All this thinking was going on while Joe was facedown and I was straddling his legs, rubbing his back while allowing my body to glide against his. The more turned on a guy audibly appears, the less I think I might be arrested. It’s likely an erroneous assumption, but I figure a cop can’t enjoy a sting. Joe was a non-talker, non-muttering though, as least when he was facedown.
Once he flipped over, he was more relaxed, yet still internal. I don’t expect clients to talk to me. It’s their hour.
I slid my body against his lean and toned torso, which finally forced a murmur from him. I finished him and he put his clothes on quickly, not lingering on the massage table like most do.
“How much do I owe you?”
“140.”
He smiled and left, leaving a $100 tip. Definitely not a cop. And I need not to be so paranoid.
Sixteen
Thanksgiving Break is almost here and Analise will be out of school for six solid days. I’d love to take a vacation and actually go somewhere, but as I look at the balance in my checkbook, I realize it’s not in this year’s budget. I’m hoping to take her to San Diego by Spring Break. Despite the fact that I live in California, I haven’t seen much of it, and it’s more important to me that at least Analise is well-traveled.
Even though I can’t afford to go to a tropical location, I’m looking forward to taking a break from work and spending time with Cole. And Analise is beyond excited about going to Cole’s parents’ house. I vow to take my mind off Jared and my legal problems.
Despite the fact that most people would rather die than do what I do, I still feel grateful. I’ve managed to stay current and even a little ahead of bills, which is a far cry from where my mom is. She’s always having her cable turned off or cell phone disconnected. She claims it’s “not fair” for one reason or another. Growing up, she found some sort of loophole where utilities couldn’t be turned off for non-payment if children were in the home. It seemed foolish to me, she’d have to pay at some point, but in her mind it was the logical thing to do.
I try to work extra before the holidays to make up for the lost income. I generally offer specials to boost business: fully nude for an additional $10 is what really pulls them in. I hate doing fully nude rubs. It’s where I have the majority of my problems and I only offer it as a last resort. I have a client who comes to see me occasionally, but as soon as I advertise the nude option, he books in an instant.
Shawn is a nice guy, single with a shy smile that contrasts his hulking build. He rewards himself with body rubs when he hits a weight-loss milestone. And his loss has been impressive: more than 100 pounds.
I’m waiting for him now, turning on the space heater so that the temperature is warmer than normal, enough that two people can be naked, not embracing, and yet be warm enough.
I plug in my towel warmer and turn off the overhead light. My studio is quiet, warm, and dark.
I hear a soft knock on the door, so soft that I think it’s a draft.
I greet Shawn as I open the studio door. I bring him in and give him a hug.
“How’ve you been?” I say with my mouth smooshed into his breast. He’s bending way over to hug me.
He releases me and I step back, still holding his arms, “You look amazing.”
He looks down and reddens. “Thanks.”
“Seriously, have you lost even more weight?”
He shrugs. “It’s hard to tell.”
He’s still looking past me, at the off-white wall. “Why don’t you take everything off and put it on the chair and we’ll have you start face down. I’ll put on some music.”
Even with guys who have come to see me dozens of times, they’ll just stand there without making a move to undress unless I tell them to, even if I start taking off my clothes. I prefer to undress at the same time, rather than having the client watch me. It reminds me too much of a strip tease and that was the old days.
Shawn unzips and throws his jeans on the back of the chair, giving me a sidelong glance as I take off my bra.
“Are you still offering your special today?”
“Yes,” I say as I watch his eyes widen while I take off my panties. It’s amazing how much more bare I feel without panties on. I usually wear lacy underpants, honestly I detest the word “panties” (reminds me of a what a fifty-year-old would refer to his twelve-year-old victim’s undergarments). I never wear thongs, because again that’s stripper attire, I go for a sexy, yet butt-covering material. And that slim bit that fits over my privates makes all the difference. But today’s special got Shawn in the door with an extra $10.
Shawn’s been told before that the “special” is more of a visual thing, nothing more, yet I often have to remind clients not to penetrate with a finger.
He lingers before he drops his face into the headrest. “You’re beautiful,” he says, shaking his head vigorously as if he’s seeing me for the first time.
“You’re too sweet.”
“Why do you do to stay in shape?” he asks, lifting his head to speak.
Not much. “Running and biking.” It’s wishful thinking on my part. I’ve been told it won’t be as easy when I get older.
“Would you like a deep massage?” I ask, prepared to dig dip into his back.
“Sure.”
He puts his hand on my calf and runs it up my leg, stopping at the back of my thigh. His hand is cold and my skin prickles.
Though Shawn claims that he only treats himself to a rub when he’s hit a weight-loss milestone, it sounds like those milestones occur weekly because he is very comfortable with immediately touching me. Many times, a guy will ask, but those who are familiar with the routine know that part of the charge is fondling. You can’t charge as much if you don’t let them touch, and you certainly can’t charge $140 for an hour. Often the price dictates the extent of what can be plucked and squeezed.
“Did you give my proposal any thought?”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. I get a lot of proposals.
