Three
Today is Friday, which means it’s my day to see William. William is my brother, who is older than me by two years. And unfortunately he's in a mental institution, of sorts. My mother likes to think of him as just "away" or "recouping," but it's been six years with no improvements, so I'd say this is where it’s at.
They say William has schizophrenia. My mother says the whole thing is hogwash and it's the medications that make William crazy, but I saw changes in William long before my mother admitted it. William's once-clean apartment turned into a hovel that would have made a hoarder cringe.
And then there were the conspiracies. At first, I just thought he was taking after my father—or at least the version of my father that my mother shares—thinking everyone was out to get him and there was a good reason why he needed to pay this bill or not park his car there. But then William’s explanations, paranoias, if you will, became more elaborate. And then there was that tiny problem of him taking it public, like out in the street muttering nonsensically and then accusing passersby of stealing his dog, which did not go over well with his neighbors, or his boss, until he found himself without his job at the car wash and out on the streets.
It wasn't until he was living in his car that my mother decided to step in. She believed in tough love and was convinced that the lower William sank, the closer he was to turning his life around. I disagreed. Which I don't do too often, particularly with my mother.
Unlike her, I don't dread my visits to William. He’s always happy to see me and we manage to have things to talk about. Most importantly I know he’s in a place where he can’t hurt himself or other people. Sure, there is a bit of sadness to see that this is the extent of his life: he'll be lucky if he makes it as far as an assisted living facility. And he shares a room with an elderly man who chirps whenever someone raises their hand to gesture, sneezes, or puts on a coat, but William is accustomed to this. It's normal to him, even if it makes my mother exhale loudly and roll her eyes. The hardest part I think for my mother is to see the change in his physical appearance: bloated and obese from the medications. He looks like a killer, a little like those grainy photos of my father that my mother keeps in a shoebox.
In any case, William appreciates any small gift I bring for him, more than anyone else. It's tricky finding gifts for William. It can't be anything that he could use to hurt himself. I've made the mistake of giving him home-made jelly in a mason jar. Glass. A potential weapon. Pens and pencils. Once again weapons. Crayons and chalk are okay. Everything has to be dull, dull, dull.
One of the best things I like about visiting William is that he doesn't ask me anything about myself. He doesn't ask me about my job. Or my love life. I don't have to lie to him. And that really, is the best gift.
I stop at the guard shack and tell him I’m here to see William. The guard looks up from his paper slowly, as if he didn’t hear my car pull up. He nods and allows me through. A fence surrounds the brick building and the grounds are dotted with trees. It’s still winter but a few robins have managed to stay the season, living off bread-like leftovers from patients given outdoor privileges. A sign outside the entrance reads, “Logan Psychiatric Facility—It Makes A Difference!”
I wait to get buzzed in, and even while I wait between the glass doors, I smell the mental ward’s air seeping beneath the first door: a mix of bleach, urine, and stale sadness. None of the windows open so there are no cross breezes on a spring day to clear things out, turn things over like rotating salad bar crocks in a restaurant.
I decided to see William every Friday about a year ago, when I realized he wasn’t getting out and that he needed to see me, particularly on a routine basis. Routines are important to him. It keeps him focused on taking his medications and completing other tasks. He’s not mentally slow; it’s not like he can’t handle challenges, but what’s the incentive? That’s how I came up with our TGIF. Everyone needs to look forward to the weekend and I promised William I’d come see him, but he had to participate in facility functions, even if he thought everyone was nuts.
So whenever I knock on William’s door, he promptly yells, “TGIF,” and I go in.
Today, he yells it out even before I knock.
I open the door and luckily his roommate is gone.
“How did you know it was me?”
“Are you kidding? I can tell your walk a mile away. Besides, no one wears shoes with heels in here. You were clacking all the way down the hall.”
The room is small for two, with two hospital beds separated by an oak desk absent of paper, pens or a computer.
