Rub a Dub Tug?

I reached over and turned on the tap.

“You just lie there, darling,” I’d say. “It takes a bit for the water to heat up.”

For the most part, that was true. Seriously… the hot water took forever.

But it was also part of the ritual.

I’d stand there watching the bubbles swirl around the sink before disappearing down the drain. It almost felt like a little reset button. A cleansing of sorts. Somewhere between watching the soap disappear and drying myself off, my brain would already be somewhere else.

What am I making for supper tonight?

Did I pay the power bill?

Shit… did I switch the laundry over?

Funny where your mind goes.

People always ask me if I enjoyed the job.

The answer?

Well… obviously.

I wouldn’t still be doing it fifteen years later if I hated every minute of it.

But the after…

The after was always the awkward part.

I’d wipe myself off, make polite conversation, mentally calculate how much money I’d made that day, and somehow transition from naked seductress back into functioning adult in under two minutes.

It used to make me feel dirty.

Now?

I own the word ho.

Hoes make money.

Money pays bills.

I’m alright with that.

But back to…

Ah yes…

The money.

Those beautiful red and brown bills.

Well… Canadian money is basically a magical rainbow, but you get the idea.

It always came back to the money.

It usually does.

It’s why people stay.

It’s why we tolerate things we’d probably never put up with anywhere else.

Don’t worry…

We’ll get to those stories.

And trust me…

They’re good ones.

I might even tell you about the guy who put a can of Lysol up his ass.

Yeah…

It’s that kind of book.

Now…

Where were we?

Oh right.

The money.

Two hundred.

Four hundred.

Six hundred.

It came fast.

Sometimes…

Almost too fast.

The most I ever made in a single day was thirty-one hundred dollars.

Eleven massages.

By the end of that day my hands deserved their own workers’ compensation claim.

I was absolutely exhausted.

The following week I took my family on vacation.

Trust me…

I’d earned every damn minute of it.

If you’d asked me ten years earlier whether I’d ever end up working in a massage parlour, I’d probably have laughed in your face.

Actually…

I definitely would’ve laughed in your face.

And yet…

Here we are.

Fifteen years later.

I’ve probably handled more middle-aged dick than a male porn star.

The weirdest part?

I actually liked my job.

And…

I was good at it.

Imagine that.

But back to the money…

No.

It isn’t everything.

You make incredible friendships.

You build genuine companionships.

Sometimes you even develop the occasional ridiculous little crush.

Oh trust me…

There were crushes.

Hot damn, there were crushes.

Sometimes someone would walk in who knew exactly what they were doing and suddenly your professional composure packed its bags and went on vacation.

It happens.

We’re human.

But if I’m being honest…

Money is usually what gets us through the door.

Some people sell cars.

Some people sell houses.

Some people sell drugs.

I gave handjobs.

Enthusiastic…

Professional…

Award-worthy handjobs.

But handjobs nonetheless.

Although…

If I’m really honest…

Eventually it became so much more than that.

It became a performance.

A dance.

A tease.

A game of chemistry.

You learn to read people.

To anticipate reactions.

To know exactly when to smile…

When to laugh…

When to lean in…

When to pull away.

The anticipation became just as addictive as the finish.

Like a junkie chasing the next hit.

Mine just happened to involve a bottle of massage oil and a dick in my hand.

And every successful ending felt like getting a little gold star.

Sometimes literally one you had to wash off your chest…

But a gold star all the same.

So…

How did all of this start?

Well…

Let’s get to that, shall we?

My first shift…

Oh, it was amazing.

The stuff dreams are made of.

Right?

Wrong.

So…

Fucking…

Wrong.

To say it sucked would actually be giving it too much credit.

If I’d based my entire career on that first shift, I probably would’ve gone home thinking,

“Well… I tried.”

And that would’ve been the end of it.

I made seventy dollars.

Now, to be fair…

Back then my retail job paid something like eight bucks an hour.

So seventy dollars wasn’t exactly terrible.

But…

My very first massage?

Oh sweet baby Jesus.

Picture this.

A man well into his sixties.

Smelling like cigarettes…

Feet…

And poor life choices.

His hands…

Good Lord…

His hands felt like he’d been sanding two-by-fours since the invention of lumber.

Every time he grabbed my boobs it felt less like foreplay and more like I was being exfoliated.

Instant flashbacks.

And then…

As if the universe hadn’t already laughed enough…

He had whiskey dick.

Now for anyone unfamiliar with whiskey dick…

Imagine trying to masturbate a short, fat sardine.

One that has absolutely no interest in participating.

It just flops around trying desperately to escape your hand like it’s attempting its own prison break.

Meanwhile, you’re trying to stay sexy.

Maintain eye contact.

Moan convincingly.

Look seductive.

And absolutely not cry tears of frustration onto the very penis you’re trying to coax into cooperating.

Ladies…

A little professional advice.

You can fake the moans.

You cannot fake your face.

Your face will throw you under the bus every single time.

Watch your face.

So there I was…

Captain Brunswick over there.

Whiskey dick.

Sandpaper hands.

My forearm cramping so badly I thought rigor mortis had arrived early.

I’m talking five-page-university-exam-after-holding-a-pencil kind of cramps.

Seriously…

How do teenage boys not develop permanent paralysis in their favourite hand?

How?

I kept at it for what felt like three business days.

Reality?

Probably forty-five minutes.

Maybe.

By the end of that session, though, I learned something that has stuck with me ever since.

Despite what people think…

This job isn’t easy.

Not physically.

Not mentally.

Not emotionally.

It’s work.

Real work.

Some days hilarious.

Some days heartbreaking.

Some days unbelievably awkward.

But always…

Work.

And somehow…

I stayed.

…

Aren’t you glad I did?