Analise puts down her cereal and trots off to her bedroom. “And don’t forget to make your bed.” I say as I tidy up the living room, stacking magazines and books, folding crocheted Afghans to place on the back of the sofa and picking up errant Cheerios from the hardwood floor. Cole probably doesn’t care, but I want him to see my apartment as clean and organized.
Cole knocks quickly and then opens the door. “Damn, it’s cold out there. I’ll have to get a part. Can I take your car?”
Analise comes running out of her room, her long blonde hair looking like she’d been doing cartwheels. “Hey Cole!” she says as she falls into his open arms and hugs him.
It makes me smile every time.
“Are you going to stay and play Sorry? My mom is going to make pancakes.”
Cole bends his knees to speak to her at eye level. “Absolutely, I just need to do a couple things first.”
“Promise?”
Cole holds out his pinky finger and Analise locks in with hers. “Pinky promise,” he says.
“Do you know what’s wrong with the car?” I ask.
“I think it’s a bad coil, but I’m going to take it in to my friend’s shop and get it hooked up for a diagnostic.”
Cole worked as a mechanic briefly before he became an Army Ranger, though it wouldn’t take much training for him to tackle anything. Just a book and an ability to experiment and he could fix or do almost anything.
Analise goes back into her bedroom and comes out with the game. “I’ll get it set up for us.” She pulls out the board and places all the pieces on the kitchen table.
“You better hurry,” I say. “I’ll play a game until he comes back.”
“What color do you want to be?” Analise asks Cole.
Blue, always blue, because it’s his favorite color.
“It won’t take long.” And right before he’s out the door, “Do you have plans for tonight?”
I shake my head. “Just hanging out at home”
“Any chance you can get a sitter?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“I’d like take you out to dinner. If you can’t find a sitter, Analise can come.”
The idea of an evening out is thrilling. Ana and I have been home together for quite a few days for Thanksgiving break.
***
“Put on this blindfold,” Cole says to me after we’ve been driving for fifteen minutes. I was lucky enough to find a reliable baby sitter, a sixteen-year-old who lives in the complex, and one of the few who’s actually willing to focus on Analise instead of texting. And as usual, Cole insisted on paying. I usually decline his offer and then find the money shoved in my purse.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Just humor me. It’ll just be a few minutes,” he says. “I have a surprise.”
“A surprise in the suburbs?”
He laughs and then pulls over. “I’m not going any farther until you put it on. What’s the matter, don’t you trust me?”
I give him an “oh please” expression and put on the yellow bandanna.
“Do you wear this with sweatbands when you go to your step aerobics class?” I ask.
“Ha ha, quit stalling.” He puts his hand in the dip of my shoulder next to my neck and squeezes, releasing just a bit of tension.
“Ok, fine, but this better not be a Tom Cruise thing,” I say, resisting the urge to put on the blindfold in such a way as to allow a one-eye peephole.
Within minutes, the car stops and I feel Cole’s hands around my waist as he unlocks my seat belt.
“Stay tight and I’ll get your door.” Cole and I have plans to go to Japanese restaurant. Sushi is my weakness and a rare treat. He’s definitely taking the long way to get there.
I hear the door open and slide my hand into his, reminding me of an eighteenth-century gesture where the man rushes to open the carriage door for his lady.
“There’s a step up,” he says as I pause for his directions and feel the height of the curb with my foot. With the blindfold on, I am keenly aware of his warmth and smell. An inhale within inches of him gives the scent of evergreens.
He puts his arm around me and I feel like I’m walking on a flagstone path.
“We’re almost there,” he says as he removes his touch and I hear the jingle of keys in his pocket. I suddenly feel cold.
He tries what sounds like one key, and then another, and gives the door some shimming as if it’s either a new key or an old door.
“Step inside,” he says.
“Can I take the blindfold off?”
