“Are you sniffing my butt?” I ask.
“Am I sniffing your butt? Of course not.” He laughs.
I’m not going to argue with him and if that turns him on, no harm to me, but I know an inhale when I feel it, particularly below the waist. I can now feel his penis, in addition to his balls on my back and although having my neck rubbed feels good, I know it’s time to switch back.
“Ok thanks,” I say, getting up. “That felt amazing.”
“I was getting turned on,” he says. Blake has no inner voice.
“I know.”
He lies back down on the massage table and I massage the critical areas, when we get to this part, his face changes, he closes his eyes, and then pulls me closer. I reflexively resist and we meet somewhere in the middle. He groans a bit as I touch him where I assume no other woman currently does and he puts his hands insides my panties. I have a no hands inside the panties rule, but somewhere along the line that has become forgotten. It’s also the reason why most of my underpants are stretched out. I allow this transgression because Mark keeps his meaty palms on my ass cheeks, he doesn’t wander between the legs as I assume many would. I know it would be best if I looked at him and smiled, a sultry look at best, but it would somehow come out fake if I did, so I look down and wait until I feel his body tense, shutter, and release.
“Want to go to lunch,” he says, afterwards.
“Sure,” I say. We go every time and besides the hand job and butt sniffing, I think we have a fairly healthy friendship.
Twenty
Calvin came back: the hot married guy who’s clearly getting nothing at home. Admittedly I thought about him after he left, for a couple days even, which is pretty rare. He mentioned that he’d be back, but they all do, it’s somewhat of a body rub exit statement, like “I’ll call you,” at the end of a horrendous date.
I had a suspicion that maybe he would though, come back, that is. We had some unfinished business.
It was perhaps the worst timing ever when he called. I had an appointment in the morning and decided to call it a day, go home and get some other work done. And as bad luck would have it, in that early afternoon decision that I was done for the day, I opted to indulge in onions on my veggie burger. A lot. As you likely know, one can’t back pedal bad breath from lunchtime onions. Particularly not raw ones. Seriously, there isn’t enough mouthwash, tongue scrappers, or toothpaste brutal enough to get rid of that. If you think otherwise, you might be kidding yourself. I think some new cell growth has to occur to officially be in the kissing clear.
I thought it’d just be me and Analise’s beta fish whiling away the afternoon at the computer until I picked up my daughter at school. Calvin called at two, wanted an appointment as “soon as possible.” As soon as possible (!) is a common response when I ask, “What time were you hoping for?” Like I’ve mentioned before, rubs are an impulse buy.
I was torn, but Calvin had already tried to make a couple appointments before that, which conflicted with my schedule. Onion breath notwithstanding, I didn’t want to turn him down.
I agreed to meet him in twenty minutes.
“I apologize. I’ve put on weight,” Calvin says as soon as he undresses. “Too much work and driving around.”
Calvin does a lot of apologizing, particularly for a guy that’s as good looking as him. And one that doesn’t appear to have an ounce of fat. It’s as if someone is trampling his self-esteem. And because all indicators point to a stellar work performance, I assume this might be a wifey thing, versus a brow-beating boss.
Calvin doesn’t seem to care too much about the massage aspect of the rub. When I ask how deep he’d like it, he shrugs.
“You seem easy to please,” I tell him.
He touches me tentatively, but it’s my mouth he’s interested in, which by the way, was scrubbed, mouthwashed and now has a piece of tangerine gum safeguarded on the back molar.
“I just want to kiss you,” he says, flipping over.
I want to kiss you too.
“Do you ever kiss?” He sits up and puts his arms around me.
“Not usually,” I say.
“Not usually?” he says with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. You would’ve thought I had said that I don’t usually offer blow jobs.
“Never,” I say. (okay, once, for the record)
Calvin settles for hugs and cuddling, which is not something I typically offer, but felt natural, sorta, or as much as it can for the situation. Maybe it would just be better to say that I wanted to, so I did it (hugs and such). He kept mentioning wanting to kiss me, but I just didn’t answer and I guess he took that as a “no.”
