Green light for the red light puts it all out front

02.07.2003
By JULIE MIDDLETON

"Prostitutes required at Monica's", trumpets the newspaper ad.

"Our very successful group of ladies of all ages, sizes and nationalities will make you feel right at home."

So I ring (legally). The husky-voiced woman on the other end calls herself Rowie and is disarmingly frank when I say I'm a mature law student seeking quick cash.

"Well, prostitution's legal now, so it's the sex industry," she rasps, with a hint of glee.

The phone, she says, has been ringing "off the hook" with inquiries.

"We have night and day shifts ... The average tip for a girl is about $100 for an hour and that's for sex and everything.

"The clients are nice guys - just ordinary, average, everyday guys."

Monica's is in the basement of the ornate Queen St building transformed into the White House strip joint two years ago.

Push through the wooden doors and on your right is a large portrait of That Woman, Monica Lewinksy.

On the left is a raised hole-in-the-wall counter where Rowie, a slender, mature woman with a tangle of blonde curls, is eyeballing visitors.

Once allowed to push straight ahead through another set of doors, you're surrounded by the expensive trappings of an old boys' club - dim lighting, polished wood and overstuffed leather couches occupied by Summer, Taylor and Tania.

The skirts are short, the tops spangled and the heels alarming.

They're attractive women, ranging in age from mid-20s to 30-something. On the street, they'd pass unnoticed.

They are friendly, relaxed, and frank. The two most talkative ooze self-confidence, asserting that they're in control of their bodies and their lives. The money, they say, is a highly motivating means to an end.

For Taylor, a mother of two whose long-term partner thinks she has a city office job, that end is her own business.

After 18 months on the game, she's got "one more financial goal", then she's gone.

Monica's is a world segregated from the women's private lives.

What happens here stays here, says Taylor. You don't bring baggage to work. And if you see a client on the street, you just walk on by.

It's simple, adds Summer. A sex worker's job is to make clients feel like kings.

Men book a room - each has a double bed, an ensuite and a spa bath - and a woman for an hour at a time; each hour is an immediate $100 to her, $60 to the house, regardless of what is negotiated behind the door.

Summer, a frank and open blonde, is full of tips. Always make them shower first - you can get in with them to ensure they're clean - and check their bodies for any sores.

And bring your own massage or essential oils, 'cos the ones here aren't very good.

Always use condoms - you can buy them here, 12 for $5.

When your hour is up, the phone beside the bed will ring. Oh, you have to scrub out the spa yourself if you've used it.

So do they enjoy the work? Oh yeah, says Summer, shrugging matter-of-factly, you can feel pretty powerful.

Ever had a one-night stand? It feels like that. But sometimes, she adds, the men who pay her want just a cuddle and a chat.

Rowie says I can start any time I like. You pay $30 a shift for laundry costs, otherwise you're on your own.

And paying tax and the like? She looks a bit nonplussed. "It's gonna take a while for that to kick in. Legality is great."