I’m guessing this is Calvin's first session. He mistakenly assumes that he can’t touch me and apologizes when he reaches out.
"It's okay, you can touch," I say, yet when he does, it’s a barely-there gesture unlike some of the seasoned guys who honk my breasts like a toddler with a new tricycle horn.
Once Calvin flips over, I see his expression: a winter mix of pleasure, relaxation, and finally fulfilling a craving. It's something I can sense now, after years of doing body rubs. He’s the kind of guy who has an absolutely sub-zero (temperature-wise) wife. A wife, yes, for sure because he’s wearing a titanium wedding band. Or maybe I’m making excuses for him: he wouldn’t be here if he got a little affection at home!
He sits up. "Can I hug you?"
"You want to hug me?"
He nods and I lean forward, resting my chin in his neck. He smells beachy. Up close, I see the high dimple in his cheek, just one cheek, and long, boyish eyelashes. His hands never went below my back. He’s a client looking more for intimacy and affection, than getting off. And if you aren't even getting enough hugs at home, wow, that's a seriously sad situation.
And to be honest, I'm low on hugs and affection these days. I don't date and I don't have a boyfriend. And even my cat only likes to be mauled so much on any given day. So Calvin feels good. A nearly naked hug, between two oily bodies, in a warm room is a nice way to go if you're hug shopping.
After Calvin lays back down, a couple minutes later he asks, "You probably don't offer kissing do you?"
You want to kiss me?
"No, I don't typically offer kissing," I say reflexively and then spend the following ten minutes thinking what it would be like to be kissed by him.
When we neared the end, he asked if I would lie beside him on the massage table and scooted over to give me some space.
"Fake intimacy," he says awkwardly under his breath.
He puts his arm around me and pulls me in. I close my eyes and rub his chest and somewhere thereafter he kisses the top of my head.
I could have stayed a whole lot longer, but he was done and had mentioned needing to get a hair cut after this, so I rolled away from him and got dressed. Like most first-timers, he was eager to get dressed and leave. He threw down a tip, gave me a quick hug, offered a wobbly smile and then was gone.
And at that point, I was glad I didn't kiss him. If I had, I'd be thinking about him for much longer than a day.
Ten
Lately I’ve been fantasizing about going far away to some place like the Dominican Republic (I hear the people are friendly) or Jamaica (the waterfalls and caves are supposedly breath-taking). Not with a sugar daddy, just me and my daughter. Get away and forget that anything in the United States exists. I still have not made my decision about which Sugar Daddy to pick and most days I think I can manage with body rubs alone but I’m procrastinating. I need the money and I’m stressed.
Last night, after dinner and my daughter’s bath, my doorbell rings. As a rule, I don’t answer the door after dark. It’s election time so I assume it’s an over-zealous volunteer. Then I hear two loud, and rude, if you will, wraps on my door. This individual had to open the screen door to knock on my wood door, allowing the screen to slam, like a third angry knock. My daughter jumps up, runs over to the windows, and pulls back the curtain.
“He looks nice, let’s let him in,” she says, dressed in her Halloween pajamas.
“Go sit down,” I insist, using my furious face to show her I mean business. I have gone over the “no talking to strangers” talk a million times, and yet she always forgets when she sees a new face.
I stand on my tiptoes and look through the peephole. He looks older, with a gray comb over. Often people come to my door instead of the apartment below, but those girls are young and I doubt this is a potential suitor. Does this person know me? I can’t see his attire with the fishbowl effect of the peephole, but he isn’t wearing a uniform or carrying a pizza. And he is determined to get an answer.
“What did he do when you looked at him?” I ask my daughter more gently.
“He waved at me. And he had a clipboard,” she says, sitting primly on our living room couch.
I have no idea who this could be.
And then he rings my doorbell repeatedly. Is he trying to break in? Home invasions aren’t something completely unheard of in my town.
I have a fear of this sort of thing, partly because of what I do for a living. I often don’t give men what they want or sometimes I do, which can lead to persistent and unwanted guests if they find out where I live. I’ve never had stalker problems, but I know plenty of other strippers who have.
The idea of putting my daughter in danger from my choices makes me nauseated. I call 911, hoping that this isn’t a former client who would expose me. But why would he be carrying a clipboard? Although, he did fit the demographic of eighty percent of my clientele.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
“Someone’s trying to break into my house.”
And then I hear a loud crash outside. Was he trying to climb a tree? Got on the roof and fell off?
Although I have the heat turned way down, I’m sickeningly hot and my pitch climbs as I answer the operator’s questions.
“Does he appear to have any weapons?”
“I don’t think so. It sounds like he’s going to the back door,” I say as I run to the back of the apartment to double-check the lock. “I really need help. He’s trying to turn the door knob” My daughter watches me with big eyes and I attempt a false smile to ease her worry. She knows me well though, and reciprocates a weak, mirthless smile. It’s times like this that I wish I had a husband or at least a boyfriend. Specifically, I’d love to have Cole. He’d have that creep in a stranglehold or some other maneuver he learned as an Army Ranger.
The operator repeatedly assures me that someone is on the way and to stay on the line with him.
