want to explore my boundaries and try things that I’ve never tried. Hien’s Christian name meant gentle, nice, quiet, persevering, although as I came to discover, Hien was all-business, no mucking around, and she said, We always busy, if you work here, plenty of work, and plenty of work means plenty of sex. I was blushing as I thought, Can I start now? She asked me, You quiet and shy? I mumbled that I was reserved, and she said, You have very young face, and some men like young, quiet, shy girls, so I give you a chance.

I was delighted; me, Nympho-Nice-Girl was being given a chance to get fucked in an up-market brothel, although my delight disappeared very quickly when Hien said blandly, “Take your clothes off.”

Huh, what? I was embarrassed (and flabbergasted) because I didn’t think that potential employers were allowed to ask things like that. When I applied for the job at the Insurance company, they didn’t say, Take your clothes off, they just asked me for my resume. I wanted the job, so I took my clothes off in front of the middle-aged Vietnamese woman, then Hien studied me and said, “Slim, slender, tight butt, I give you a try.”

Ohhh thank-you, thank-you; you can organise guys to hump me and blow me off … and, and, what, really, I get paid for it?

Hien said, “Pubic hair?”

It sounded like a question, and she seemed to be gazing at my neatly trimmed triangle of pubic hair, so I nodded.

“I will get my assistant to take your details, and she will introduce you to the girls working tonight,” Hien began, “And make sure you speak to the girls about pubic hair.”

I nodded, yet I was suddenly very anxious. I was going to meet some real prostitutes, and my new boss wanted me to ask them about pubic hair? Like what, I meet them and then say, Hi, nice to meet you, but listen, how about we talk about pubic hair?

A very nice lady called Stacey took all my details, then she handed me a glossy pamphlet and said, “This is a copy of the rules and regulations, and basically it’s a list of the Do’s and Don’ts, so I’ll run through it with you right now.”

It took twenty minutes to run through the rules and regulations, and then Stacey asked, “Any questions?”

The rules and regulations seemed pretty standard, and they also had me thinking that this was a professionally run establishment, so with my excitement building, I muttered, “No, I’m fine with everything.”

“The pamphlet also outlines the dress standards, and it gives suggestions on how to present yourself to maximise your earning potential. Prostitution is simply about delivering sex in exchange for money, so the sexier you present yourself, the more financially beneficial it will be for you. Any articles of clothing you purchase to wear during your shifts are tax deductible, so always keep the receipts.”

I had received severance pay from the Insurance Company, so my next day was already planned; read the section on sexy clothes suggestions, and then buy one of everything. Tingling with expectation, I said, “Yes, I understand.”

“Okay, Jemma, I’ll mark you down to start on Tuesday, and the shift will be from 11am to seven pm; is that suitable?”

Ohhh … my … God … in two days time, me, Jemma Hoskins was going to do an eight hour shift as a prostitute, so I began to believe that there is a God, and God must like me, because HE was making my dreams come true.

Stacey said, “Let’s go and see who’s free.”

She led me into a large room and said, “This is the girls relaxation area, and the door to your right is the changeroom and shower area. Every girl is given a locker, and you can keep your working clothes, make-up and accessories under lock and key.”

There was only one girl in the room, a nice looking, mid-twentyish blond; and Stacey said, “Bree, this is Jemma, and she’ll be starting on Tuesday.”

Bree gazed at me, then said, “Hey, how ya doing?”

I was talking to a real prostitute, so I was really nervous, and I mumbled, “Good thanks.”

Stacey patted me on the back and said, “So Jemma, come in about ten o’clock and I’ll run you through all the procedures.”

I nodded and said, “Sure.”

“Okay, so I’ll see you then.” And with that, Stacey strolled out of the room.

“You worked in a brothel before Honey?” Bree asked.

“No, this is my first time.”

“What were you doing before?”

“I worked for an Insurance company.”

“Wow, so this will be a pretty radical career change, but this place is one of the best in Melbourne, and importantly, it’s always busy, so you’ll make good money. It takes a while to settle in, so if you’ve got any questions or need any advice, just ask me.”

“Thanks for the offer.” I replied, then thinking about Hien, I said, “Hien told me to ask the girls about pubic hair.”

“Have you got a hairy muff?” Bree asked.

I blushed and replied, “I don’t shave, but I do trim.”

“Honey, if you wanta make money, you shave or wax. When you get undressed, the first place the customer looks is at your snatch, and if you’ve got pubes, the customer will be thinking, Okay, I won’t select this chick again.”

“Do all the girls shave?”

“All the serious ones, yeah. Think about it like this; if you’re trying to sell someone a painting, you don’t stick pubic hair all over the painting so that they can’t see what they’re buying, you present the painting in its most sellable form. Guys like looking at shaved twats, and if you’re hairy, they’ll be thinking, Whoa, is this chick from the 1970’s or something.”

Bree had said muff, snatch and twat in quick succession, but she also helped me understand that I’d be needing to make an appointment at a waxing studio.

“What are you gunna call yourself?” Bree asked.

“I was thinking of either Crystal or Bambi.”

Another girl moped into the room, lit up a smoke, then slumped on the couch as she asked Bree, “New girl?”

“Yeah, her name’s Jemma and she’s starting on Tuesday; and Jemma, that’s Chris.”