“Just a couple more steps. I want you to be all the way in.” He pulls me into a room that sounds echoey and smells stuffy and stale. He lifts my blindfold.
I look around and I’m in an empty room with floor-to-vaulted-ceiling windows that look out onto tall trees. Though currently leafless, it gives one a secluded feel.
“Do you like it?”
“Cole, I love it. Is it yours?” I turn to him and see him looking around as if imagining his plans to remodel.
“Yes, well, not yet. Not exactly. I’m closing on Friday. I’m actually not supposed to even be in here, but it’s a foreclosure so I figured no one would mine.”
I walked around the living room and imagined all of Cole’s things in there making it homey. There was even a fireplace with a mantle.
“You’ll be able to hang Christmas stockings on an actual mantle,” I say.
“Yes, one lonely stocking,” he says with a contradictory smile.
“Not true, I’ve seen Colby’s stocking.” Colby is Cole’s spoiled rotten Lab mix, rescued from the pound, of course.
I did a mini-pirouette to face the open kitchen. “I didn’t even know you were this close to buying, you didn’t say anything about this place when we had coffee.”
“It just came on the market last week. It’s a foreclosure and my Realtor recommended acting quickly.”
I couldn’t help but open the cabinets even though I new there was nothing in there.
“It’s in great condition for a foreclosure.”
“I’m going to remodel the kitchen, replace the oak cabinets,” he says with hands on hips and a familiar look of concentration.
This is a grown-up’s house, not someone my age, but that’s Cole for you, always working hard, achieving goals and oblivious to all the women that would love to be a part of his life. In a year, I’m guessing he’ll have the kitchen as well as a bathroom upgraded.
“Want to see upstairs?” he asks.
He shows me all three of the bedrooms. He shares his plan for updating as well as finishing the basement.
“We have something to celebrate,” I say. “I’m so impressed, as usual.”
“I have a question, a favor, to ask of you.” I like to do favors for people but whenever a person has to prep me first, I get nervous. It’s a statement I hear frequently from clients, typical favors are: take off my panties, let them suck my nipples, dirty talk, and others, not that I thought Cole was going to ask such a thing, but it’s an automatic reaction I have these days: my thighs automatically clench together when I’m asked favors.
“I know how to do the remodel, but I need some help with decorating. A woman’s touch.”
I agree and he looks relieved.
“Really? Because I know you’re busy,” he says.
“Are you kidding? It sounds like fun. And I love to spend other people’s money.”
“Exactly, I don’t even have furniture for this place,” he says looking around at the empty space. “I even need help with the back yard and I know how you are about plants.”
When Cole and I first met, I was dating his roommate, who allowed me to grow some veggies. My boyfriend at the time didn’t care for vegetables, but Cole ate all the tomatoes, zucchini, and cucumbers I gave him.
I give Cole a congratulatory hug and at times like this, it feels more like we’re a couple than friends. I can’t imagine anything better than living in this house with Cole and C
olby, and of course this would be a much more suitable place for Analise. I pull back from the embrace before Cole does, “Ready to get dinner?”
Nineteen
Thanksgiving break is over, Ana is back at school and I’m at work folding freshly laundered sheets in my studio. I love being at home with her, but I get anxious about all the appointments I miss and the unpaid leave. I worry that regulars will get frustrated with my lack of availability and go elsewhere.
It’s likely an unfounded concern as even the most loyal of regulars often go see other girls. For many clients, this activity, or “hobby” as they call it, is about variety. So in reality, a regular is probably seeing other girls as well, but at least comes back.
There are exceptions to the variety rule though, including Blake, who picks one girl at a time, until she quits and then goes on to another. Blake’s prior girl-for-hire was an escort who advertised for $200 per hour—a relatively cheap rate—on Backpage as a “bored college student.” A lot of girls advertise like this...a gimmick of sorts to explain their motivation, usually it’s something innocent-sounding such as “help me pay for college books,” but honestly I believe it’s highly unlikely that a twenty-something suddenly became bored and decided to become a hooker to fill up her time. Usually it’s an issue of children, deadbeat dads, poor job prospects, or an addiction, but these reasons aren’t sexy.