“Police have made contact with him,” the operator tells me. “He’s in a car out front.”
“Who is he? Isn’t this illegal?” I ask. “Turning my door knob? Sticking his hand through my mail slot?”
“They’ll explain when they come to the door.”
Two officers approach and I open the door before they have a chance to knock.
A process server, that’s who it was.
“Are you going through a divorce?” one of the cops asks. He’s attractive and mild-mannered and I notice his wedding band. I feel jealous of his wife, whoever she is.
“I’m having custody issues,” I say, still shaking.
It never occurred to me that a process server could get that aggressive. Jared had not given me a heads up that I would be served.
“Process servers can be really pushy,” the officer says with a wince, “And this one definitely seems to be that.”
The officer said he didn’t blame me for not wanting to open the door and said the server is obviously not able to enter the house, but again, they can be really pushy because they only get paid if they actually serve me.
“He could do it during the day,” I offer.
The police left, telling me that they had suggested that the server contact me during office hours. I sense they didn’t have much control over him. How was it okay for him to practically bang my door down.
A few minutes later, the server was back at the front door. “You’ve been served by posting,” he shouts at the door. Why didn’t he just do that in the first place? “Have a good evening,” he says sarcastically as he stomps downstairs.
After about fifteen minutes, I open the door, pull the papers out, which were taped on with hot pink and black animal-print tape, something Snooki would use.
It’s a request to submit a DNA sample. My daughter. I’m somewhat relieved, because I realize paternity will have to be established first, buying me a little time. At least it isn’t a summons. I still don’t have a lawyer and, more importantly, I don’t have $3,000 for the retainer.
After I
read my daughter a story and put her to bed, I send a text to Jack, my 50-something potential Sugar daddy, “Want to meet for dinner?”
His answer is immediate, “Of course sweetheart, what’s up?”
Eleven
I’ve had the luxury of having dinner with Jack before. To recap, Jack is a once-a-week mid-fifties regular who has been coming to see me for the past year. That’s a lot of sessions. And Jack respects my boundaries, though he has let me know he’s open to more. He’s married to a woman who has no interest in sex, according to him.
Jack has wonderful taste in food.
“Get whatever you want,” he always says and once I make a selection, he chides me to get the biggest size or an appetizer. These extras are the type of thing I never had growing up. An appetizer to me has always been the small snack you eat before a fancy meal so you can order something cheaper, but with Jack he acts so carefree, like it doesn’t matter; it won’t cut into his spending money or be a sad, sorry surprise when he gets his credit card bill. It took me a few outings to indulge Jack, picking what I actually wanted, not what I thought he’d want me to pick because he was paying.
The only bad thing about meeting up with Jack for dinner is that he tends to be early. I try not to be late when meeting anyone, particularly clients, but I’ve noticed that even when I show up five minutes early, he’s always there, looking up at me and smiling, relaxed as if he owns the place.
Jack is all grace, which might seem like a strange thing to say about a guy, but trust me, if you saw him in action, you’d know what I’m talking about. He could get a flat on his Lexus, change the tire swiftly, coolly and competently and manage nary a drop of dirt on his freshly-laundered, crisp dress shirt. I’m fairly certain that he’s never left his zipper undone (and trust me, I’ve seen plenty of my clients leave in a daze and neglect that area) or trip on a slightly upturned sidewalk edge.
And then there is me. Which is why I hate crossing a room with Jack looking at me. It’s feels like I’m moving through water. I’ll tell the hostess that I’m meeting someone and she’ll smile as if Jack has told her lovely things about me and then point in his direction. At which point his Alexa-radar triggers and he looks up, smiles, and I immediately feel as if the entire restaurant is staring. I’ve been told I’m paranoid. I smile back and move through the room, skirting around tables and people in a haphazard, twister sort-of-way.
“Hey beautiful,” he says as he pulls the table out with one smooth gesture, allowing more room for me to squeeze behind and sit down. He puts down his phone and gives me his full attention.
“It’s been a long time,” he says right before he takes a non-slurpy sip of his coffee.
It’s been two weeks.
“I figured you were away when I didn’t hear from you last week.”
“Oil convention,” he says.
Jack sells some sort of equipment to oil companies, a process called fracking, and it has worked out well for him. He's self-employed and self-made. He's making a very good living (what I am striving for), despite the fact that he never went to college. He owns his house outright, takes trips on a whim and never stresses about finances. He has an easy-breezy way about him that I hope is contagious. It’s unfortunate that he’s married, though she sounds like more of a roommate.
“I ordered a chai tea for you,” he says.
Typical Jack, he always remembers details like what someone orders on a cold evening. This is why I believe he could really have anyone he wants. He’s handsome, intelligent, thoughtful and charming, yet he chooses to patronize me rather than divorce his wife and find someone else or at least have an affair, one that’s free. From a financial standpoint, this would seem the most cost-conscious route. I’ve been told that I’m uncomplicated and this is the reason men opt to stay with their wives and use my services.
