I was once mistaken for a rent boy… something of which I am immensely proud.
It was my first night in Australia as a twentysomething backpacker. I had landed in Sydney in the early hours and checked into one of the numerous hostels in Kings Cross. Although exhausted from the flight, I was determined to see the famous bridge and opera house, to prove to myself that I really was down under.
I walked around the headland and was blessed with a view of Sydney harbour in the dawn glow. It was then exhaustion hit… and I NEEDED to sleep.
Trudging back to my accommodation, I got distracted by Grace Brothers department store. The fact that I hadn’t slept for nearly two days wasn’t going to stop me from checking out the namesake setting of classic BBC sitcom, Are You Being Served?
Unfortunately, there was no fey Mr. Humphries or mauve haired Mrs. Slowcombe working the shopfloor, but I did spot a middle-aged woman whom I thought I recognised. In my disorientated sleepless state, I forgot I was on the other side of the planet and assumed she must be a friend of my mother’s, so smiled and wished her a, “Good morning.”
The woman was attending to her fussing toddler, but she still managed a pleasant smile and returned my greeting.
It was only then I realised it was Debra (Pippa Fletcher) Lawrence, Australian soap opera legend from Home and Away.
Finally headed back to my hostel, chuffed that one of the first people I had spoken to in Australia was star of a show I had watched every weeknight as a student. In fact, an ex-university housemate had dropped me off at the airport 48 hours earlier and the last thing she had said was, “It you get into any trouble, go find Pippa Fletcher, (as a fictitious foster mum) she’ll take in any waif and stray.”
I’ll have to send Zoe a postcard, I thought, and tell her about the encounter, but that would have to wait, as I melted into my dormitory bed and dropped fast aslee…. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
What has any of that to do with being mistaken for a rent boy? Absolutely nothing, but I met Australian TV royalty!!!
When I awoke that evening, relatively refreshed, I decided to check out Sydney’s famous gay scene. I glanced at a map and memorized a route from where I was staying to Taylor Square on Oxford St (The beating heart of the city’s gay village).
As I left the glittering Coca-Cola sign and glut of backpacker hostels of Kings Cross behind and walked along Williams Street, I was approached by a prostitute.
She propositioned me with the clichéd, “Looking for a good time?”
I replied, “Yes… which is why I’m heading for Oxford Street.”
“Oh, I see,” she smiled, realising she was barking up the wrong tree, “then have fun.”
Funnily enough, something very similar happed to me outside New Street Station in Birmingham only a few weeks back.
I was approached in the early hours by a woman asking for a light.
When I explained I didn’t smoke, she directly asked “Would you like sexy fun?”
“Not unless you are a guy,” I responded, hastily clarifying, “I don’t thing you might be a guy by the way!”
Back in Sydney, I meandered along unfamiliar streets, heading roughly in the right direction of Oxford Street, via a few wrong turns, one of which, took me unknowingly through the rent boy district.
As I passed a trio of guys, one of them nodded in my direction and commented, “I’d pay for that”.
I automatically glanced around to see who he was talking about, then glowed with pride… realising it was me!
He wouldn’t have to pay, I thought, he’s hot.
I suppose, in my early 20s, shuffling down a dark backstreet dressed in leather jacket and hoodie, I did have the look of local trade.
The compliment certainly bolstered my confidence as I sauntered into my first Sydney gay bar.
Six months later, I was searching for work in Melbourne.
I spent several days plodding up and down the grid of wide boulevards that form that city’s grand centre, calling at various businesses I assumed would have high staff turnover. My main targets were cafés, department stores and hotels.
I was struck by the brutishness of a doorman outside one hotel. He resembled the bouncer of a dodgy nightclub more than a concierge.
The brashy harridan on reception did little to improve my impression of the establishment. She looked at me as though I had just farted (both loudly and aromatically) when I politely asked if there might be any casual work going.
“Doing what, exactly?!”
“I don’t know,” I gulped. “Maybe, cleaning rooms?”
She sneered with barely concealed contempt and snapped, “NO!”
As I scuttled back out, I noticed the décor for the first time. I hadn’t registered the interior style on the way in, distracted as I was by the brutal thug on the door, but now realised the heavy velvet drapes, gawdy gilt mirrors and blacked out windows could only mean one thing… I had just enquired about a job, cleaning bedrooms, in a brothel! She must have assumed it was my kink.
Later in my trip, I travelled with a woman who worked as a dominatrix in a house of ill repute, where they actually did have one client who got off on performing basic housekeeping chores. He paid them for the privilege of cleaning, making drinks and doing the washing up.
I spent several drunken nights in Bangkok quizzing her about life on the game.
“I realised that I enjoyed the rough stuff,” she told me, quaffing a bottle of Chiang Mai beer, “so, I figured I might as well get paid for it.”
She went on to regal me with stories of unusual requests she and her colleagues had received.
I asked, “How do you not laugh?”
“We do,” she explained. “Why do you think we wear masks?”
Apparently, in the Australian state in which she worked, houses of domination were legal, but full-blown brothels were not.
“There are certain acts that we are not allowed to perform,” she explained. “We can spank, whip, abuse, titillate and tease… but full penetrative sex is not permitted. There are government inspectors that come undercover to ensure we are not breaking regulations.”
Who knew the sex trade had mystery customers?
“I’m sorry miss, but you are to be detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure for giving too much… erm… pleasure.”
“I sometimes meet her after work at the house,” her girlfriend told me. “If I am early, I just hang around in the staffroom. The girl’s rooms have doors leading straight into the communal area, so I hear muffled moaning and slapping. Occasionally, her door will open, and she’ll mouth, “Put the kettle on, I’ll be done in five minutes.”
“I’m lucky,” my dominatrix friend told me. “I make a living doing something I really enjoy.”
It is just another job at the end of the day, with all the same highs and lows, slings and roundabouts.
I did ultimately get a job cleaning rooms in Melbourne… working for an agency that supplied cover staff for mainstream hotels.
The agency required experienced staff, but as I had never worked in the hotel industry, I spent the interview recounting experiences I remembered from my sister’s period of working at Penns Hall Hotel in Sutton Coldfield (Location for long running and much derived Birmingham based soap opera, Crossroads).
The interview went well, and I was offered a position, pending references from my fabricated employer. The worldwide web was just on the horizon, and I guessed the agency would never bother to phone the UK to check, so I returned to my hostel and commandeered the manager’s computer to rattle off a glowing testimonial… signing it Noele Gordon (Crossroads‘ star and day-time TV diva), of course.
Nolly Gordon lived for short time on the top floor of Cleveland Tower, one of the twin ‘Dorothy’ Towers that stand as sentinels over Birmingham’s gay village and house a good percentage the city’s queers. Having Dame Noele in residence was probably the gayest period in those tower’s history.
My ruse paid off and I ended up working in the faded grandeur of the Hotel Windsor and the sleek edifice of Hotel Sofitel for six weeks.
The member of staff I was partnered with clocked that I had no experience of housekeeping on my first day. She kept my secret and taught me all the tricks of the trade. By the end of the shift, I was making up rooms like a pro.
I wonder if the pros at the brothel would have been so supportive had I secured employment there.
Tales of the Second City 