According to Blake, he was a weekly patron of Miss Bored College Student. She did not offer kissing and he said that in the midst of sex, they both leaned in to each other’s mouths as if they had forgotten the boundaries, yet stopped short of actual kissing. It was shortly after that, that she vanished. Her number was disconnected and her ads disappeared.
Girls like me, body rub girls or escorts, don’t tend to stay in the business too long, generally one or two years. I, however, have gone past that benchmark. I always wonder what these girls do after they’ve departed from this line of work. Did they have a bad experience that made them quit? Did they meet a guy who took them away from it? Did they take night classes to learn a legit trade and eventually get a real job? Or are they lifeless in a Dumpster?
I continue to fold dozens of small hand towels to stack on a wooden stool next to the massage table. A towering stack of clean-up rags within reach of the massage table is something that separates me from a certified massage therapist, as well as a full-length mirror propped up at the front of the room. I don’t worry too much about the appearance of my studio. Only my clients enter the room. My landlord is hardly ever around. He spends his winters in Florida and by appearances of the 100-year-old building, he aims to do as little as possible. I’ve heard that tenants who make requests often don’t have their leases renewed so I keep our communication to slipping my check under the door. I don’t bring up the fact that the yellow jackets find their way into my massage room every summer or that the breaker gets tripped when both of the rooms on my floor turn on our space heaters. I just make due because my studio rent is the cheapest in town. And secretly I hope something else will come along. “It’s just temporary,” I tell myself, which is how I’ve gotten into all the situations I’m in: stripping, working at the rug-and-tug, going independent, and staying in a relationship with Jacob. Part of my hesitation in dating Cole is that I know it wouldn’t be temporary, or at least I hope it wouldn’t be. Anything less than permanent would be incredibly painful, and not just to me, also Analise.
I look at the clock and realize Blake is running behind, which is typical, but okay because I know he’ll definitely show. He’s reliable and considerate and is one of the few guys besides my potential Sugar Daddys that sees me weekly, nearly without exception.
He is also one of the few people I have shared my personal life with and I have gotten the impression that he has a crush on me. I don’t say that lightly, but I know he thinks about me a lot outside of our time together. I’m glad he has never suggested a Sugar Daddy situation because unlike Jack and Robert, he doesn’t understand the limits. It’s a paid thing and a Pretty Woman ending is unlikely. I’m not in this business to wantonly hurt people for the sake of money.
I consider Blake a friend and consequently, I like to give him a longer session than the typical hour and often he takes me out to lunch afterwards.
I hear him come down the stairs; bad knees have left him heavy-footed and I’ve come to recognize his pattern.
“Howdy,” I say as I open the door and wave him in.
As usual, he’s holding a small gift. In the past year, he has never come to a session empty-handed. Sometimes it’s flowers, often it’s food, such as a bag of pistachios—one of my favorite snacks or some other freebie from work. It’s the food I love the most. It never gets wasted and his source has some exquisite samples: tiramisu, limoncello cake, etc. Analise always asks where the treats come from because she senses it’s outside of our typical grocery store horde and I say simply a “friend.”
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, tossing his keys on the desk and handing me organic dried cranberries. Perfect for a salad.
I thank him and give him a hug. His embraces last longer than most, but I’m guessing he might not get too many, if any, from anyone other than me. He lives alone with a standoffish cat that’s mute. She opens her mouth to meow and the only sound you can hear is the swivel of her jaw.
