I looked at the advertisement again after realising my alternatives were few and far between. All I knew was that so far my one talent in life seemed to be turning saints into sinners, every man who crossed my path wanted to have their way with me, so I knew I would be a natural in this occupation. I had been called whore so many times that I figured I was already doing the time, I might as well do the crime.
Decision made! I wasn’t prepared to give them my real name, but even coming up with a false name took hours of thought. I was only fifteen years old and legally not allowed even to have sex yet. I thought I’d tell them that I was seventeen, not eighteen, because then the onus was on them if they decided to take me on. The law stated that you could legally have sex at sixteen but you could not work as a prostitute until you were eighteen.
I came up with two names, a supposed ‘real’ name and a working name. I chose Summer to work under and Abigail Winters as my real name, hoping they would not see the summer/winter connection.
I finally rang the number at the bottom of the advertisement. ‘I’m ringing about the ad in the paper,’ I said.
‘Oh yes, how can we help you?’ a female voice asked.
‘My name is Abigail Winters.’
‘Don’t tell me your real name,’ the woman interrupted. ‘Tell me your fake name.’
‘I’m sorry, I’ll have to come up with one,’ I said, deciding not to reveal Summer right away. ‘But I’m only seventeen, is that OK?’
‘Well, as far as we’re concerned, you’re eighteen,’ she said. ‘We want to meet you, when can you come in?’
‘I can be there in twenty minutes,’ I said, and she gave me an address.
I had to walk past the little weatherboard cottage three or four times; it was so nondescript, except for the red curtains, I thought it couldn’t possibly be the right place. I was wearing my very best outfit—a denim skirt and Billabong top from the surf shop—and I remember expecting all the women to be glamorous and worrying they weren’t going to employ me.
The manager, Samantha, greeted me at the door with a welcoming smile. She was certainly glamorous, a bit like an eighties porn star, with peroxide blonde hair, heavy make-up and glossy bright pink lipstick. Even though she looked a little garish, I thought she was beautiful and she seemed equally impressed with me, in spite of my down-market outfit.
Samantha didn’t seem particularly interested in my past or working history. She gave me a run-down about the brothel’s charges, which were set out on a poster behind the back of every bedroom door. There was ‘straight sex’ (missionary position); ‘straight sex with French’ (straight sex with a head job); ‘straight sex with French and full service’ (more than one position) and a host of other items on the ‘menu’. There were different prices for different services and the length of time a client could spend with the girl. The brothel took fifty per cent of whatever I earned, plus something called a shift fee, which they defined as a charge for coffee, tea, tissues, etc. Then ten per cent tax, which was automatically paid for me. I later learnt that was a crock of shit. Had I been smarter, or rather older or more experienced, I would have realised that at that point in my life that they didn’t even have my real name so their taxing me was complete bullshit.
I was told that there would be a knock on my door ten minutes before the client’s time was up. It was a lot for me to take in—and I was so innocent I had to ask what ‘French’ was; I assumed it meant kissing with tongue. Until that moment I had always referred to that act as a ‘head job’ or ‘blow job’. But I needed the money desperately so I told Samantha I could start straight away.
She said she would supply a sponge for the first night. A sponge? She explained that it was a sterilised sea sponge that you insert before sex. To sterilise it, the sponge was soaked in a jar containing a dash of Listerine mixed with boiling water. It was then wrung out and you inserted it into the vagina. If the condom broke, the sponge would catch all the semen and limit the chances of catching diseases or getting pregnant. If a client had dirt under his fingernails when he fingered your vagina, the sponge would also act as a sterilisation agent. When you had your period the sponge soaked up the blood and stopped any evidence getting on the condom. I thought all that made sense, but I wondered how I was going to fit both a dick and a sponge inside me.
I was sent home to get changed and told to return at six pm. Now I was really worried—I was already wearing my best outfit, so I returned promptly wearing nothing but a black satin nightie and heels. I knew from experience that satin nighties seemed to drive men crazy.