I can’t take credit for the Orajel idea, I got that one off the Stripper Web forum, where other girls complained of the same thing and another offered the numbing cream idea.
Nipple-plucking notwithstanding, I love Robert. I really do. He’s had an exciting life and has a good read on people, particularly me. In a somewhat unsettling way, he’s like the dad I never had. Since I’ve never really had a father in my life, it’s hard to imagine that relationship, and obviously it wouldn’t be what Robert has in mind, but there are some looking-out-for-me things he does. Robert has clued me in on a few financial things I should be doing such as Roth IRAs and all that other boring stuff. I take his advice every time, even though I’ve never even heard of an IRA until he came along. Maybe I shouldn’t trust him so implicitly, but I sense his concern is genuine.
“Ahem,” he says, as he stands inside my studio, having just taken his jacket off.
“What?” I ask as I turn on some music.
“Aren’t you going to ask me something?” he says. He then wiggles his wallet.
“Oh, can we get the payment out of the way first?” I ask sarcastically. Robert has chided me for not getting my clients to pay first. Some girls operate this way and some don’t, but Robert believes any reasonable guy should understand why. And as a long-time hobbyist (that’s what kinds who patronize girls like me prefer to call themselves), he has a few stories of girls getting stiffed. And what would I do if that happened? Call the police? Wrestle him to the ground? I’ve been called a spinner so it’s not like I’d be much of a match for even a petite male.
Robert throws down a hundred and four twenties. He tips every time and never asks about specials. When I see Robert, it’s like catching up with a good friend, even though we see each other every week. He just happens to be naked, and me topless.
I know I’m supposed to let the client do most of the talking, but I immediately dive into the story about the crazy processor coming to my door and what he thought my chances were of losing what I have with my daughter: sole custody.
“Do you have an attorney?” he asks.
I cringe as I press deeply into a muscle knot next to his left shoulder blade.
“Not yet.”
“Is it the money? Because if it is, I can take care of that.”
I know that Robert is offering a loan, not a sex for money, but a loan is against my get-out-of-debt mission since I started doing body rubs. It’s like taking a few steps back. I feel like I’m on the treadmill of sex work.
“I have the money, well sort of, I’m working on that.” I can’t see his expression because he is still face down on the massage table.
“Were you served with a court date?”
“No, it was a request to submit DNA.”
“If he’s still in the stages of establishing paternity, you have some time to pick a good lawyer. I’ve never been through custody, but I hear it can be quite protracted.”
Protracted is appealing, although it allows more time to worry. It’s unfair though to let my mood spoil Robert’s session. This is where men come to relax, forget the worries. Even though there is a familiarity between us, I still have to make it an experience worthy of repeating.
I squirt a generous dollop of unscented (always unscented!) lotion into my hand and slip my hands between his thighs, he opens, allowing me to massage deeply the sides.
I get up on the table as he lays prone with my one knee between his and the other on the outside of his right knee as I press my hands into his ass, moving upwards to the small of his back, applying pressure beside the spine and moving outwards. I like my body rubs to be both sensual and at least a halfway decent massage.
Robert has entered the zone of relaxation, because he has stopped speaking, yet continues to make a few exhales.
“Feel good?” I ask, just to make sure he’s still awake.
He nods into the headrest and I continue, pressing my breasts into his back, a move which always elicits a groan.
My time with Robert is always pleasurable, but it’s not the same as with Jack, who I have a tangible something-something with. Maybe it’s the age difference with Robert, he’s in his mid-sixties I have surmised, quasi-retired, and looks every bit his age. His hands are liver-spotted and wrinkly with the kind of nail thickness that comes from age. I have made a conscious effort not to look down when his hand is on my breast—that flesh against my own never-seen-the-sun skin is a jarring contrast and always brings me back to what I am: a woman for hire. And frankly, I don’t want that reminder.
