Confessions of an Erotic Masseuse: A Memoir

by Alexa Salinger

  “Thinking of you,” is an okay text to send, but not every day.

  I've been seeing Mark for a year. He talks of long stretches of seeing therapists and believes medications are for the weak, though he admits to a long line of relatives with depression, anxiety, you name it. I think it's fair to say he suffers from some disorder. And whatever that is makes him comfortable living in a "dive." For the record, I've never been there, but I've put together an image based on his description.

  When the lot where his storage locker was sold to make way for student housing, he moved his boxes into his basement apartment, but has never gotten them unpacked, or even out of the living room. That was two years ago. I am fairly certain he did nothing for Christmas. It's sad so I often go out with him after our session for lunch or dinner. Sometimes a drink. I’ve had to let him know that dating isn't an option for us, but, he forgot while I was on my Christmas vacation.

  I knew I was in trouble when I began our session and he stared at me with his puppy-dog eyes.

  "You can take your clothes off," I had to tell him a couple times. I'm not a clockwatcher, but I don't feel like a session has begun until we are both undressed.

  And then the questions began. The I'm-trying-to-find-out-what-makes-you-tick questions. I hate those kinds of questions. I love to chat with clients, but I like fun topics like favorite vacation spots or good movies. Not, "what are you looking for in a guy?" I'd rather someone ask my bra size.

  And while I was off work, Mark told me that he looked at other body rub ads, but no one compared, so he just got depressed and gave up.

  The release was a bit of a disaster. Though Mark can be a bit of work, he rarely flatlines. Yet, he wouldn't say, "Sorry, I don't think it's going to happen." Instead he took the extra time to tell me that he had been thinking about me sooo much that he had been masturbating A LOT, and perhaps that was why it wasn't working. He also mentioned that it was a real problem for him that I'm not your typical body-rub girl. In his words, "I'm not trashy." I inferred that this lack of trashiness made it more difficult for him to get off.

  I feel guilty when a guy doesn’t finish a body rub properly so I suggested we get a drink. Truth was, it was a long day and I had forgotten to eat dinner, my fridge was empty, and I didn't have any more clients for the evening.

  He had too many drinks at the restaurant and told me how much he missed me and cared for me. I always knew Mark was more vulnerable than most clients, mainly because he doesn't date, has no family in town, and basically doesn’t have anyone over to his apartment except his cat’s groomer. But really, this is a regular I've seen for years. You think you know someone.

  Hours later, we leave and within minutes of driving off toward my home, he calls. And then texts.

  "Are you home safe? Had a great time. Let's do it again soon!"

  The texts kept coming about how I was just great company. And then, while I was sleeping, he left a long-winded voicemail, ending it with an "I love you," croaked out in a sob.

  I was hoping it was just the wine talking, but the next evening, I received my second daily request via text to get a drink or dinner (or BOTH!) together.

  All good clients must come to an end and perhaps I should have known that this is how it would have ended by the way it started. All regulars have a shelf life I guess, although I hate goodbyes.

  But I dislike crying even more.

  Six

  It’s time to get creative. I've been busy as hell scrambling to both make more money and find affordable after-school care. I used to love picking up my daughter at 3:30 when school let out, but now I need to earn more due to my mounting legal bills. My daughter's father, Jared, has decided to step back into her life. Apparently, he's found Jesus or some shit after he leap-frogged his way through a twelve-step program. I think he must have skipped step nine because I don't recall getting a phone call asking forgiveness. Instead I was asked to complete some paperwork from his attorney’s office.

  Legal stuff always scares me. I don't understand what's written and what to do. I called Legal Services, who informed me that they couldn't help. I hear that a lot, particularly from my mother these days, who told me that she could no longer babysit for me.

  "I'm done raising kids. No more babysitting for me."

