Adventures in Whoreland

I was 18 the first time I walked into a brothel. It was a dungeon—a pair of terrace houses in Redfern amongst all the other terraced houses, but this one had all the windows painted closed. In Sydney, the brothels weren't out in the industrial areas like they were in the small towns where I grew up, but alongside expensive terraces and above newsagencies. The neighbours always hated it. Whores. At home, I slept on a blanket on the floor of my bedroom with another blanket on top and could only afford to eat toasted cheese sandwiches. I was pretty sure being a whore would be much better than that.

The woman who interviewed me at the dungeon was so intense that even I, maker of only the worst decisions in my late teens, found it too much. I didn’t take the job she offered me, and I didn’t return her calls. 

I got a glimpse of the workers, though. When a Domme came out of the lounge as the Head Mistress toured me through the rooms, I peeked inside. There were lockers and bags, leather things. I could see two of the workers in there, one in a bathrobe, the other in latex. They seemed to radiate, to sparkle. Then they were gone. Whores! I wanted to be one of them. I’d been thinking about being one of them since I first found out what a whore was. 

Afterwards, every time I passed a house with blacked out windows, I wondered. Brothels! They sang to me. I needed to know what they were like, because I was sure a different world existed in there. Whoreland. It was a world of eternal lamplight, all the windows covered so that no daylight could slip in. A world of men’s money given over for hot little treats and redistributed to where it belonged. A realm of strange and beautiful creatures telling secrets. It would smell of perfume and cum and fifty-dollar notes. Another world, lit by ten-watt bulbs. And I was right.

I’d been thinking about being one of them since I first found out what a whore was. 

I knew that this was what I wanted to do. I just had to find the right place.

The second brothel I stepped into was a massage parlour in North Sydney. On my first shift I made enough for my rent and a quarter ounce of weed, and I found magic there. It was so fucking simple. I took off my clothes and pretended to be a hot little treat, a barely legal slut, and it was easy because I was. I sucked their cocks and sucked up their attention and took their money and wondered why the fuck everyone didn’t do this. 

I never slept on the floor again.

Five years after I’d last performed sexual acts for money, after I’d thought my days of performing sex acts for money were long gone, I walked into a dungeon and got a job as a receptionist. I was 32. I couldn’t pretend to be normal in the civilian world. I wasn’t normal. I knew another world existed, and I missed being part of it. 

The dungeon was in an old factory—a little house of pleasure and pain built into the red brick skin of the building. There was an auto wrecker on one side, a storage facility next door, and a truck depot across the road. The many men and few women in the street knew who we were. The men all grinned and the women pursed their lips. Whores.

I jumped the counter—what they call it when a receptionist becomes a worker, a phenomenon so common that it has its own term—not long after. I’d missed this world, the other world. Whoreland. I wanted men’s money redistributed to me, where it belonged. I wasn’t poor, but I wasn’t rich either, and I missed the feeling of cash in my hand. As well, I wanted to be a sweet treat behind blacked out windows again. I’d missed that too. 

I couldn’t pretend to be normal in the civilian world. I wasn’t normal. I knew another world existed, and I missed being part of it. 

I knew I wanted to be a whore for so many reasons. It wasn’t just poverty, but poverty played a part. It wasn’t just desire, but desire was part of it too. Part of it was my mind being oddly-shaped in a world where everyone else was a slick circle sliding through the round holes of life and work. I could never fit anywhere, and I sought out places that seemed oddly-shaped too, wondering if I’d find a place to slot myself through. 

In my memory Whoreland is so many things. It’s red lipstick applied again and again. The thick feeling of clipped-in hair extensions against my head. It’s counting fifties in a quick motion, flick flick flick. The silent echo of a staff lounge on a slow day, when everyone’s in their head and wondering where the money is going to come from. It’s the odour of hot laundry straight from the dryer, the medical stink of Viraclean, the smell of cum wiped away on tissues. It’s the sound of the washing machine always tumbling. It’s lapping up the attention of a sweet old man as he looks at my scantily-clad body and says, “you’re just so beautiful.”

Whoreland is magic. There you can be so many different people in a day, which is wonderful if you’ve got no idea who you are, and I didn’t. I still don’t, but I’ve never felt like I belonged as much as I do in the back room of a brothel.

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