I know that Calvin is married because he wears a wedding band, but he has never mentioned his wife, or really any other personal detail about himself (work is not personal). Generally, men discuss their home life, specifically that there is absolutely no affection, a hug or peck, at home. Calvin discusses none of this and I’m curious, but of course I don’t ask because it’s not my place.
After he left my studio, I still wanted to kiss him and I’m guessing if he comes back, he might want the same. I also want to know what his at-home deal is. Most body rub girls will tell you a rub is fairly mechanical, but sometimes it isn’t. And what constitutes intimacy varies: we both want to kiss, but I want to know him.
Twenty-One
Yesterday, Saturday, I helped Cole pick out a sofa for his new place. He wanted me to pick what I liked, so I did: an L-shaped, dark beige (kid and pet friendly!) faux suede couch. The perfect option for a home full of kids, pets, and guests. I’ve never lived anywhere large enough for me to own such a sofa, but Cole’s new place is plenty big enough.
Spending so much time with Cole has inspired me to look into a new profession: dental hygiene. I read online that it’s a growing field, particularly with all those baby-boomers who grew up without fluoride in their water. I’m good with people and I’ve always been told I have nice teeth. The average pay is supposedly pretty good, like $40,000 to $60,000, which I don’t expect to make right away, but that’s a great salary for Analise and me. It’s a profession that also doesn’t require a four-year degree, just a two-year associate’s and there is a college with a dental hygiene program near me. I’m currently working on my application, which is an online submission. Money, of course, is a concern and I hope I can get enough financial aid to cover my costs. I have to apply first before I can find out what kinds of loans are available.
This might be the best long-term option for me, even if Cole and I never date. At some point, I won’t be able to do erotic massage. I have clients who mention going to masseuses in their fifties, but they always seem to crinkle their nose a tad when they mention her age.
The few people who know what I do suggest to “start looking for another job.” Unfortunately, my resume is nothing but strip clubs and massage parlors, except for one summer that I worked for a swanky golf course selling beer from a cart and dressed in a manner to encourage tips. I don’t want any future employer to know about my stripping past. And indicating that I’m an independent massage therapist on my resume makes me uncomfortable because it begs the question of a license. However, if I go to school for dental hygiene, I imagine my boss will only be interested in my school performance and there will be no need to explain gaps in employment. This is my plan and for once, I am very excited.
***
Despite Cole’s efforts to revive my car, it’s pretty much dead. It’s puttering along at the time, but I’ve been told the fixes it needs exceed the post-repair value. Something about the transmission. I have some savings, but not enough to purchase a used car. Of course, Cole has offered to give me a loan, which is completely out of the question in my mind.
With my credit being what it is, along with little stated income, a loan is a long shot.
All this explains why I’m sitting in a hotel lobby waiting for Jack. It’s not what you think; it’s just lunch. I prefer hotel restaurants because it sets the prop
er mood when a bedroom is just an elevator trip away. And this particular downtown hotel has a nice lunch.
“I was surprised you called,” he says, sitting down looking crisp and professional as usual. “It’s been a while, when I didn’t hear back from you I thought you weren’t interested.”
Jack is the fifty-something married man who offered a sugar daddy relationship, back before Thanksgiving. He’s hot, even if he is twice my age. He has this crazy sophisticated sexiness that gets better with age, though he looks younger than his chronological age.
“I had a change of heart,” I say, taking a sip of my wine. I’m not usually one to drink mid-day but I needed something to take the edge off. I’m not going to tell Jack that the reason I called was because I need to buy a car. That’s not exactly titillating. And I want to make this seem as little as a transaction as possible.
“Lucky me,” he says with a smirk. He takes a quick look at the menu and then closes it and slides it to the edge of the table.