So when I get to the end with Robert, his release specifically, I look at him and smile. I can’t muster dirty talk and usually he spares me the need to say anything by closing his eyes while I massage his genitals. In a weird way, I feel good that I'm doing this for him. Robert is a widower and I don't get the impression he's interested in the dating scene. I believe he always pictured himself as married. For him, some of the finer details of sexiness have been skipped, such as toe-nail clipping or pubic hair trimming, but that's just him and I accept it.
Robert has let me know on more than one occasion that he is willing to exchange a direct deposit subsidy for a relationship. He's realistic about the arrangement and I've always responded as "I'll let you know if I decide to go that way.” Robert does not possess an erect penis, which makes the deal more enticing. He can have an orgasm and even ejaculate, but it's never stiff enough for penetration (or so I assume, I've never tried). Before I became an erotic masseuse, I never knew this scenario was plausible (non-erect and still producing), yet I've seen it from other older guys. It's usually an issue of medications, specifically blood pressure. Quite a few of these men have said that Viagra just gives them an enormous headache and what good is an orgasm if you have a raging migraine? In short, a Sugar Daddy relationship will Robert would probably involve messing around, but not sex, maybe toys. I don't know but it's a whore loophole that's enticing.
As backwards as this sounds, Robert and I always have lunch after our session. Backwards because usually it’s dining first and getting naked second, but I’ve always preferred to do the massage before we go out.
It might start to seem like I combine all my appointments with outings, but it’s rare. I get asked out quite a bit, but obviously it’s generally not a good idea and it’s very time consuming to combine coffee, lunch or dinner with a one-hour session. With the exception of my two potential Sugar Daddys, I tell all clients that I either don’t date as a rule or if it’s more convenient, I lie and say I have an other session afterwards.
But with Robert, we have lunch almost ninety percent of the time he books. The only exceptions are if I really do have another appointment that could only be booked right after his. We have a favorite place where we go, a tapas bar with cozy feel and amazing food. It’s also within walking distance of my studio.
“Is something on your mind?” he asks, after I lock up and we are finally outside.
I pause and look at him. “Why?”
“You have a look like you want to ask something,” he says, looking down at me adoringly.
“Everything’s fine,” I say, trying to laugh it off. “I’m just trying to think about what to order.”
“Bull.”
“Ok, so I’ve had my mind on this court stuff with my daughter’s father. Sorry.” I put on a cheery face and he gives me a doubtful look. Actually, I want to bring up the potential Sugar Daddy thing, but I’m not sure how to do it.
I haven’t decided to go with Jack and I want to consider my options, if I even decide to do it. Robert has a limp dick in his favor and Jack is someone I am genuinely attracted to in his favor. Both are nice men, but with Jack there is the adulterous guilt, though supposedly he was given permission for extracurricular activities. I appreciate the fact that both of these men are actually willing to exchange money for what they want, versus all the clients I see who attempt to promote a free relationship. “Let me know if you want a married boyfriend,” many of them ha
ve said, which sounds like a situation that only benefits them.
For some reason, though, I just can’t bring up the potential relationship with Robert. Instead, I squint into the sun as I turn to face him, and look at his lips to see if I could picture myself kissing them, allowing his tongue to enter my mouth, allow myself to be pressed skin-to-skin and inhale everything that comes from his pores. With Jack, I don’t have to ask myself that question.
Thirteen
My mother has decided that she’s not going to celebrate Thanksgiving. She claims she’s been doing the cooking and cleaning for years and she’s taking a break. Period. End of Discussion.
My mother and I have very different memories of Thanksgiving. I recall my grandmother doing the bulk of the cooking, particularly because we lived with Nana until I was thirteen. Nana passed away from breast cancer when I was twenty-one, when my daughter was only three, too young to have any memories of such a wonderful woman.
I’d offer to have Thanksgiving at my apartment, but the thought is claustrophobic. I only have four chairs, which is not a big deal, but I don’t have room for anything more than five. And this is how Cole came to my rescue once again.