  I like the way she calls it babysitting when it's her own grand-daughter. The thing I loved about my mother's "babysitting" was that it was free and that she good about letting me drop off on short notice, which is how most of my clients book. These are busy men and when they have an unaccountable hour, they often call me. I usually don't have time to find a babysitter if they want to see me within the next hour or two.

  So, the combo of needing more money and my mother bailing on me has been stressful. You'd think I should be able to make enough at $140 per session, but it’s one unexpected expense after the other and the lawyer's retainer alone is $3,000. That's quite a few sessions.

  When I first started stripping, I swore I'd never let a patron touch my breasts, let alone touch him. I was eighteen and I saw how jaded the girls in their late-twenties were: They'd do anything for money. I once walked in on a veteran stripper giving a white-haired man a blow job in the VIP room.

  "Don't go there," I always told myself. It's a slippery slope.

  Despite that, I'm weighing my options with my new money crisis: getting $3,000 for a family law attorney, as well as funds to get my daughter in after-school care so I can work more hours. My mother tells me that I should just skip the lawyer and defend myself, but losing custody of my daughter would drive me crazy. What are the chances that Jared might actually know what I do?

  "You worry too much," my mother says as she tips back her happy-hour cocktail and resumes watching the Home Shopping Network.

  Maybe I don't have anything to worry about because Jared wasn't around for 90 percent of our child's upbringing.

  People asked if I saw the warning signs in Jared, and I did. Red flags and alcoholics go together like a Jack and Coke.

  But Jared could be so charming when he was sober. He was the guy that would help a stranger along the interstate change a tire; he’d offer to bring in my mom’s groceries, carrying twice as many bags as me and not crack an egg; he could tattoo the most exquisite mermaid on a women’s hip at the shop.

  When he drank, however, he was the guy who picked a fight with everyone, never knew when to shut up, and broke stuff. Lots of stuff, like my favorite hope chest, the mirror in the bathroom, and a delicate necklace, ripped from my neck when he wanted “to get my attention.”

  I wanted to change him, blah, blah, blah. I know, I know, how dumb could I have been? I was barely seventeen at the time and I got pregnant; so I figured I owed it to our little one to make it work. Or at least try. And oh, did I try.

  Jared was a year older than me, already graduated with a high school diploma. He worked in a restaurant downtown, which was probably not the best place for someone with a drinking problem, particularly when the restaurant owner encouraged his employees to take shots all night long.

  “You could say ‘thanks, but I don’t like hard liquor’,” I had suggested.

  “Right,” Jared said with a snort. “The only other person who doesn’t take shots is the Christian chick who seats people. Like she needs to be sober to hand out menus.”

  The restaurant was a barbeque joint well known for regulars and homestyle food. It smelled like dead animals to me.

  The more I suggested that he cut back on drinking, the angrier he got. “You know you’re not so perfect yourself,” he’d say and often storm out of the room, leaving me alone and regretful.

  When I complained to my mother, she’d reprimand me for getting myself into this situation and would ask, “If you leave him, what will you do?”

  I was hoping she’d help out, but I never got a sweeping endorsement of leaving Jared, so I lingered, until it got so awful that being completely alone was far more appealing.

  I finished high school aft
er my daughter was born. Jared and I drifted apart, but even when we were broken up, he claimed he wanted to be a big part of Analise’s life. Even with her in his arms, he always looked so bewildered, like he was a holding a bomb. And then I got tired of him saying that he’d come by to watch her and then calling me at the last minute to say he had gotten called into work early.

  I took a friend’s suggestion to get weekend work at a strip club. It wasn’t ideal, but at least I didn’t have to worry about money as much. I had been working part-time at a diner making minimum wage and then suddenly I was making more than a hundred dollars in an evening, the amount increasing the longer I stayed at the club and picked up more regulars.

  It wasn’t an easy transition, however. I was aware that I had a post-baby body. None of the other girls said they could tell, but I knew my abs weren’t pre-Analise tight. It was nerve wracking getting on stage in sky-high heels and taking off my bra. I have never liked being the center of attention.