“You already know what you want?”
“I always know what I want,” he says. The waitress comes and he orders efficiently and matter-of-factly, dismissing her with a warm smile.
The restaurant is perfect for our discussion. A large fountain in the center creates enough noise so that everyone looks to be moving their mouths without any words coming out.
“So how often do you want to see me?” I ask.
“Every day,” he says, but I know he’s far too busy for anything like that.
Jack takes out his checkbook and says, “Name your price.”
I know he’s exaggerating, but, like me, he knows how to set the mood. I can’t help but let my eyes wander towards his pen poised over the blank check—of his business account, which I gather is relatively bloated based on the status of the oil business. Many of my best clients work in the oil industry, often staying for prolonged periods in man camps, which sound like a step up from a prison. No women are allowed, from what I’ve heard.
“So I’m a deductible expense, huh?”
“Deductible and irresistible. My best write-off.”
“I don’t know what to say. I’ve never done this before,” I say.
“Me neither.”
“That’s good.”
“Getting possessive already, are we?” he says.
“We’ll see who’s the first to get jealous. Can I keep my business going?”
“Of course, but no dating, not even Cole.”
I suspected as much. This is a fairly typical arrangement from what I can gather from other girls on the Stripper Web forum. Jack likely wouldn’t be able to afford prohibiting my business.
“Cole and I aren’t dating.”
Jack rolls his eyes. “You should understand by now what a guy’s motives are.”
“Whatever,” I say. “So what else? Sex I assume.” I was in a rush to get the word out there, make it seem like it wasn’t a big deal for me.
There was a time way back in my strip club days that I had let a guy grind on me until he came. He put his crotch between my backside, bucked wildly and muttered, “Baby, I want to fuck you so hard.” Afterwards, he unzipped his pants and took off an oozing condom. That’s right, he came to the club with a condom on. My only defense was that I was eighteen and broke.
As usual, my time with Jack was fun and something that certainly doesn't feel like it should be compensated. But if it weren't for the world of paid sex, Jack and I would've never met.
We decide to start our arrangement out slowly: $3000 per month in exchange for weekly "visits" and once a week daytime body rubs with lunch afterwards if he has time. I think by “starting slowly,” Jack means there might be overnights in our future, which pay more. Overnights won’t be so easy for me. I have Analise. Most men forget about child care constraints, I assume because their wives take care of it.
Jack writes the first check right there. In another month together, along with my savings, I will have enough for a car. I hope it lasts until then.
Twenty-Two
I got a call today from a former massage parlor friend, Aubree.
“What’s up, Girlfriend?” she says in a high-pitched, giddy, you-are-my-best-friend voice.
“Aubree?” I ask tentatively, because it’s been years since I’ve even spoken to her and we had a little tiff over one of her clients starting to see me. By the time I left, we weren’t even speaking.
“Of course,” she says, pretending that there’s been no ill feelings between us.
Aubree and I worked at American Dolls about three years ago. Aubree was there when I first got hired and there were two other girls who worked pretty steadily and then the other occasional girl who worked, got fired, and a new girl was hired.
I had been stripping for a couple years and was tired of the shoes, the smoky atmosphere and it was getting increasingly difficult to find someone to watch my daughter at night.
It was an odd transition. I was making the switch to illegal work and initially I worried about being busted and subsequently having my photo plastered on the front page of the newspaper, but it quickly became apparent that the house mom, Nancy, had it under control, essentially worked a deal with some of the police, I think. She never discussed it, but that was the word among the girls.
In some ways, Nancy was more of a mom to me than my own mother, encouraging me to be safe, not to take shit from customers, and encouraging me to stay drug-free. She also gave me a piece of advice: from day one of sex work, save for retirement because in this world, it comes a whole lot quicker than age 65.
Nancy didn’t share a lot about her life, but I’m guessing she started out as a stripper and like most girls, made the leap into illegal sex work. She had grown children and maybe a drinking problem because every time we went out as a group, she ordered a Coke.
