I reach over and turn on the tap. “You just lay there darling” I’d say, “it takes a bit for the water to heat up”. This was for the most part true, seriously the hot water took forever! But it was also a part of the ritual. I’d find myself staring at the bubbles as they circulated the sink, and began descending down the drain. A cleansing of sorts. Over time I’d find myself thinking about what I’d make for supper that night. Or if I’d remembered to pay a bill. Yes I enjoyed it, I wouldn't still be doing it if I didn’t in some way or form. But the “after” part was always the “awkward” part. At least I found it that way. I did this all while wiping my self off, making small talk and calculating the money I had just made that day in my head. It use to make me feel dirty. Now I own the word ho. Hos make money, money pays bills… I’m ok with that.
But back to oh yes…the money. Those red, and brown bills I loved so much. (I live in Canada our money is like a magical happy rainbow). It always came back to the money. It usually does. It’s why we stay, why we put up with so much. Don’t worry I’ll get to those stories. And trust me they’re some gooders for sure. I might even get to the guy that put the Lysol can in his ass. Yah they’re those types of stories.
Now what were we talking about… oh yah. The money! Two hundred, four hundred, six hundred. It was easy. Almost to easy. The most I ever made in a single day was thirty one hundred dollars. I had eleven massages. That day was exhausting. But so worth it. I took my family on vacation the following week. Trust me I needed the break.
If you asked me a decade ago if I’d be working at a massage parlour I’d probably have looked at you like you were crazy. And yet here we are 15 years later and I’ve probably jerked off more middle age dick then a male porn star but the odd part about it is, I actually like it. And.... I’m good at it. Imagine that.
But back to the money… no it’s not everything. Yes you develop great endearing friendships, companionships, even lustful crushes.Oh trust me there are some crushes happening. Hot damn! Sometimes you just get a gooder that knows every inch, and bam, water gates are open! Mmm, mm, mmm...But Money, that’s how it started and and its usually what hooks us. Some people sell cars, others sell drugs. I give handjobs. Enthusiastic, super seductive handjobs, but still I give handjobs. Ok who am I kidding over time it became more then that, it was a seductive dance of sorts. A tease that one can’t just give up. Like a junkie with a needle in their arm. My addiction was a dick in my hand. And the finish was like a gold star for a job well done. A gold star that you sometimes washed off your chest. But a gold star none the less.… so how did it begin??
Well let’s get to that shall we.
My first shift, it was amazing. The stuff dreams are made of. Right… wrong! So fucking wrong!
To say the least, well… it sucked!! Ha! No seriously if I had based staying on my very first shift I probably would have said well I tried, and let that be the end of it. I made seventy dollars. But ok so that’s not that bad when you consider at the time I think my retail job was paying about eight dollars an hour. So seventy was good.
My very first massage was a topless with a guy who had to have been well over 60, smelt like a combination of cigarettes and feet, had the worlds roughest sand paper hands. Like when he grabbed you boobs it felt like he was exfoliating them off. Ouch! Flashbacks. Oh and to top it off, he had whiskey dick.
He had fucking whiskey dick. Those not familiar with whiskey dick. It’s like trying to jerk off a short fat sardine. It just flaps around trying to get away from you whenever and wherever possible. Even while trying to chock out said sardine just to maintain somewhat of an upward motion. And you do all this while staying sexy, looking seductive and trying not to cry tears of frustration onto the very whiskey dick you’re trying to get off. Word of advice watch your face, you can moan like Alexis Texas, but your face won’t lie. Watch your face ladies.
Ok, any ways back to Captain BRUNSWICK over there, whiskey dick, tears… cramped hands. Like the hand cramps are the worst. I'm talking 5 page essay holding a pencil hands clenched. How do teenage boys not have permanent paralysis in the favouring five finger beater? Seriously though? How?
…. I did this for what seemed like hours. In fact it was probably 45 minutes at best. But after that I knew even then on the first day despite what many think about this line of work, or profession. That this job was not an “easy” job to say the least.. but I stayed...
And aren't you glad I did ...