I nodded at Chris, and Bree said, “Jemma’s got a hairy puss.”

Gee, thanks Bree … instead of saying, Jemma seems nice … the only piece of information Bree seemed willing to share was, Jemma’s got a hairy puss.

Chris blew out a smoky series of quite neat circles, then she eyed me and muttered, “Seline’s on South Road.”

I think she understood my confusion, because she said, “They do waxing, and tell them you work here and you’ll get a discount.”

“And Honey, if you like being tampered with, ask for Rayne, because she’ll also blow you off.” Bree advised.

“Yeah, she’ll rip your pubes out, and then she’ll finger the fuck outta you.” Chris added.

I was heterosexual, yet at my interview with Hien, I had muttered, I want to explore my boundaries and try things that I’ve never tried … so maybe it was time to time to start exploring my sexuality boundaries, because being honest, I’d had so few multiple-person orgasms, that the gender of the person blowing me off seemed irrelevant; Okay, remember that name; Rayne …

Bree glanced at Chris and said, “Jemma’s thinking about calling herself Crystal or Bambi.” Chris shook her head and said, “Crystal and Bambi are stripper’s names, and we’re not strippers, we’re whores.”

“Better to use a short, cute name that is easy to remember. Chris calls herself Mia, and I call myself Lyla.”

“Yeah, fuck stripper’s names, short and cute is the way to go.” Chris agreed.

“If you wanta call yourself an American State or County, there might be a few options, because in an American State or County sense, at the moment we only have a Dakota and a Cheyenne.” Bree added.

“In my time here, we’ve had a Montana, an Alabama, a Nevada, a Georgia, an Arizona, an Idaho and an Indiana, so if you want to American-Ise, we only have a Dakota and a Cheyenne at the moment.” Chris advised.

Bree studied me then said, “How about Ruby?”

Chris nodded and said, “Yeah, she looks Ruby-ish.”

“You happy with Ruby, Honey?”

“Yes, I can live with Ruby.”

“If you’ve got pubes, that means that you’ve probably never worked at a knock-shop before.” Chris assumed.

“No, this is my first time.”

“You nervous Jemma?” Chris asked.

“Yes, a bit.”

“You’ll be nervous and hesitant for the first few weeks, but after getting fucked more than a dozen times a week, you’ll be sweet.” Bree advised.

“And if you get fucked a dozen times a week, you’ll count your money and you’ll be thinking, yeah, this ain’t a bad gig.” Chris added.

“Is that the average, a dozen a week?” I asked shyly.

“I work four shifts a week, and I aim for a minimum four clients a shift.” Bree replied.

“If you rock up here, you gotta aim for a minimum four, or else you’ll be earning the same money as an office girl. This place has got a good reputation and it’s always busy, and some of the best girls earn more than the Prime Minister.”

“Evie and Shana are our highest earners, and when you see them, you’ll understand why.” Bree said.

“I’m convinced that Evie and Shana are the same person.” Chris advised.

“Fuck off Dingbat!” Bree laughed.

“They’re the same person because you never see them in the same room together.” Chris argued.

“They’re never in the same room because they never work the same shifts, and they never work the same shifts because they hate each other,” Bree began, “And besides, Evie is Caucasian with blond hair, and Shana is Indian with dark hair.”

“Nobody is ever gunna convince me that they’re not the same person, because they’re both snobby and stuck-up.”

“Jeez you crap on.”

“Fuck off, they have identical personalities, they’re both stunningly gorgeous, so they are the same person.”

“Really, what about the different hair colour and skin colour?”

“Ever heard of hair dye or solariums? Evie and Shana are the same person, like haven’t you ever heard about Shape Shifters?”

Bree laughed, then said, “You must have had a strong joint before you came to work.”

“It was average-to-medium.” Chris replied reflectively.

“Anyway Jemma, Evie looks like she belongs in Hollywood, and Shana looks like she belongs in Bollywood,” Bree began, “But neither of them are friendly.”

“I remember when I first met Evie, I was blown away by her,” Chris reminisced, “And I was telling her all about myself, and she kinda glared at me and said, Can you do something for me … I was real excited, and I gushed, Yeah, sure, I’ll do anything for you! And she stuck her nose in the air and huffed, Don’t ever talk to me again.”

“Unfortunately, that’s about as friendly as Evie gets, and while Shana will tell you to piss off in a much politer manner, neither of them have got any time for us peasants.” Bree advised.

“Most of the other girls are cool though, and if you don’t act like a Princess or a Drama Queen, you should get on okay.”

“Quite a few of us hang out together when we’re not working, because we think of ourselves as a Sisterhood.”

“Yeah, a Sisterhood of gals who get fucked for a living.” Chris quipped.

I was feeling more relaxed, so I said, “I appreciate you guys taking the time to explain things to me.”

“Cool Honey,” Bree began, “And you can call most of us guys, but don’t call Donna a guy or else you’ll cop a mouthful of abuse.”

“Yeah, she’s one of those gender-identification Dickwads, so don’t say guys around her.” Chris added.

“I think she’s also offended by being called a girl or a female now.” Bree mentioned.

“Really, so what are we supposed to call her?”

“I dunno, Donna, or Dickwad.”

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