One of Nancy’s rules of the parlor, or “spa” as she liked to call it, was that girls didn’t own the clients. The men belonged to the business and Nancy didn’t tolerate girls being territorial. This didn’t stop Aubree, who had been there the longest and felt like she was the house mom, on staking her claim on the big tippers. Aubree also had no respect for Nancy, referring to her as a hag, as if Aubree wouldn’t be 56 someday. And with all the partying and smoking Aubree did, it was unlikely that she wouldn’t look worse than Nancy when she got to that age. From what I gathered from one of the other girls, Aubree had her problems with Nancy as well, hiding tips and gifts from the house. We had signed a contract that we had to hand over half of all tips and any other gifts. Obviously it was difficult to split something like a gift card in half, but Nancy was usually pretty reasonable, allowing us to keep gifts. She just didn’t appreciate hiding these sorts of things, which is what Aubree did.
“Hey Girl, how’ve you been?” I ask with forced enthusiasm. Honestly, I had wondered. “Are you still at American Dolls?”
“Hell no, are you kidding? I got real tired of that bullshit. I left about a year after you did. Mostly I’ve been touring. Body rubs during the day and stripping at night. I’ve traveled all over, even went to Guam.”
For those who don’t know, “touring” is extremely common for sex workers, basically going from town to lucrative town and spending days, weeks or months on one spot. Strip clubs are accustomed to girls that tour and, given the flighty nature of strippers, don’t make them commit to a certain amount of nights. Touring also helps capitalize on men’s desire for variety. If a new girl is in town and advertises on Backpage, she’ll usually get quite a response, much more clients in a day than if she lived there and posted daily.
The disadvantage of touring is that it’s lonely and you basically live out of a hotel. Your body becomes a high-traffic zone—and forget anyone ever being able to sneak up on you in fun without receiving a heel to the crotch. It’s lucrative though and for those who like to party, meeting guys and other strippers to party can be thrilling. For Aubree, who has a tendency to get in cat fights, short-term friendships probably are l
ess work.
Touring obviously only works for girls who don’t have children or whose children have been taken away from them.
“I have an idea for you,” Aubree continues.
I assume Aubree knows I’m still doing rubs because I used my American Dolls “name” to advertise on Backpage. And in fact, she was the one that I had taken some of my photos.
“Let’s get together to offer some four-handed massages.”
Just like it sounds, four-handed massage is two girls massaging the guy, and cooing all over him, and is quite popular with some men. It’s that thrill of a potential threesome.
Nancy offered four-hands at the parlor, but obviously working as an independent, it’s impossible for me. In many cases, guys will tip heavily if there is any girl-on-girl action such as kissing, both gentle nibbles or deep French kissing. Even light girl-to-girl touching gets guys steamed up over the notion of a lesbian fantasy.
I consider myself heterosexual, but I have no problem kissing other attractive women in a four-hand massage and, in fact, Aubree and I have kissed many times when we worked at American Dolls. I don’t get turned on. It’s no different when I’m interacting with a client. My mind is often elsewhere, contemplating what to make for dinner or essentially blank.
Four-hand rubs are a change of pace, and in general, the tips are better than a session done alone.
Doing any business with Aubree has the potential of stirring up drama. That’s just how Aubree is, she’s always at odds with someone. However, I’ll at least let Aubree give me the sales pitch.
“Why?” I ask, purposefully sounding disinterested. If she wanted me to do this, she was going to have to sell me on it. Though, it’s best to offer whatever diversity I can, particularly since touring is not an option for me.
“I’ve had some customers ask me,” she said, dropping the fake cheery tone and getting business-like. “And they want a blonde. Just think, we could be the perfect combination: the Anglo-Saxon Goddess and the Exotic Princess.
Confessions of an Erotic Masseuse: A Memoir Page 8
