Confessions
of an
Erotic Masseuse
by
Alexa Salinger
Confessions of an Erotic Masseuse
By: Alexa Salinger
Copyright © 2013 by Alexa Salinger
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author.
This book is a memoir. All names, occupations, and other identifying features have been changed to protect the privacy of others.
A wise girl kisses but doesn’t love, listens but doesn’t believe, and leaves before she is left.
Marilyn Monroe
Author’s Note: This book is a memoir. Events are true, but some timelines have been compressed. All names and other identifying characteristics have been changed to protect identities. This book is not meant to be a judgment, analysis, criticism, or how-to of any activities; it’s merely a year in the-life of an erotic masseuse.
Dedicated to the lovely ladies at StripperWeb
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
A Body Rub Girl’s Start-Up Essentials
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Body Rub Quiz
Glossary
Author Bio
One
If someone sneaks up behind me, I’ll have a meltdown. No one likes to be surprised, but I have a serious phobia. I can’t even tolerate a stranger walking behind me. It’s not because I’ve been mugged or live in a high-crime city. It’s because I have toiled for many years as a sex worker.
My name is Alexa and I'm a twenty-five-year-old erotic masseuse. I've been in the skin trade ever since I turned eighteen, mostly because it's been the easiest way to support my seven-year-old daughter. I started out as a stripper, then went to work in a gritty rub-and-tug joint. I soon grew tired of all the drama between the girls and the house taking a chunk of my earnings. After a scary incident with a regular, I decided to go solo.
And honestly, it’s the best “job” I’ve ever had. I haven't been known for my success with one-on-one relationships with men, but give me an hour and I’ll have a guy melt. A happy man and $140 in my pocket.
I've been working as an erotic masseuse for about four years and it’s been good to me. I make my own hours, am my own boss, earn an income that seemed unimaginable for a single mom with only a brief stint at the local community college, and I get to be home when my little girl finishes school at 3:30. It's perfect, except for one problem: I'm in love with my best friend, Cole. And what I do is illegal, you can’t touch genitals for money.
Okay, so that’s two problems, but usually I don’t worry too much about getting arrested, particularly because a couple of my clients are police officers and they tell me it’s something that the department is aware of, but believes there are more important matters.
Which leaves me with the dilemma of Cole. He thinks I'm a straight-up massage therapist and he'd croak if he knew anything different. And I care about him too much to date him and lie about it. Besides, he's old-school protective, an ex-Army Ranger, and he'd end up killing all my clientele if he found out. And I suspect he'd jump at the chance to date me because he's told me as much before.
He thinks I'm hesitant to date because of past hurts, but it's really that I don't want to see him with the kind of girl who strips down and gives releases all day. Even if that girl is me.
Two
I unlock my studio and step inside the cozy, bedroom-esque atmosphere that I’ve created with pillows, framed art, candles and dim lights to prepare for my client. For the past few years, I’ve been renting a studio in an old building with “Wellness Center” exterior signage. The building has a dozen rooms filled with massage therapists (real ones), an acupuncturist, chiropractors, and other health practitioners. I’m in the lower level, which suits me fine; it seems appropriate for what I do and it has the added benefit of being a quick descent from the entrance versus traipsing my nervous client through the waiting room and past other rooms.
The building is old and drafty but has character. Ivy reaches along the exterior stucco walls like tentacles. In the summer it greens and covers my easement window, making it impossible to see inside from the outside—I’ve checked. Perhaps the best feature is the downstairs bathroom, which has a shower, and is right next to my room. It’s a gross bathroom, with crumbling tile and an old sewer pipe in the corner, but it’s a selling point to customers who don’t want to go home with massage oil on them. The oil is unscented, but some guys still worry that the wife will notice. Or the client will want to shower before our session if he’s coming directly from work.
I provide clean towels, and unscented soap in a dispenser, shooing away the spiders in the corner before they come. I warn them that the hot water comes on quickly and that the knob has a tendency to fall off. They nod and then come back to the room minutes later, dripping wet. That’s the problem with lots of body hair—it apparently stores a gallon of water. Personally, I wouldn’t know; it’s all been lasered off, with the exception of an ever-so-tiny circle around my private area.
I enjoy my regulars, but that doesn’t mean that they all turn me on. It’s a question I get often, “Do you get turned on?” I hate to answer it because I don’t like to lie, but I also don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. And I don’t have to be attracted to a client to enjoy watching and hearing their pleasure when I slide my naked and oiled body along their back, allowing my nipples to dip between their buttocks.
This morning I had booked an appointment with Ryan. Immediately from the phone conversation, I liked him. When he initially called, I was in a session and he left a message with his real name and phone number. Most clients are paranoid about booking a body rub, so they make up a name or call from a payphone or some other generic number. It seems a tad cowardly when a guy calls from the YMCA lobby to book his rub. But Ryan was none of that. He acted like he had nothing to hide.
