https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-12372299/Bella-Green-death-Beloved-sex-worker-comedians-powerful-legacy-revealed-shes-remembered-hero-industry.html

Bella Green death: Beloved sex worker and comedian's powerful legacy revealed as she's remembered as a 'hero of the industry'

* Comedian and sex worker Bella Green died last month
* Cats Sunshine and Dandelion being cared for by family
* Leftover funds from funeral fundraiser will go to cats
* Do you know more? Email eliza.mcphee@mailonline.com

By ZAK WHEELER and ELIZA MCPHEE FOR DAILY MAIL AUSTRALIA

PUBLISHED: 04:44 EDT, 4 August 2023 | UPDATED: 04:44 EDT, 4 August 2023

Leftover funds from a funeral fundraiser following the shock death of a high-profile sex worker and comedian will ensure her beloved cats are looked after.

Bella Green, 38, who worked at brothels in Sydney and Melbourne, passed away last July 25, sparking an outpouring of grief.

A GoFundMe set up by Ms Green's family to cover the costs of her funeral quickly attracted more than $30,000 in donations and is closing in on the $35,000 goal.

Any excess funds will be put towards taking care of Ms Green's cats Dandelion and Sunshine.

'Taking on the care of two squishies is a lot, which is why any surplus funds from this fundraiser will be placed in the Sunshine and Dandelion Care Fund,' fundraiser organiser Lauren Clair wrote in an update.

'This will help their Aunty and Uncle get a leg up in their new guardianship roles and ensure there are emergency funds available for veterinary care.'

Ms Green has been remembered as a 'deeply cherished friend' who was highly respected in the sex industry and LGBTIQA+ communities.

'Bella leaves behind a large community of grievers whose lives were impacted by all that she was and all that she created,' Ms Clair initially wrote.

Her shock death has shattered her loved ones.

'She was my hero, I'm very sad about her passing,' one friend told Daily Mail Australia.

'She was a massive hero for the sex industry and an inspiration and role model for so many of us. She will certainly be missed.'

The fundraiser was also inundated with tributes for Ms Green.

'I'll always cherish my friendship with Bella. She was awe inspiring and I'm so grateful that she was a part of my life,' one tribute read.

'Bella was such an amazing person. I'll miss how her mind works. And how kind and sweet she was,' said another.

'Your fierce independence gave me the courage to find my own,' one loved one said.

'The world got a little more boring, a little less bright,' one wrote.

Ms Greeb made a name for herself in the comedy world and treated stand-up fans with her 'Bella Green is Charging For It' tour.

In 2021, she released a memoir titled 'Happy Endings', where she divulged the secrets of life as a sex worker and her journey into entering the risqué industry.

She was very active on her Twitter account and posted a photo of one of her beloved pet cats just five days before she died.

In her memoir, Ms Green gave readers an insight into her life including growing up in a broken family.

She was kicked out of home at 16, has battled crippling depression and manic highs, and enjoyed love and lust with both female and male partners.

But her real passion, where she was 'exactly meant to be', was on stage, telling jokes.

She first got a knack for comedy through telling jokes in brothels.

Ms Green went on to become nominated for the Best Comedy award at the Melbourne Fringe Festival in 2018, and won the accolade in Adelaide two years later.

She once joked her greatest achievement was remaining employable despite tattooing both her hands.

Bella Green's memoir Happy Endings:
The following is an edited extract from Happy Endings by Bella Green (Macmillan Australia, RRP $34.99)

I've always been a Sunday afternoon hooker in Melbourne. The kind of men who seek intimacy with a stranger at 4 pm on a Sunday are made for me – divorced dads, IT nerds, international students. There’s something about lonely people I just seem to connect with.

In Sydney, I'm a Sunday night hooker. The kind of guy who goes out to party with the boys on a Saturday night is not my usual client, but the guy who's still doing drugs by himself on a Sunday night is. I can always identify with someone who wants to get high at an irresponsible hour.

Matt booked me in the early hours of Monday morning at Casanovas, my go-to brothel for whenever I wanted to get out of Melbourne for a week and go and make some real Sydney money. He was ratty but beautiful, the kind of guy who probably got whatever he wanted until he'd ravaged his face and body with ice.