“Taking pictures for the web site?” He rolls to the side with a big grin. The conversation is likely much more fresh in his mind than mine. “Remember, the one that pays?”
“Oh, right,” I say, as it comes back to me. Shawn subscribes to a Web site that offers nude pictures of women for a monthly fee. I can’t recall the name, because I basically dismissed the notion as soon as he left. “What was the name of the web site again?”
“Steamy Southern Belles.” He smiles wider. “I have all the lighting and camera equipment to take photos. I think you’d do really well. I imagine those girls make a great income.”
Actually, I am certain those girls make a pittance of what the site brings in. I’ve looked into all that stuff before and unless you just enjoy having nude pictures of yourself in cyberspace (some do), then financially it’s generally not worth the time. Internet modeling is similar to stripping where the house takes a large chunk of the earnings, more than most men realize, unless you can find a way to cheat the system. I’m done with the system though, which is one reason that body rubs are definitely for me. I keep all my earnings instead of having to promptly hand it over to one of the bouncers or get paid via Paypal through an Internet site. I don’t want to deflate Shawn’s excitement though. He obviously thinks he has a great way for me to make more money. In truth though, even a gig like the one he describes will likely only net me in a year what I generally make in a day.
“Maybe they do, but I’m pretty busy with this stuff,” I say, hoping he’ll roll back over on his stomach and move on.
“My place is really nice and you don’t have to worry about anything. The pictures will be all yours.”
“I’ll keep it in mind. And I definitely appreciate the offer.”
I try to be polite, but firm when I decline such things. I’ve been told I need to work on the “firm” aspect of my responses. I just don’t want to cause hurt feelings or worse, anger someone.
“You’re definitely much prettier t
han most of the girls on there.”
“Thanks.” Shawn continues to tell me how much money he thinks I can make and what a great site it is because it’s regular girls that you can e-mail with. (Yes, they are e-mailing you so that you’ll buy your pictures, which is why it’s more time consuming than just taking pictures.)
“I’ve met some really cool girls on there. Unfortunately, none of them live in California.”
I’ve had other clients offer to take pictures. Mostly they suggest that my pictures for my ads “don’t do me justice.” I admit that my pictures are rather lame. It’s basically a few body shots of me in lingerie taking a photo of myself, arm extended as far from my body as possible or the flash from the mirror decapitating me.
The photos aren’t the best but it gets me sufficient business. I never take a guy up on helping me with my pictures for obvious reasons, but I also don’t bother with professional photos because it creates an unnecessary photo trail and it costs money.
So, as with Shawn, I typically thank them and tell them I’ll keep it in mind. If they bring it up more than once, I give them a no.
Luckily, Shawn quiets and settles into the headrest, his wrist twisting awkwardly to reach my ass while lying face down.
“Are you ready to turn over?” I ask.
He quickly flips over and I place a pillow under his head. His genitals are waxed. I know they are waxed because he told me this at our first session. Apparently he was reading his sister’s Cosmopolitan, which contained an article about male grooming, and henceforth decided “waxing is for me.”
I never gave male genital grooming much thought until I started doing what I do. And now I am behind that Cosmo article. It doesn’t have to be waxed, shaved is fine, but at the very least I hope they trim. Can you imagine what a man’s face would look like if he never, ever trimmed his facial hair? Unwieldy at best and generally looking homeless. Looking homeless in the genital area is not a good look. But I generally find most men don’t give it much thought, perhaps only thirty percent manscape below the belt, and for Shawn’s efforts, I’m grateful.
I wonder if a suddenly shaved crotch would signal a spousal alarm. Hmm, who is he doing this for? Although the impression I get from many of the married men is that their wives don’t look at their crotch anymore, particularly when the trousers are around the ankles.
In Shawn’s case, however, he’s single and I believe him because he often goes home to shower before he sees me, with his hair still damp and smelling of soap. Married men don’t do that. (They either 1) take a long lunch 2) work late or 3) wait until they are on a business trip where their whereabouts are unaccountable.) Shawn has also shared stories of meeting women on craigslist for a little action, which is a place that I also advertise, making craigslist some serious one-stop lady shopping for him.
“Is this okay?” Shawn asks as he brushes the front of my stomach.
“Yes, just don’t go between my legs.” Normally I tell clients not to go inside my panties, but I’m fully naked and although it’s more difficult to enforce boundaries, I do.
He hand goes farther down my stomach until he goes too far. I stop and lift his hand back up to my stomach.
He opens his eyes as if I woke him from a dream, “Sorry,” he says awkwardly.
He tries the back this time going down my ass cheek and to my inner thigh. I reflexively clench my buttocks. If I’ve had a long day of clients like Shawn, my ass will burn the next day as if I’ve done Buns of Steel for hours.
I can tell he’s close to finishing so I don’t correct him when he slips his hand slightly inside my legs. Doing so could botch the whole job and I’m within seconds of being done.