The building has a reception area and I tell my clients to enter the building, wait, and I’d get them.
When I first see Ryan, I think it’s unlikely that he is mine; I mean, really, no one’s luck is that good. He’s tall, lean, in his late-thirties, with scruffy facial hair and chiseled, handsome features.
“Ryan?” He looks up from a Men’s Health magazine, stands, smiles and shakes my hand with complete confidence. I introduce myself, using my fake name: Tiffany.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
I can’t wait to see him undress and dig my hands into his juicy flesh. Somehow it doesn’t seem right that he’s paying me. He’s the kind of guy I’d see at a party and hope that he’d
come talk to me.
“We’re downstairs,” I say to him with a wave of my hand. I turn to leave the waiting room and feel his hand ever-so-slightly on the small of my back. It’s like a delightful sizzle, just gentle enough to feel his presence without being too forceful.
Once we get to my room, I tell him to take off all his clothes.
“We’ll start with you lying face down, on top of all the sheets,” I say with a lilt in my voice. He undresses casually and easily, as if he has no qualms about getting naked in front of a stranger. He has the perfect proportion of muscle tone to indicate vitality, rather than insecurity. I imagine his exercise of choice is sailing, running, and skiing, rather than endless weightlifting accompanied by Neanderthal grunting.
He places the payment on the studio desk, yet another well-appreciated maneuver. I hate to ask for payment. I know I’m a sex worker, but asking for payment really makes me feel like one. His quick gesture gets it out of the way so that we can pretend we’re having a tryst.
“You’re beautiful,” he says with a smile and an unwavering gaze. I want to reciprocate a compliment, but it seems disingenuous.
I keep the heat cranked high in my studio, so that nudity is comfortable. Above-average temperatures inspire me to sprawl out and feel uninhibited. I’m so accustomed to being naked at “work” that I hardly put any effort into dressing in the morning. My morning ritual focuses on removing unwanted hair, applying excessive amounts of lotion to keep me soft, painting my nails, and slipping into matching lingerie. Going to the gym regularly is a job requirement.
As I undress, Ryan prolongs a glance, causing me to linger with the unclasping of my pale pink, lace bra. Ryan assumes the naked, face down position on my massage table. I squirt a dollop of heated lotion into my hand. He turns his head to the side and says, “So how are you Tiffany? Tell me about yourself.”
“Me?” I ask and then reprimand myself. Who else would he be talking to? But I’m surprised. Usually, guys come in here and talk about themselves: their sexless marriages, their impending divorces, their protracted state of singlehood, or their performance anxieties. And that’s my preference. I don’t want to talk about me, such as the fact that the father of my child bailed on me when I needed him most or my staggering credit card debt or my inability to maintain a healthy relationship.
“What do you like to do when you’re not doing this?” he asks, turning his head face down so that I can massage his neck. As I lean into him, I allow my breasts to sink into his back. “Mmm, that feels good,” he says. As I get close to his neck, I inhale his sweet scent, like warm butterscotch. I let my fingers slip lightly into his dark hair. I feel the need to touch every inch of him.
“I like yoga and hiking,” I tell him, fairly certain he had forgotten his question. He lifts his plump ass and adjusts his penis, which is getting bigger, wider. I massage his tight ass. He exhales and thrusts against my palms. I dig with both hands. His ass is firm, winter white, and hairless. I knead it like cookie dough.
My fingertips tickle his ass crack and drift down to the space just above his balls. Every man loves this area rubbed. It’s a no-fail erogenous zone. And Ryan is no different. As I press my manicured fingertips into this area, he moans and moves as if to mitigate the stimuli. Every part of him is so inviting. I don’t want to wait the usual forty minutes before flipping him over, but I do, to prolong the pleasure.
Most of my clients are much older than me, mid-fifties, plump, hairy, and more often than not, harbor a nasty case of toe fungus. While I massage their backsides, I let my mind wander. With Ryan, my mind wanders all over him: what would it be like to have an unpaid, boundary-free romp? I’d love for him to flip me on my back, kiss me, and then work his way down my body. I love having my nipples sucked along with a playful tongue making its way from my outer to inner thighs....slowly, teasingly and then gripping my thighs.
Without a word, Ryan lifts his head out of the headrest and turns to his side. “I can’t talk to you if my face is in the headrest.”
“Are you ready to flip over?”
I rub his legs and feel his gaze.
“You should come closer,” he says. “It’s difficult for me to see you when you are all the way down at my toes.” He lifts his head uncomfortably. I squirt more lotion into my hands and rub his chest.