“What did you bring me?” William asks like an expectant child. Our roles have switched dramatically since childhood. William had a way of intimidating kids, which came in handy when I got picked on in elementary school. If he saw me frown, he’d ask who was the cause, and if it was a boy, William always took care of it.
I held up a new deck of Uno cards. Though it’s a gift, it’s not wrapped. Everything that is brought in has to be exposed.
“Do you want to go down to the lobby?” I ask, wanting to avoid the return of his roommate.
William shakes his head and assures me Sal will be gone for a while. Apparently they worked out an arrangement.
“I hang a tie on the doorknob when you’re here,” he jokes.
I smile.
“You know, like in college, when you’re hooking up with a girl,” he says.
“Yeah, I get it,” I say.
During the progression of my brother’s mental illness, he lost touch with what humor is inappropriate or not. Uncomfortable, yes, but I’m in the habit of ignoring sexual jokes.
“So let’s start the game, okay?”
William doesn’t like to mingle with the other patients, claiming he isn’t “one of them.” Of course, the problem is that he never remembers what he’s like when he’s off his meds. And that’s when he’s far worse than anyone locked up here.
He asks about my daughter and I tell him all the details of what she’s doing in school, field trips, cheerleading and Brownies. He offers to buy five boxes of thin mints when it’s time, but he doesn’t remember that cookie season is over and he did buy thin mints. It’s probably best though that his memory is foggy. He doesn’t realize how long he’s been here.
After three games of Uno, I tell William it’s time for me to leave so that I can pick up his niece. He nods sadly and hands me the cards as if surrendering.
He slips his feet fully into his slippers, hoists himself up by pushing off with both hands from the chair’s armrests and stands towering over me, yet looks so feeble.
“I appreciate you coming,” he says and leans over to hug me. I tiptoe to reach him.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I’m glad I have this level of flexibility. If I had a nine-to-five job, I would not be able to do this for him.
Four
Cole and I have never had the best timing. When he's been single, I've been dating. When I've been single, he was in the army. We met when I was twenty and dating Hank, Cole’s roommate. Hank was a dud as a boyfriend, going to bed at 10:30 ritually, even on Saturday nights, and I'd stay up to watch movies with Cole. Eventually we skipped the movies and decided to talk. I couldn't figure out how a guy like Cole was single. And, according to him, he didn’t understand why a girl like me was dating Hank.
Cole now works for his father, who owns a construction company. Business was lean right before Cole left for Iraq, but now the company is booming. He always knew he wanted to take over his father's business. His father Ted and he have always managed to get along well. I envy that. Both the getting along and knowing what you want to do. I've never known. I still don't. Although being an erotic masseuse works for now, I can't keep doing this forever, at least not when I'm old, or even forty-five, I imagine. Some days with my post-baby body I feel like I'm pushing it, but my clients have more confidence in my body than me. Most guys seem fairly satisfied with a naked twenty-five-year-old in fro
nt of them, even if said girl has a little cellulite on the thighs. But I digress. My cover as a real massage therapist is not always the best.
Occasionally I get a "massage" referral from a friend or family member. Luckily most people I know can’t afford to spend money on massages, but some do. The problem is...I'm not a legit certified massage therapist, even though I tell everyone I am. So it completely freaks me out when I have to fake a massage. As odd as it may sound, I'm more at ease getting naked and giving a guy a hand job. I've been doing it for years, with no complaints.
So while Cole and I are having lunch at a crowded coffee shop, he asks how business is. I tell him it’s been good, looking down at my soup and whirling it with my spoon.
"Would you like to be busier?" he asks, leaning in so that a lock of his dark blond hair falls onto his forehead.
"Of course," I say, “Who wouldn’t?” This is the truth. Business is great, but I'd love to add a few more clients. At $140 per hour, why not?
“My aunt’s friend is looking for a new massage therapist since she moved to Carmel. I’ll give her your number.”
