I once had a friend named ‘Sally’ who was a curious person. She was intrigued with the mystique of the underworld… where money, sex and power motivated young mobsters like Dr Phil does frigid housewives.

Her fascination with this brooding and yet glamorous syndicate led her to respond to a job advertisement at a local ‘Burlesque’ club. The kind of place one could envisage under the glow of a red light, on the corner of ‘don’t tell my wife’ and ‘who’s your daddy’.

Against our good advice, she took it upon herself to act as her own guinea pig in this wayward social experiment and called the owner to confirm her job interview at 8pm that evening.

We were shocked… “those kind of places are reserved for perverts and low-lives” we insisted, “you’re only asking for trouble” we would cry, but Sally, with her bright eyes and bushy pony-tail, could not be persuaded.

Later that evening, I hadn’t heard from Sally. Early the next day, not a peep; no text message, nor a phone message or email.

It’s like Sally had vanished into thin air.

By 5pm, I was alarmed so made an emergency SOS (save our sally) trip to her house.

My fear, fused with millions of crazy thoughts about the pervy job interview came to a hault when Sally opened the front door wearing her PJ’s and a very tired look. She went on to tell me the story….

“It was crazy Nasty… just crazy. I drove around Fyshwick expecting to see this sleazy strip with fluoro lights and expensive cars, only to find this old, musty building which looked like a computer store with the front window blacked out.”

She continued…

“ I walked to the front door and knocked… nobody answered. Suddenly, a loud voice boomed over my shoulder “what is your business”! and I jumped. Turning to my right, there was an intercom hanging off the wall with a little grey button… the voice inside said “push the button to talk”.

That’s when I started freaking out…

imagine how many horny, gross fingers had touched that button????”

She rubbed her eyes, smushing the remnants of day-old mascara deeper into her tired pores:

“So I press the button and I say “I'm here for the job interview”. The door opens, and there’s this fat woman standing there. No teeth, a big baggy jumper who points inward to another door and says “through there love”.

I walk through, into this small room with leather couches, a coffee table with a vase holding plastic flowers, and a whole pile of old porno’s scattered across the top with boobs, bums and bondage plastered all over the covers. This small Asian man walks in, and extends his hand saying “I’m Tan” and he takes a seat. I sit adjacent, crossing my legs and nervously fumbling with my resume. He says:

“Are you a working girl” and I say “Yes, I’ve been working since I was 15”

He seems impressed, and although his English isn’t that great, he seems quite interested. He says “15? Wow… is early” and I say “Well, my parents encouraged it. They did it with all my sisters - said it would teach us a lot about the world”

He says “so where did you work” and I say “Well, at Manuka Woolies for a few years” and he says “Manuka, wow. I’ve never heard of Woooooolies”. I mean, come on:

who hasn’t heard of Woolies?

Anyway, I said “It was on the corner, across from the big empty carpark ” and he simply nods his head and says “start tonight” and excited, I agree.”

Sally takes a deep sigh, her eyes narrow as I start mentally scanning my teledex for any big, rough bikies who can go out to Fyshwick and kick a little asian man’s backside.

“So, I started work at 10pm and it’s BORING!” she says “The women were nothing like you see in the movies. Their clothes were terrible and they just sat there watching TV. It was dead quiet… and by 1am… I fell fast asleep on the desk only to be awoken by Tan politely tapping me on the shoulder saying “you do rubs? You do rubs?” over and over again.

“What do you mean ‘do rubs’?” and he says “$50…$50 for 30 minutes”.

I suddenly freak out… “no, no, no! I’m just the receptionist!” and he says “You working girl???” and I say “yeah, so what” and he says “50 more then…50 more!”.

I suddenly realise what he means; working girl, as in WORKING girl!!

I demand to leave immediately - and Tan is a nice man, who apologises profusley and rifles through the money draw insisting her pays me for my 3 hours. Feeling awkward, I peek out back and notice one of the girls changing from tracksuit pants into a flimsy, faded red negligee....

it must have been happy hour.

Tan opens the door, passing me my envelope as I walk to my car as quickly as possible, vowing never to return to the sleazy underworld”

So that was the end of her story. Sally’s short-lived romance with the underworld… Fyshwick – the Bris-Vegas of Canberra’s inner-southside.

We would never speak of this job again. The interview, the parlour or even Tan.

But before I bid my farewells, I ask her one last question:

“How much did he pay you… for the most productive 3 hours you ever worked… ridding you of this dangerous fascination with the underworld???”

“$21” she utters, and closes the door.

*diclaimer: no children, animals or cheap, nasty women were harmed during the making of this blog. The only thing that did suffer, was my grades*

V