  “Take a shot,” one of the girls backstage had offered. I did and what a hypocrite I was. I had been criticizing Jared for doing shots at work, but I gladly took it when the other blond stripper thrust it into my hand.

  “Eventually, you won’t need a drink anymore.”

  Maybe we didn’t need it, but everyone still drank—and did drugs, which was the typical strip club culture. The late nights and heels got to me eventually, and I wanted to move on, but couldn’t move away from the big money of sex work. And I’m still here, not fearful that my line of work could jeopardize custody of my daughter.

  Now that Jared is clean and sober, married, and gainfully employed (auto mechanic), he thinks he can provide a more stable home. I agree, little girls need their fathers, otherwise, they could end up like me—a sex worker with daddy issues. But, the scary part is that he lives in Michigan, whereas I’m in California, so any amount of visitation will take her away. Honestly, if I lost custody, I'd move to Michigan to be with her, but that's the last thing I'd like to think about.

  I've so overwhelmed that I'm desperate. It's the whole don't go shopping when you’re hungry thing. But the only way I can stop being hungry, money-hungry that is, is to have more money. And I have a couple clients have offered to ease that burden.

  One option is to go full service (i.e. sex) for some of my preferred repeat clients. Three-hundred per hour is typical and honestly, I find some of them quite attractive. The other option is the monthly stipend to be a client's girlfriend, although I think mistress would be a more fit description. There would be sex, but also dinner and possibly vacations. Dinner and vacations sounds lovely, but it's also more of a time commitment, which means finding someone to watch my daughter. I'm not sure what I'll do, but I'm giving it some thought.

  Seven

  I love the very beginning of fall: cool temps and frosty leaves, but this weekend winter rushed in too quickly turning the hardwood floor of my apartment into something not worthy of bare feet. I asked Cole to take out my window ac units (one in my daughter’s room and the other in the living room), which is quite a feat considering I live on an upper level and those things are heavy. I hate acting like the helpless female, but I have no idea what I'd do without Cole. And he expects nothing from me, not even a "friends with benefits" thing. It's somewhat ironic that the only guy I actually do want to be intimate with, is the only one who never asks for it.

  "How's business?" he asks, as he pulls the ladder out from the bed of his truck.

  "Good." I hate when he asks about my "massage business." I'm always tight-lipped, hoping to get off the subject quickly. And knowing me the way that he does, he picks up on this.

  He pauses, ladder still in hand. "Are you sure?"

  "Yes, it's fine." He thinks I'm not making enough. He worries.

  "Because if you need it, you know you can always..."

  I put up a hand before he finishes. He's always offering money, but I just can't take it. I'd rather find a Sugar Daddy. And honestly, I think it's come to that. Body rubs are great money, but some days it's hit or miss. I've considered going back to stripping but I'm a little off my game and going back to the club feels like backpedaling. It’s also something that would be easy for Jared, my daughter’s father, to find out about. In addition, who would I get to watch my daughter late at night? In the old days of stripping, I had a live-in boyfriend who handled that.

  So I'm now seriously considering the Sugar Daddy thing, which at least is an up-front transaction: my time and body for your monthly money. It’d be one of the more clearly defined relationships in my life. I have two options I'm considering: one is a well-groomed, spiffy, 50-something married man and the other is a 60-something, even wealthier widower who LOVES a woman's body, but I know from our sessions that he can't get it up. Not even with pills. So there you have it. I'm a list maker so I've drawn up columns of pros and cons. I'll let it marinate but it looks like I have no other option than to take the plunge so that I can get that $3000 retainer for a family law attorney.

  Eight

  Today is my day with Leonard. He’s retired and comes directly from home. Apparently, his wife won’t touch him so she’d be unlikely to notice his recently moisturized skin. Leonard is a regular and one I have connected with. When he arrives, I greet him with a hug.