Most clients haven’t been touched by a woman in a long time, even the married ones. And even if they are, it’s the same old, intermittent wifely routine. It’s dull—and I’m sparkly and new. It’s not difficult to please a man who’s starved for touch. Ryan doesn’t look starved for anything, however; he looks like he could walk into a downtown bar, introduce himself, and have a woman in his bed in no time. What is he doing here?
I work my way down his thighs, massaging his quads deeply, brushing my hand against his penis with each stroke. As my hand approaches his crotch, I unravel my fingertips and gently embrace his cock. He closes his eyes, lets out a sigh, and arches his back slightly. I let my fingertips play and watch him get harder.
I slide down to his calves and focus my thoughts.
“Why are you down there?” he asks.
“I want you up close,” he says.
I laugh and resume my routine. I try not to let clients choreograph my session.
Fewer than twenty minutes left—time for me to get on the massage table with him. I massage his thighs, penis, and stomach. Then I put a generous dollop on my cleavage, watching him watch me rub lotion between my breasts. With my back arched slightly, I lather slowly, making sure all parts of my breasts are covered in lotion, even the nipples, which I pinch between my thumb and pointer finger.
Ryan holds my gaze, as if he’s holding my chin up with his stare. I don’t want to be the first one to look away, but it’s simply too intense for me. I pause, almost forgetting what I’m doing.
The next step is the body slide. With my breasts practically dripping with lotion, I position myself over the lower part of his torso and place one palm on each side of his hips. Arching my ass up in the air like the child’s pose yoga maneuver, I slide my breasts from his inner thighs, across his penis and balls, and up to his chest, stopping within an inch of my entry point and lifting up.
I slide back and forth, pausing where my nipples grace the spot above his navel. His pubic hair tickles the top of my pelvis and I am getting close to breaking my boundaries. It’s important not to cross the line to paid sex, even if I want to do it for free.
Ryan’s breathing is heavier and I’m getting hotter, creating an increasingly slippery slide of lotion and sweat. I want to soak it in and collapse on his gorgeous body. I am within inches of his neck and he smells like sweet candy and spice. If I tilt my head higher, I’ll be within inches of his mouth.
The music ends and the only thing that can be heard in the studio is our breathing,—and the intermittent swipe of autumn leaves against the windows.
My arms are tired from gliding and hovering above his body. I don’t want to stop though.
He embraces me and my arms let go. I rest my naked body on top of his, bathing in his scent and warmth. I rest my head on his chest. I never want to leave. With one hand embracing me, his other hand lightly touches my arm, my hip, and then makes its way up to my face.
“Face me,” he whispers.
“I can’t.” I feel shy, which rarely happens with a client.
He places his hand on my chin and turns my face toward him.
His eyes are like two inky pools floating in bright white orbs. His breath warms my cheek.
“I don’t normally do this,” I say. “Cuddling.”
“I just want you to look at me. Seriously, what’re you afraid of?”
I face him and smile, wanting to blow off work and spend it with him. He pushes the hair from my eyes.
“Sorry to break your rules,” he says. I sense he doesn’t feel badly at all.
I trace my finger from the outer rim of his nipple and then down his stomach.
He l
ifts my tiny body on top of his and squeezes my ass. He grips me tighter and kisses my neck. I scoot up and dip my tongue in his ear and take a lingering bite of his lobe. He turns his ear toward me and I arch, allowing my nipples to dangle in his face as I curl into him, sucking and breathing into his ear. I slink onto his body and lick his nipples. Like me, he likes to heighten pleasure with pain.
Suddenly, I realize I have another client scheduled after Ryan. He’s probably already in the waiting room, wondering where the hell I am. I lift my head and realize Ryan and I had gone WAY over time.
I slip down to his pelvis and stroke him while fondling his balls. He pushes his head back in pleasure with his eyes closed until he finishes.
“Take your time,” I tell him. I grab a moist hot towel from the cabinet and wipe his body.
I put my clothes back on, worrying that my next client will be frustrated that I had made him wait. Hopefully, he hadn’t left because I am in desperate need to pay rent.
“That was amazing,” Ryan says as he gets up from the table and scoops his pants off the chair. “Exactly what I needed.”
“I’m glad you liked it.” I quickly take the sheets off the table to prepare for the next client.
Once Ryan dresses, I approach him for a hug. He leans down and holds me close as I smell the autumn air in his coat.
“Next time, I’ll have to book a two-hour appointment,” he says.
Next time?
“Please do,” I say, pulling back and smiling up at him.
“Maybe we can meet outside of this studio,” he says, fishing in his pocket.
“I don’t do outcall.”
“Oh really, we’ll see.” He tosses my $40 tip on the counter, turns, and walks out the door.
And that’s a body rub. Most sessions aren’t as titillating as Ryan. My job is to make the customer think I’m as turned on as I was with Ryan.
Confessions of an Erotic Masseuse: A Memoir Page 1