Shit. Not only do I have to fake a real massage, but it's a woman. Men are just so easy to please, even when I’m not taking my clothes off. A smile and warm attitude go a long way and often they link the massage to their interaction with me, even if that doesn’t involve any below-the-belt shenanigans. I’m always terrified that a woman will be able to call my bluff.
At the heart of the matter, I feel rotten. I respect the field of massage therapy and here this person—this aunt—will expect a masseuse who has gone through umpteen hours of training. It's times like this that I feel rotten.
I've actually thought about getting a massage license, but when I looked into the requirements and what the massage schools charge for a one-year program (roughly $15,000), it just wasn't worth it. I told Cole I got my license while he was overseas, and my mother doesn't take enough interest in my life to notice that I jumped into massage therapy overnight.
“Thanks,” I tell him, hoping we can quickly move on to another subject. Cole always looks out for me, worries about me, to be specific, which is another reason why I can’t tell him what I’m doing. He’d be the first to admit that men are pigs. He always worried when I worked late at the strip club, making sure that the bouncer walked me to my car and that no customers were touching me. I told him yes and no, respectively, but the second was a lie. Despite what people say, or actually, what husbands tell their wives, there is touching at strip clubs. Usually not out in the open so much, it’s more of a VIP room thing, or at the least, some nook and cranny in the club. I’m not talking sex, not for me anyway, but you’d be surprised what kind of tips you can earn by allowing boob action.
“Do you want to go to a party?” Cole asks as I shake off the memory of the club.
I shiver.
“Are you cold? We could move away from the door.” He’s already looking around the room for another seat.
“No, I’m okay.” I untangle my scarf from my jacket and put it around my neck. “What party?”
“Porter’s house,” he says. “Friday night.”
“I have Analise,” I say. “But maybe I could get a sitter.”
“My parents can watch her. Then you don’t have to worry about getting back.”
Cole thinks of everything. Most guys forget I have to make arrangements for my daughter when I go out, which is rare these days. A party without children seems like a nice escape.
“I’d have to wake her when I get back. I hate doing that.”
“You could stay over in the carriage house with me. In the guest bedroom,” he offers. Although Cole’s place is essentially a carriage house, it’s spacious and cozy. I love it; it reminds me of a mini-medieval getaway in the forest.
“It’s just a suggestion,” he says, taking a large bite of his sandwich and immediately wiping his mouth with a napkin.
“I’ll think about it.” I’d actually love to go to the party, but my problem is finding someone to watch my daughter. She is my universe, but I love the idea of spending an evening with Cole and waking up in his home.
Although it’s flattering how much Cole is willing to do for me, I know he’d do anything for a friend. I happen to be one of his only female friends though.
My phone vibrates in my coat pocket. I pull it out but keep the screen out of Cole’s view. It’s a text from a client, wanting to know if I’m free this afternoon. He’s a guy I’ve labeled as “easy,” meaning that he doesn’t have lots of requests like sitting on his chest or dirty talk; he doesn’t take fifteen minutes of stroking to finish. He lies on his stomach, flips over in the last fifteen minutes and finishes.
I look up at Cole who has stopped eating. I know he’s wondering who’s on the phone and I feel rude for reading a text, but it’s important to take appointments, it’s like I’m on call in a way because most of my clients are busy and they squeeze in a rub at the last minute.
“Sorry,” I say.
Cole nods. I text a quick reply and tell him I can meet in an hour.
I feel Cole trying to read my expression, maybe he thinks it’s a boyfriend. Perhaps he thinks I’m distracted or less interested in his company. I’m not, but I can’t explain any of that right now.
Five
I advertise on Backpage primarily, which works well. Last year, I thought I'd give craigslist a try, and I have been amazed at how much business it's generated. There are a couple extra complexities, however, specifically that my craigslist ad has to be much more subtle than my Backpage ad. This requires men to do more interpretation.
