Confessions of an Erotic Masseuse: A Memoir

by Alexa Salinger

  “$200 per hour difference. And I don’t think guys take a ‘hooker’ to meet his colleagues.”

  We ignore the hovering saleswoman. At the mention of hooker and escort, she goes back to the cash register.

  “Good point,” I say.

  “Are you sure he’s just a client?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Why do you say that?” I ask, refolding a cashmere sweater.

  “You smile every time you mention him. He’s the only guy who has made you stop pining over Cole.”

  “There’s so much wrong with all that, that I don’t know where to start.”

  “Okay, fine, just remember this is business and don’t let your guard down.”

  Aubree is the queen of keeping barriers fortified. She could smile and charm the pants off any guy, but then turn around and clobber him with a tire iron if he didn’t pay up. Strip clubs love her because she never loses sight of the money-making mission.

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Need I remind you of what happened at the spa?” She looks at me like a scolding parent.

  “Don’t bring it up,” I say and now I’m pissed that she has to bring up old shit. It’s not like I need reminders.

  “I’m not getting attached to Jack, he looks out for me and I appreciate that.”

  “Don’t hesitate to cut him off if things sour. I’m sure you could find another sugar daddy,” she says.

  “I doubt it,” I say, holding a white dress up against my body to see if it reaches my knees.

  Aubree shakes her head, “White is for virgins or wanna-be virgins. Or guilty people trying too hard to look innocent. Remember when Lindsay Lohan wore it in court.”

  I roll my eyes. “So what do you think I should wear?” Shopping bores me.

  Aubree picks out three dresses and starts walking toward the fitting room. “Come on.” She pulls me inside and sits on the little seat in the dressing room.

  Aubree and I think nothing of getting naked in front of each other, even now, while we’re within inches of each other in the dressing room. It’s an obvious side effect of what we do. She zips me up in the back.

  “Your boobs look amazing,” she says. “I’m so jealous.” Aubree’s breasts are fake and sometimes it’s an issue with clients. No human invention can ever truly replicate a woman’s breasts. Or at least that’s what my clients tell me.

  “I think it’s great that Jack’s buying you clothes, more importantly that he’s letting you pick them out. But seriously, have you done the math on this relationship? It sounds like you have to be available for the dates he specifies. Being available when they dictate has its own price.”

  “He’s hardly asked me to do anything,” I say.

  “Right,” she says

  “Really.”

  “Do you ever hit ‘Ignore’ when he calls?”

  I look down at the dress I’m wearing. “He’s busy, always in meetings. I wouldn’t want to play phone tag.”

  “Mark my words, this is not going to end well.”

  “Can we focus on the dress?”

  “Try on the other two,” she says as she looks at her phone. “I have to meet someone soon.” She digs into her purse for her makeup and powders her nose.

  I want to ask who she’s meeting, but I don’t want to be nosy. Aubree doesn’t react well to being pressed for details.

  “A client?” I ask, unable to control myself.

  “Long story.” She puts on lipstick and checks her teeth in the mirror. Her phone buzzes as if she’s gotten a text; she looks down, and says, “I gotta bounce, sorry.” She throws back the dressing room curtain without regard as to whether I’m suitably zipped up.

  “Wait, which one do you like best?” I ask.

  She turns around briefly. “I still think you should go for the red dress. Maybe you’ll pick up some new business.”

  And she’s gone.

  Aubree rarely lingers. She had confided in me that she has a fear of outstaying her welcome. She moved from one relative’s home to another when she was a child and got the sense that her presence was a burden.

  I select a dress that’s modestly sexy: shows my figure but loose enough to look classy, and enables me to eat a big dinner without my dress bulging in the front.

  Aubree’s words burn. She doesn’t even know Jack or our relationship. Maybe she’s jealous. Although, admittedly, she’s been right about this kind of stuff in the past.

  Thirty

  I rarely take on new clients these days, but I received a reference from another client who I trust, so I agreed to book with Sam.

  Being arrested is a big fear of mine and whenever I have a new client, I get nervous that he might be an undercover cop. By only seeing men that I’ve seen before, this chance lessens. Getting to the point where I take on no new clients would be a big improvement, but I’m not there yet. Most men only occasionally see an erotic masseuse. Let’s face it, it’s an extravagant expense by most people’s standards. In addition, those men who indulge in my services, generally like variety. All this means that it takes a lot of clients to equate to not taking new clients.

  “I told him you’d take good care of him,” my current client said over the phone.

  “Of course.” Minutes after I got off the phone, Sam called to book.

  I form a mental image of my clients-to-be based on their phone voice. Age is often telling in the voice as is weight and respect. And I hate to say it, but heavy people have a hefty voice. I have not returned messages if the guy sounds old enough to be my grandfather, the age of my father (whatever that is) is okay, but I draw the line at grandpops.