“Come with me to my parent’s house,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder and pulling me in slightly. He does that a lot. And I love it. Cole and I decided to meet for coffee to catch up. We usually talk every day, but it’s been a few days.
“I don’t want to be a bother. And I’ll have Analise,” I say, standing next to him at the coffee bar and reading my choices. The air is invigorating with the bitter smell of coffee beans. It’s foggy outside so it feels good to be indoors.
He rolls his eyes and gives me an “are-you-kidding” expression. “You’re part of the family,” he says, giving me a sideways hug. “My parents always ask about you.”
I adore Cole’s parents, Ted and Sandy. They’ve been married thirty years. I don’t see Ted as the kind of husband that would want to—or rather need to—come see a girl like me. From what I’ve observed, Ted and Sandy have a tangible attraction, as well as friendship and perhaps more importantly the unified front of raising two happy and productive children to adulthood.
“Hillary will be there,” he says, watching my expression give in.
Hillary is Cole’s sister, a stunning blonde who moved to Los Angeles to be a photographer. She has an agent and everything, and lives with other young, model-actor types. Although she could easily be intimidating because of her looks, successful job and exciting lifestyle, she always brings a sisterly love to our interactions and invigorates any family get-together.
“Well I definitely want to go then.”
“Good, because she says she’s not flying all that way if she doesn’t get to see Analise.”
Cole has the kind of family I wish I could provide for my daughter and seeing her with them makes me both happy and ashamed. Analise is a natural extrovert and she basks in the attention from Cole’s family. I worry that a falling-out between Cole and I would take this, yet another disappointment, away from her. But I realize we really have nowhere else to go and what’s Thanksgiving if it’s just the same meal at our apartment.
Cole seems relieved and mentions how excited his parents, particularly his mother will be. Every time we go to his parents’ house, Sandy buys a little something for Analise, as if she’s her own granddaughter.
“How are things at your apartment?” Cole asks.
“Fine, why?”
He shrugs as we walk towards a section of couches.
“You aren’t going to renew your lease, are you?”
“I might have to. At least another year.”
Cole worries about where I live. I can tell he doesn’t want to insult me by indicating I’m living in a dump, but he has concerns over the goings on in the complex. And he doesn’t need to even hint that it’s not the best place for a child.
Cole lives at his parents’ place while he saves to buy a house. He doesn’t actually live in the same house as his parents; he lives in the carriage house, which is a little rustic, somewhat of a sophisticated barn with plumbing.
“Why don’t you consider moving into the carriage house?”
“With you?” I ask.
He raises one eyebrow and laughs. “If you want, yes, but I was thinking after I buy a house. My parents don’t even use it.” He pauses to see my reaction and then continues with what seems rehearsed. “I know the place isn’t much, but if you want to live there, I can remodel the bathroom and do a few other things. It would be free.”
I really didn’t see this coming.
“This is really generous. I don’t know,” I say, looking into my lap and twisting my napkin until tiny pieces tear.
“You haven’t been there in a while, but it already looks much better.”
“No longer a fancy barn?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“And what would your parents say?”
“It was their idea. They love being around Analise. You’ll do me a favor and satisfy my mother’s urge for grandchildren.”
How did I ever get so lucky as to deserve a guy like Cole?
Fourteen
Jared, my daughter’s father, is on the warpath. He wants to come to California to visit Analise, claims it is his “right.” I told him I’d think about it, but definitely no overnights. My response clearly set him off.
I realize the importance of having a father, but Jared is no more familiar to Analise than the mailman, actually less. She’s too young to remember him because he took off when she was just a toddler. I have mentioned the notion of meeting her dad and she just shrugs and says, “I guess,” when asked if she’d like to meet him.
This extreme behavior is typical Jared. He never does anything halfway. When he was drinking, he wouldn’t stop until he was facedown minutes from suffocating on his vomit. Now that he’s sober, he wants to framework the perfect life and to hell to anyone who gets in his way.