It's amazing all the bitching women do about men being clueless: not remembering birthdays, forgetting important significant-other details, and yet when it comes to decoding a body rub girl's craigslist ad (benignly posted under the therapeutic section, ahem, as if a legit massage), they have the cunning wherewithal of a CIA agent. Exceptions abound, however. There are newbies. And my ad confuses them and their questions confuse me—as to what they had in mind. I'll admit it, even so confused as to break my rules and have a very mince-no-words Q & A. Which was the case with Mark.
My craigslist ad is extremely censored. A lot of words will get your ad rejected. It would probably make sense to actually read the terms and conditions, but heck, who has time for that? Instead, I just try to get as close to the forbidden as possible, which has led to a lot of trial and error. What I’ve learned: all photos must show me buttoned up, with a face shot (of course I won't show my face so I use a stock-on-line photo of a girl who looks vaguely like me: green eyes, blonde hair), no mention of Full, Body, scented, desire, escort, backpage (BP), reviews, etc. This issue of a fake photo is new territory for me. All my BP ads are me, but I don't show my face. This fake photo stuff also requires guys to read between the lines. I don't want anyone showing up and getting pissed that it's not me. Amazingly, I have found that most men recognize that I'm just trying to advertise an idea of me: Caucasian, smiling, young, and cute. The closest thing I can do to communicating that it's a happy ending massage is the price ($140/hr) and mention that a shower is available. Have you ever showered after a legit massage? Me neither.
Believe it or not, some men have never heard of Backpage, so craigslist drums up some new and financially solvent customers. Sometimes the craigslisters will ask, "Why is it so much?"
"Because I'm topless." Not illegal, by the way.
Often they will get the picture, but sometimes not. And then there was Mark, who I had no idea what he wanted.
My ad states NO TEXTS (texters usually are no-shows) and so I received this text from him:
"I know you said no texting and I apologize! I am new in town, well educated, divorced and needing a regular meet up! I like your pics! Can we set up a meeting for today?"
Meeting? This text sounds like a date, which is a whole different service than what I offer. Or maybe not, and I hate to turn away business.
"I only schedule via phon
e." This statement usually prompts silence from the sender, even though they are clearly in close proximity to their phone. Surprisingly, he called. Mark sounded sweet, normal, a tad nervous, as if I was a girl he met at a bar the night before. He asked for a face pic and I responded that I didn't send those.
"I don't want a massage," he said.
"I'm not an escort," I responded.
"I don't want an escort."
He paused and then quickly said he had misinterpreted my ad, apologized for wasting my time and before I had a chance to respond, he was off the phone.
I then got a flurry of texts from him, apologies and then this one: "I don't understand then? Why the sexy pics? I am not a cop!! Just a biz guy looking for quality, affordable companionship."
Could he be a hand job and dinner guy? I do that. I like that.
I responded that I offer a body rub for $140/hr. He responded again that he didn't want a massage, an escort or "body wrap," but again reiterated that he wanted "other" and could I help?
Um, what else is there?
"I want this to be a regular thing," he wrote.
Regular things are good for business. But what’s he talking about? I asked via text.
"Just a companion to meet my needs...I am single."
I again offered a rub and he agreed. And that was how I started to see Mark.
Mark is fifty-something, and works seven days a week. He never goes out with friends or dates or EVER has anyone over to his apartment, because, in his words, “it’s a dump.” Yet any suggestion for me to help Mark fix up his apartment is rebuffed, as if it’s hopeless.
It’s probably something I shouldn’t have suggested in the first place. I mean, really, go shopping for curtains with a client? Help him organize his porn? I can’t help it though; many of the single clients have potential, and it’s hard not to want to help. Because one of these days, they won’t be able to see me anymore and I don’t want to feel bad about that. Or, like I need to continue getting a cup of coffee with them post-retirement so that they won’t off themselves. Perhaps I’m overstating my importance in their lives, but based on the texts and voicemails I’ve gotten from Mark while on Christmas hiatus, I’m a little concerned about his understanding of our relationship.
Confessions of an Erotic Masseuse: A Memoir Page 2