He’s mid-fifties and handsome, having had his fair share of women, but somewhat over the dating thing. I’m not sure if it’s just an issue of there not being anyone to date or if he’s given up trying. I also suspect a minor mental health issue, some combination of depression and lack of focus, though he’s opposed to medication so he just tries to sort it out on his own. I’m familiar with the just-say-no-to-medications type; my brother was one of those. He sunk so low that an institution was his only choice. I don’t perceive Blake to be as severe as William, but I do know that those with a diagnosed mental affliction are quite difficult to be in a relationship. Their illness makes them lash out and drag you down. It’s impossible to rescue someone like that; I know this because of William.
I disentangle myself, take a step back and say, “You like?” pointing to the Christmas lights I just hung.
“You really know how to decorate,” he says. “It’s festive.”
“Do you think my clients will like it?” I ask.
“Trust me, they aren’t noticing decorations when they’re here.”
Blake sits in the chair, crosses his leg and continues to talk. He often refers to our sessions as his therapy, from which it sounds he’d had plenty of that as well and grown just as tired of it as dating.
“So did you go to Cole’s for Thanksgiving?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And what?” I ask.
“Are you moving in with him?” he asks, leaning back in the pink painted chair in my studio, one of my many thrift-store finds. His tone is slightly accusatory.
“I wouldn’t be living with him. I’d be living in his parents’ carriage house,” I say. “He’s moving out.”
“Whatever,” he says. “Admit it. You have a thing for this guy.”
“He’s just a friend.”
“He does something for you,” he says. I want to change subjects but at times, Blake can be ferocious in his interrogations. I often worry of contradicting myself in my answers because the response he seeks is so narrow and my life is more gray than black and white.
“Sure, why don’t you get undressed?” I ask, turning on the space heater so that his clothes feel too warm for him.
I undress and Blake does the same. His weekly visits have earned him the right to stay face up during the entire session. I give him a pillow for his neck, squirt a dab of oil on my hands and massage his naked body.
“Why don’t you just admit that you like him and start dating?”
“Because I do this for a living,” I say, pointing to his crotch.
“Maybe he’ll understand,” he says.
I give him an are-you
-kidding expression.
“If you were my girlfriend, I’d do everything in my power to support you so you didn’t need to do this.” He has said this before.
“I’m not going to tell him this and then hope he’s okay with it.” The truth is, I don’t want to be with a guy who is okay with me being an erotic masseuse. I have heard of girls who are even escorts that have boyfriends, but that’s not a relationship I’d be interested in. Plus, Cole is rather traditional when it comes to dating and if I know him at all, he’d never be comfortable with this.
Blake likes to analyze. “Don’t let what you do, define who you are,” he says with a pointed finger to the ceiling.
I don’t. I know this isn’t who I am, I just wish it didn’t take me so long to figure it out.
Blake gets special treatment by massaging me. It seems strange, I get massaged and somehow it’s a benefit to him, but most men love it. I don’t typically offer “switch rubs” or “mutual massage” as it’s known, except for clients that I can trust. Let’s face it, I’m face down on a massage table with only my underpants and a much larger man over me. From working in the sex industry, I have issues with having my back to a client and having my face planted into a headrest is the epitome of having one’s back turned. I have no worries with Blake, though, and I know he enjoys it. It also helps me out because I hold stress in my neck and shoulders.
“Is this good?” he asks as he tentatively digs into my back. I’m tiny and most guys are afraid they are going to hurt me, but I like a lot of pressure.
“You can go deeper.”
Blake grunts as he pushes harder and I worry that he might expel the gum from his mouth onto my back. He’s Italian and eats heaping gobs of garlic on all his food, even his breakfast. Thus, he chews gum incessantly.
It feels good. When I was a stripper, I used to get regular massages, mostly to help with the muscle strain from being in knee-crippling heels for nine hours, but I’ve cut back, yet am reminded of what I miss whenever someone works the kinks out.
He gets on the table, ostensibly to access my muscle knots better and I feel his balls graze my thighs. He breathes heavier and then sinks his face down onto my ass and breathes deeply.
Confessions of an Erotic Masseuse: A Memoir Page 7
