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Eve: Memoirs of an International Sex Worker – Preface

Eve: Memoirs of an International SexWorker
Prostitution is never the first choice for young ladies contemplating their future careers. It generally comes about from a lack of viable alternatives.
In my case I spent my childhood being groomed to be someone’s wife. To my parents, this pretty much meant turning me into a ‘girl Friday’—a woman who would be continually attuned to the needs of her husband and lived to please him, a woman with little self-ambition who existed solely to satisfy her man. I was forced to grow up as early as age nine when my parents bought a business that required us to work eighteen hours a day. I was the eldest, and I had to help my parents at work, as well as raise my siblings and take care of the house.
I was left homeless, however, by the time I had turned fourteen. I had no ID, no birth certificate, and I wasn’t old enough to get a job or even drive. I took to stripping, which didn’t ask for crazy things like tax file numbers or a high school diploma. Besides, I was already convinced that I seemed to bring out ‘the horny’ in men—my parents believed this, too, and held me responsible for two violent sexual attacks I had been subjected to. Selling sex was my only available option.
How naïve was I when I started out? Very. The job seemed pretty straight forward: get the money from the client and provide the services offered by the brothel. Only problem was that I had assumed that giving ‘French’ meant French-kissing a client. Little did I know that this was euphemism for oral sex. So, for a while, I was basically giving every client free headjobs. It took four weeks for someone to slap some sense into me. And to teach me one of the most important rules of being a professional sex worker—don’t ever give anything away for free.
In the beginning, I didn’t know anything about the business of pleasing men in bed. I didn’t know that I had to work for the money. I called it ‘playing the starfish’—just lie there with your arms akimbo and don’t utter a word. But I learnt quickly that such thinking was not doing me any financial favours.
In reality, a sex worker isn’t someone who just sells sex. It’s someone who can sell fantasy. My job was to work out what a client was doing in my house and on my bed. Only about forty per cent of the men I saw were just there for the sex. The other sixty per cent needed ego stroking—they needed a compliment, affection, someone to talk to. My job was to figure out what it was they were craving so they’d return every other week with another wad of cash.
A professional knows that the best business is repeat business and referral. If the client told me he was an engineer, I told him that his job was really fascinating and asked him to tell me all about it. If a client was fat, I told him he’s got lovely eyes. If a client went to the trouble of waxing his chest for me, I complimented him on his great physique. I never told a man he had bad breath or asked him to use a deodorant. A girlfriend or wife might tell them they stink or are bad lovers, but a professional is not paid to be honest. That’s why clients come back to us.
I was soon the girl every man wanted. I was working in a well-known brothel in Sydney and was making a lot of money. I had massive boobs, was tiny, blonde and looked very young, barely legal. I began to empower myself—even though my power was based around my sexuality. At first, I assumed that my clients were supporting me, but then I realised that I was really supporting myself. I didn’t deserve to be treated like shit. I could say no; I could draw a line; I had something of value that people wanted. It was a big realisation for me.
I eventually became more than a prostitute—I became a professional sex worker. I moved to the high-end parlours and agencies. I ran my own business and travelled the world, selling my craft to politicians, businessmen, rock stars, professional sportsmen and rulers of small countries.
I was constantly amazed at how far I had come. From that homeless girl who did not know where her next meal was going to come from, and that helpless, pregnant eighteen-year-old with no apparent future ahead of her, to the professional who travelled as far as Singapore for work, who wined and dined with Asia’s movers and shakers. My company was required, not only in Singapore but in Dubai, Kuala Lumpur, Bangkok, and many other cities across Asia. My beauty, my presence and my sex was in high demand, and men were ready to pay exorbitant amounts for my company. How the tables had turned for me—I had begun an unwanted daughter and hapless teenager, but had emerged a highly sought after woman of the world.
However, I finally decided to put a stop to that life. I went to school and got myself a good education. I also fell in love with a wonderful man. Soon, I realised that I wanted to begin a new life, give myself a fresh start. For years I thought I knew men, but I realised that I had only known two kinds of men—the cheating husband and the freaky twisted pervert. I realised that they are not all like that. I finally found a good man.
It wasn’t just the love of a man that changed me though, but the love I discovered in me for myself. I had been neglected, abused and rejected by those closest to me; I had been told that I was of little merit, and that my only value lay in my beauty and what I could offer a man. But life gradually taught me otherwise. I found that I had other merits, too: love, compassion, resilience, integrity. I realised that, much to my surprise, a good brain was worth twice as much as a vagina.
When I was growing up, I always wanted to be Mrs Brady from The Brady Bunch—she was sweet and pretty, had a doting husband, never got flustered, had a family of loving and obedient children, and she lived in a lovely home.
Like Mrs Brady, I wanted to be admired and respected, and loved. I wanted to become someone I could be proud of.
I am happy that I have achieved this goal. I am proud of my life’s work. I made the most of a difficult start. I survived and thrived in the face of adversity. Today I am a much-loved mother and an adored wife. I am a highly successful professional, respected by my peers and working in an industry dedicated to improving the lives of the less fortunate.
My garter is long gone, so is my cynicism of men. I am at peace with my past and so very proud of the person I was, and I have become.