“Think about someone other than yourself, for a change,” he wrote in his latest text, after I told him that I would not automatically turn over Analise just because he was coming into the state.
I have sole custody of our daughter, on account of Jared’s alcoholism, brief jail stints (DUIs), and basically not showing up to court to request visitation. Now he is a Changed Man, which is great, but he can’t expect me to implicitly alter my life because he wants a father-daughter relationship. It would be rather jarring for my daughter. I’d feel more comfortable with her going to Cole’s for the weekend. At least she has a relationship with Cole.
As typical of Jared, when he doesn’t get his way, the nasty comes out.
“You don’t deserve to be Analise’s mother,” he wrote. And in another text, “I just want my daughter back. Why is that so hard for you to believe? I want nothing to do with you.” It gets worse, but I’ll spare you. And if I don’t respond to a text, he keeps resending it.
He doesn’t call because he knows I won’t answer. Yet, I feel I shouldn’t actually block his texts because he is, after all, the father.
When I got the flood of texts from Jared, demanding that I fork over Analise, even though he has no court-ordered visitation, I just kept deleting them. It was upsetting and I hated the negativity right there on my phone. Jared’s messages were beside the few other people that I do text, Cole of course, Jack, and a couple female friends.
I have talked to my mother about it, who encouraged me not to delete his messages, that I could somehow show proof in court of how unfit Jared is. I guess having an electronic trail isn’t such a bad thing in case Jared really goes bonkers. My mother also thinks I should get a restraining order against him, because his texts are harassment. Although he has managed to call me just about every name that there it, I’m not really sure that qualifies for a restraining order. It also costs $75 and would require time off to go to court. Forget it, Jared is many things, but he’s not violent, getting an order seems more effort than it’s worth.
/> So I let the texts roll in, respond occasionally and hope Jared loses steam. I’ve told him repeatedly that I just want to work things out in court, rather than go to mediation. Jared wants mediation because it’s a quicker process. He’s already been told that it could take up to two years to get a visitation schedule in place, which apparently enrages him. So, to answer his question about letting him visit my daughter when he comes to California for the holidays, I’m just not sure. I’ve messed up a lot of things in my life, but Analise isn’t one of them. And the idea of putting her in the hands of the Jared I know is unbearable.
Fifteen
Last week, I made $660 in one day from four clients. In cash. In the morning I was fretting about money and by 7 p.m., I was able to pay the remainder of my beginning-of-the-month bills.
As I’ve mentioned, I charge $140 per hour, which is basically the going rate in my town, just a smidge more than the non-English speaking trafficked girls. I have dropped my price before, but never noticed much of a difference in business so $140 is the perfect price point. About half of guys tip, usually twenty dollars. But Joe was different.
Joe was from out of town on business—a common source of clientele and needed an evening appointment. Analise was having a playdate so I was able to work until they brought her home at 7:30 p.m. and Joe booked for 6 p.m..
Joe was on the young side for a client, mid-thirties at most and had a slight wide-eyed expression when I greeted him. I wasn’t sure if this was because I wasn’t what he expected (too small? too blonde? too unsexy?) or simply just his way of being. Whenever I have a new client I always worry that the person might be an undercover cop. I’m more anxious than ever now that Jared and I are fighting for custody. Being charged with prostitution would certainly not bode well in custodial proceedings. And apparently hand jobs fall under the prostitution laws, or so I’ve been told.
I try to feel a guy out, so to speak, when they are new, and therefore potentially vice. The thing that makes me most nervous is when the guy doesn’t talk much. It’s probably just nerves, but it’s contagious, and my runaway thoughts make me question if he’ll let me put my clothes back on before he handcuffs me. Will I have to stay the night on one of those bedbug-ridden cots? Who will I call to bail me out? Probably Robert since he doesn’t have a wife.
Confessions of an Erotic Masseuse: A Memoir Page 5