Shawn is one of the vocal ones. Luckily my room is at the end of a hall and there’s a rarely-used bathroom on the other side of the wall. It’s this kind of privacy that’s perfect and scarce when shopping for commercial space.
I grab a piping hot hand towel from the cabinet and toss it between my hands like pizza dough to let it cool before I wipe him off.
“Do you want me to get the extra oil off?” I ask.
“No, I’ll just go home and shower,” he says, moving quickly off the table and dressing.
Seventeen
I’m think I’m getting burned out. I know I say I love erotic massage, but there are some days that I think I just can’t do it. Like when I get a call from a less than desirable client.
Today was such a day and I am still staring at my phone trying to determine if I should return his call or permanently block his number. On Google Voice, blocking is easy and permanent with one click. The caller merely receives a message, “This number is no longer in service.” It’s the perfect solution for non-confrontational types such as myself. I feel badly when I hit the “block caller” tab, but often it’s a relief. For most people I block, it’s an easy decision: no shows (officially known in the hooker world as NC/NS—no call, no show), guys who can’t keep fingers out of my underpants, or other oddities. I also block people who sound drunk or ask what size my breasts are over the phone.
And then there are the guys who I’m very hesitant to block. They show up, they are nice, but there is something that makes me cringe when they call. In today’s case, it was the guy who likes a finger shoved up his ass. Way up there. Even with a glove, this is a disconcerting maneuver, and also appetite-suppressing. From the minute he walks in the door until he comes, he wants his butt plugged, by my gloved finger, actually his preference is ungloved and the more fingers the better.
His wife wants nothing to do with satisfying this quirk. Perhaps it makes her feel a little uneasy that her husband clearly wants a very large penis in his ass. I do feel for him though and have continued to see him.
On the plus side, Dale is a very pleasant, outgoing, and good-looking. But a couple things bother me: he’s a non-tipper and has made repeated offers to serve as a “married boyfriend.”
This might seem odd, but it feels disrespectful to me, on both accounts. The only place that people don’t laugh when using the word respect in terms of sex work is the StripperWeb forum, which is why I log on every night after I put Analise to bed.
Many erotic masseuses charge more for any butt play and I think most patrons are aware of this. Dale has mentioned other body rub experiences so I know I’m not his first. He didn’t bring up the insertion issue until I had already begun his massage and his wallet was in a heap of clothes on the floor. I obliged, thinking that he’d tip. Nothing. And if a guy doesn’t tip the first time, he’ll definitely never tip again.
And then the second time he booked, he made his “married-boyfriend” offer, which sounds like something a very stupid girl would do, giving up her pay for what?
“It’d be fun and you wouldn’t have to worry about it getting too serious since I’m married,” he had said.
My response was simply a smile, and now he brings it up at every session: an offer to play with his ass for free. I might have to let a few clients go to keep my sanity, even if it is the week of Thanksgiving and I need to make up for lost work.
It probably wouldn’t kill me to use my time off to think about what other profession I might want to explore. I’ve never been much of a planner, not like Cole, who has his whole life planned out. I bet he might have some suggestions, particularly because he claims to know me better than I know myself. I wish it were true, because there is one thing he certainly does not know.
Eighteen
“Just bring yourself,” Cole says after I ask him for the third time what I can bring to Thanksgiving dinner. He takes my car keys, opens the driver’s side door and pops the trunk. We are in the parking lot of my apartment complex and Cole is helping resolve my latest car problem: an intermittent grinding noise.
“How about a bottle of wine? And at the very least a dessert?” I ask, arms folded to stay warm. I look back toward my unit as if that would give me some assurance that Analise was still doing okay, sitting in the living room watching cartoons. S
he’s not the kind of kid that would set the apartment on fire, but I never like to let her out of my sight, particularly in this neighborhood.
“If you must,” he says, “but have you seen my parents’ wine cellar? It’s not necessary.”
“I’d feel better.”
He smiles and closes the hood. “Why don’t you go back inside? You’re freezing,” he says as he pulls me in and gives me a hug. A couple in the midst of arguing turns to look angrily at us as if are presence is intruding.
“Thanks.” I don’t want him to let me go, but he does, with his focus back on the car.
I hustle back to my apartment, taking two steps at a time, up to the apartment. And there she is, sitting exactly where I left her, eating Cheerios, a blanket covering her legs and lap.
“Hi Mom. Is Cole coming in?”
“He has to fix the car first.”
“Is he going to stay?”
Cole is the closest thing that she has to a father figure and at times I hate to see her cling to him, not wanting him to leave and asking eagerly the next time he’ll be back. It makes me uneasy because even friendships can come to an end. But I’ve been told that I always think “worst-case scenario” so I’ve tried to ease up. Cole doesn’t appear to have any concerns because he’s happy to play endless games of UNO or whatever board game she pulls from under her bed. It’s a stark contrast to other guys I’ve dated—back when I dated. Past boyfriends never really knew how to interact with her, giving me darting glances as they spoke to her to make sure what they were saying was appropriate.
“Let’s get you dressed.”
Confessions of an Erotic Masseuse: A Memoir Page 6