I smile at him. “Thanks,” as the waitress sets my mug down and Jack tells her we need a few more minutes. He has a way of looking at me that differs from the waitress, who he is warm and friendly to as well. It’s a subtle thing women pick up on: Does he interact the same way with every woman that he claims is attractive? He doesn’t. I don’t know if it’s intentional or subconscious, but I love that singular feeling.
“Are we meeting after this?” Jack asks as simply as if he’s commenting on the weather.
“I’m available,” I say, glad to have an opportunity to make another $140 after a free dinner. Free, because no matter what, Jack will not let me pay, not even on his birthday. And he’s a tipper, so in a way I already feel like he’s my Sugar Daddy because I rely on him to pay for a portion of my bills. The frigidity of his wife is basically paying my rent and heat.
“I’ve been looking forward to it all day,” he says with a grin that’s like a wink.
I think about Jack’s wife and feel guilty. Jack claims to be content in his marriage, except intimacy. His wife is kind, intelligent and fun. She’s his “best friend.” In the past ten years, however, she’s had no sexual desire. I haven’t pried but I’ve heard these stories a hundred times, sometimes it’s a hysterectomy, or fatigue, or maybe it’s just getting to a point in a married woman’s life where she simply isn’t going to put out if she doesn’t want to. From my perspective, it makes me wonder what goes on inside the mind of a wife who hasn’t had sex with her husband in months. Do they worry? Do they care?
After a couple attempts at therapy and countless tries to rekindle intimacy, Jack’s wife suggested that he “hire out.”
We order, Jack no longer needing to encourage me to get whatever I want.
“How’s business, Miss Alexa?”
“Good, you know, busy, but I could always use more business.” About fifty percent of the clients I see are repeats and I have come to learn that referrals rarely occur because men want to keep their life private. I never ask for referrals; never hand out business cards unless they ask (obviously these are unmarried clients) or do anything else to leave my mark on a guy (perfume or lipstick).
“Can I do anything to help?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
I pause, not really sure if I should mention his offer, because I feel like once I mention it, there’s no going back. It’s like suggesting to a long-time friend that you think you should date. It’s something I haven’t been able to do with Cole.
Luckily, Jack brings it up first.
“Are you considering my proposal?”
I nod.
“Really?” he says, leaning back in his chair and grinning wider.
“I haven’t decided for sure,” I say, leaning in and lowering my voice. “I just want to know what you have in mind.”
“We’d work out a schedule to see each other and an amount,” he says, going into negotiation mode.
How did I get here? Why is my most valuable asset my boobs?
“Sex?” I ask, which I feel stupid asking, but I can’t stop myself.
He laughs. “I would hope so.”
I appreciate his ability to lighten the mood and he reaches out for my hand, which is repeatedly turning a spoon over.
“You know how much fun our sessions are, imagine a regular thing.”
Jack is right, we do have chemistry and although he’s a bit older than me, he looks ten years younger than his age. In the midst of body rubs, we have allowed the boundaries to blur: he kisses my neck, we embrace, cuddle, and for me at, I think about what it’d be like to have sex with him. I don’t however, have sex with clients, and particularly not the married ones. So this would be a monumental shift in my protocol.
I can see the tingle in Jack’s aqua eyes as if he has a red-hot stock tip, he’s calm, but excitable in a way where he never raises his voice or flails his arms, it’s all there in his expression. Or maybe I notice these things because I’ve spent countless hours within inches of his face, overheated in my massage studio.
“We do have a thing,” I say, trying to ease up. I squeeze his hand before I pull away and busy my mouth with a long sip of the tea.
“It wouldn’t be much different than what we currently have, except that you’d have a regular stream of income that you could rely on.”
It’d be a lot different. It would be sex. It would make me a whore. A whore betraying Cole, even though we’re not together. Most importantly, I feel like I could never be with him after this. He deserves better and I believe in full disclosure in a relationship. Or at least I did.
“It would be much different,” I say with a head nod.
Jack opens his mouth to speak and then closes it as the waitress arrives with our food. He unravels his cloth napkin and gives it a sideways snap like a magician before he places it on his lap.
“Let’s do this,” he says, his fork poised over his food. “Think about how often you could stand to be with me...on a weekly basis. And I’ll think about how much I could stand to be without you. Decide on a dollar amount that’s worth your while and we’ll talk. Sound good?”
I nod, looking at my food like it’s suddenly a chore to eat.
Twelve
I have ten minutes alone in my studio before my first client gets there. It’s drafty and I turn the space heater on high. Right before an appointment with Robert, I always lather my nipples with Oragel. He’s a nipple plucker and his sixty-something fingertips are drawn to them immediately after I undress. I’ve been told repeatedly that I have luscious nipples, they are supple, and bright pink. I never knew this about myself until I started stripping and I started getting compliments about my nipples, often my breasts as well, but the nipples were where the men focused praise. Maybe not all men care about nipples, but Robert certainly does and rather than diminish his pleasure by moving his hand away, I use a numbing cream.
I love my nipples being touched when I’m turned on, particularly licked, but when I’m not turned on, well, that’s an equally opposing reaction.
Confessions of an Erotic Masseuse: A Memoir Page 4