  “It’s been a while,” I say, as I pull back.

  He agrees and explains that his wife had back surgery and he’s the caretaker, making it hard to slip away. He has a slightly weary, yet excited look on his face, as if my studio is a vacation destination.

  I turn on some age-appropriate Kenny G, plug in the towel warmer, turn off the overhead lights and undress to my undies.

  Leonard removes his khaki pants, belt, and neatly folds his roomy tighty-whiteys on the chair. He knows the drill. I don’t have to tell him to completely undress, or to put his stuff on the chair, or tell him to start out face down. He’s been here many times before.

  While giving Leonard his massage, with him face down and naked on my massage table, he lightly places a hand on my calf, almost as if to anchor himself. Most people frantically touch every inch of me, but he is content holding my calf, lightly, and if he's feeling extra frisky, he might slide his hand up to the area just a couple inches above my kneecap.

  “I can’t even do this to my wife,” he says, taking his hand off my leg and then back on to demonstrate.

  It's a story I hear all the time: a sexless marriage. The definition of sexless varies considerably; for some, it’s sex only once a month, for others, once every few months, and for others it is truly not happening. Ever. Add a child or two under the age of six or a hysterectomy and sex usually whittles down to nothing, according to my clients.

  Leonard's case seems severe. What he describes is a repulsion, as if his wife and he are opposing magnets, and yet he stays married. I never fully understand it and I fear I could find myself in such a relationship. How could someone stay married to someone who won't even let them touch their leg?

  "Your breasts, which are perfect, by the way, are the only breasts I see," Leonard tells me. Apparently, Mrs. Leonard goes into the walk-in closet to discreetly disrobe. I see why Leonard thinks she is repulsed by him. I am the only female contact he experiences.

  “I wouldn’t take it personally,” I tell him, which sounds a little stupid, but I don’t know what to say.

  Sixty-something Leonard is thoughtful, intelligent, and provides great conversation. He even boasts of doing laundry at home. I’m not attracted to him, of course, but for sixtyish women, I imagine him to be a catch.

  Leonard has to drive a little ways to see me because he lives a town away and therefore must create an excuse to be out of the house for a couple hours. He tells her that he needs to go to JCPenny, which is in my town and not his. He tells his wife that JCPenny is apparently the only place he can find pants that are forgiving in the waist, and yet don’t require a tailor to hack off the bottom half of the pant.

  Despite his age, he never has di
fficulty getting erect, like the college kids who probably just had sex last night. When I give him his release and he comes, his body jerks violently. At times, I get concerned that someone in the room above me will hear, but I usually crank up the music to muffle him. I should get one of those relaxation water fountains for the room, I think; it would help to have some white noise, although it could also make guys go to the bathroom. Leonard’s body uncurls and relaxes. We are done.

  “I’m going to tell my wife that JCPenny had every thing I wanted,” he says, immobile on the massage table.

  I laugh. “Take your time getting up.”

  He hugs me goodbye, gives me a stack of twenties and is quickly out the door. No one wants to linger once the session is over, as if there is some sort of embarrassment about what they’ve done.

  Nine

  Calvin was one of those clients whose session I replayed all day. He had called this morning to book, telling me he was open all day. When he called, I was already showered and ready and happened to be checking e-mails.

  "How about in an hour?"

  He agreed.

  His tone was a little flat on the phone and I was pleasantly surprised when I saw him. He had a somewhat shy, yet warm smile and once he was undressed, I liked him even more. He had the kind of physique that's a perfect blend of active and masculine yet not overblown. He had enough flaws to make him human, but not enough to make him anything other than completely sexy.

  "Next time I come back, I'll be in better shape," he says.

  "You look pretty good to me," I say as I slide the base of my palm into his oiled-up hamstring.

  Calvin tells me that his typical exercise time had been replaced with beer, golf and work. If this is what he looks like without working out, he needs to praise his parents for fantastic genetics.