Matt had four kids, he told me.

'You got a man?' he asked.

'No,' I said. I've got a woman, I didn't say.

I never tell them my truths. I have a series of half-truths, and then some complete fabrications. How old am I? Twenty-seven in Melbourne, twenty-four in Sydney. My real name? I don’t normally tell guys, but you seem special, so it's Stephanie. Where do I live? Richmond. I have the postcode tattooed on my wrist, see? I don't tell them I moved northside ten years ago.

I learnt early on never to trust clients. When you give a sh***y client an inch and he takes a mile, you feel like an idiot. When you feel like you've genuinely connected and share something personal and then they break that trust, it shakes the foundations of your instincts. Trusting no-one is the only way to be safe.

Matt and I extended for another hour every time the buzzer went off, me dialling down to reception and telling them to charge him another $300.

'I've got a girlfriend on the side,' he said.

'Well, I did. She got crazy and I had to end it. I told her it was over and she went psycho. My own dumb f**king fault for telling her in the car.'

He pulled out his phone and started googling a news article. He showed it to me. It's the kind of story I'd normally write off as fiction but there it was in the SMH, complete with photos of the wreck.

Matt and I talked for hours. A brothel room feels disconnected from the rest of the world, like a space that doesn't exist. You're with someone you'll probably never see again. There's no windows, no clocks, no daylight. You lose all concept of day and night. Leaving feels like walking out of a movie theatre and being surprised that it's dark outside. Sometimes I'd finish my shift and walk past the only window in the building, a small one that led to a smoking area, and be shocked by the morning sun streaming in.

In this little room, this vacuum, Matt and I had the kind of connection you can only have with a stranger you'd normally have nothing to say to but you're both incredibly high. But we did have something in common.

We didn’t end up f**king until the last half-hour. It was actually pretty good, f**king on ice with this raggedy man I felt a connection with.

At 7 am, the buzzer went off again and he got ready to leave.

'I've gotta take my kids to school and then I’ve got court at 9 am.'

He started putting his clothes on.

'Can I have your number?' he asked.

Matt was kind of crossing the line here. I saw my first glimpse of a red flag, him sticking a toe out of the boundaries, and I wanted to say no but we'd had such a good night and I didn't want to sour it. What the hell, I thought. I'll give him my work number and he'll go to jail or possibly kill himself by the sound of things.

He texted me about thirty minutes after he left.

The next night, I dragged my strung-out, sleep-deprived ass back on to the overnight shift.

At 1.11 am, I got a text from Matt. It simply said '1.11.'

At 2.22, I received another text. It said '2.22.'

At 4.44 am, I received another: '4.44.'

I had some questions. Wasn't he supposed to be in jail? Was he in jail with a contraband phone? Was he using that phone to text the time to a hooker he met yesterday? And most importantly, was I a special hooker or was I just on some bulk mailing list?

I didn't reply but the time texts kept on coming. I spent the last few nights I was in Sydney walking around nervously, wondering if he'd come back and what the hell it all meant. I became just like every other paranoid b**ch at Casanovas. The doorbell would ring and I'd push girls out of the way to get to the camera first. I'd interrogate them on the way out of the intro room.

'What nash is he?' I'd ask. 'Is he a skinny white guy who's been hitting the pipe?'

I didn't see him again on that trip, but even when I was back in Melbourne, I got the time texted to me most days, multiple times a day. I'd get four a day, then I'd get two, then I'd get nothing for a few days, then it would start again. I imagined him sitting there with his phone, feverishly waiting for the time to flick over from 5.54 to 5.55.

Sometimes he got the time wrong – sometimes just a little, like when he sent '2.22' at 2.23. Easy mistake. Other times, they'd be way off – '2.22' at 11.44 am, then '4.44' also at 11.44 am, then back to '12.12' at 12.13 pm and '11.11' at 11.13 pm and '11.11' again a minute later.

'Do you think it's some kind of code?' I asked my friend Charlotte, scrolling through screen after screen of texts.