  I don’t automatically let all calls go to voicemail (many body rub girls do) and some first-time callers sound creepy enough to get my “sorry all booked” response, whereupon I block their phone (thanks to Google Voice). Creepy comes in different forms: one is a jiggling voice that makes it sound like perhaps they are taking care of business while talking to me, others try to evoke a titillating phone conversation, “So tell me what your rubs are like?” spoken in a husky voice or he manages to fit in sweetie, baby and honey all in one exchange. One time I had a guy ask me to describe my breasts over the phone and another wanted to know if my vaginal lips were large, specifically, did they hang past my panties? Another potential customer asked me if I would shave his pubic hair prior to his rub. The funky requests go on and on and I politely decline and subsequently block.

  Sam, however, sounded normal, nice and business-like as if he was scheduling a dental cleaning. I gave him directions and when I greeted him in the waiting room, he was as I imagined him: late forties, warm smile, bright eyes, professional, and overweight in the way most men his age are when they work long hours and spend a lot of time on the road.

  Once we got into my studio, I started with the usual small talk to ease into things: How’s your day going? Did you find the place okay?

  And then if the guy is still standing and not undressing, I say, “Feel free to take everything off and you can put it on the chair,” whereby I point to an overstuffed purple chair in my room. “We’ll start with you face down. “And I’ll put on some music.”

  Many times, I can tell how often a guy does this sort of thing by how nervous they appear. Some men have small beads of sweat above the lip, others have a wobbly smile. Others just stand there without saying a word until I tell them to undress.

  The experienced take their clothes off before I close the door.

  Sam is comfortably in between, sitting down in the chair right away to take off his shoes and socks first and complimenting me on my studio.

  I undress while he undresses. He chats, managing not to speak directly to my naked breasts.

  Once Sam is in position, I dig deeply into his back.

  “So what do you do for a living?” I ask.

  “I do title work for the oil companies,” he says. I don’t always ask this question, particularly if a guy seems nervous, because often they won’t want to rev
eal anything about themselves and become uncomfortable by my questioning.

  Sam didn’t do a lot of fondling, just talking. He preferred a light scratch, instead of a deep rub. My impression of the light-scratchers is that they tend to be more tender in their touching of me as well.

  Midway through Sam’s session, he begins to grind into the massage table as if making love. I keep about five layers of sheets and towels on the massage table for this very reason.

  “You’re amazing,” he says. “So pretty.” He lifts his head from the donut-shaped head rest, to look at me in the mirror that I have propped up in front of the massage table. He folds his arms under his chin and rests his head there, staring straight ahead into the mirror at my reflection. I’m on the table too, between his legs, and lightly running my hands from his calves to the tops of his shoulders.

  “Could you pose for me?” he asks.

  The only time I ever got this request was back in the strip clubs.

  “Where?”

  “Could you sit in this chair?” he asks pointing to the purple chair.

  “Just sit there?” I ask. I’m hoping he doesn’t want to take a picture, which I don’t allow, but have been asked to do.

  He nods vigorously, still grinding slowly.

  I get off the table, move his clothes to the back of the chair and sit, cross-legged, trying to muster a sexy look.

  He groans and thrusts, then stops suddenly.

  “Are you cold?” he asks. My studio is in an extremely old building and the drafty window is next to me.

  Before I answer, he suggests that I put on my shirt.

  You mean, you want me to cover up my body?

  I oblige and after I put my shirt on, he meets my gaze. He has beautiful green-gray eyes—a color I’ve never seen before—sunk into a sun-beaten brow and a few-days-old facial scruff. His look is intense, penetrating, as I’ve been told I have a readable face, I try to look like I enjoy it. And why shouldn’t I? I don’t have to touch him; he’s not touching me, and I get to keep my shirt on. He’s not even looking at my girly parts, just my eyes. And for some reason this seems way more personal. It’s difficult to let my mind drift like I usually do during the finale, but I can tell I won’t have to wait long.

  Sam’s eyes are glazing over and then finally he does three quick jerks, consummating his relationship with the massage table. The whole time, eye contact never wavers. I get up and do what I usually do—offer him a moist, heated towel and then get dressed. A mere forty-five minutes instead of the typical one hour.

  He thanks me, and leaves the money on the table. I offer him a bottle of water, remind him to make sure he’s gotten everything (clients often leave behind small items like sunglasses or a baseball cap) and he’s gone.

  After he left, I counted the twenties. He left $200, which is a pretty big tip for a forty-five minute session. It’s times like these that I think it will be nearly impossible to quit entirely. My studio rent is fairly cheap—$250 per month on account of the landlord’s advanced age and preoccupation with the doomsday predictions from the Mayan calendar, which makes him care little about raising our rents to keep pace with current market values. For this reason, even seeing a handful of clients each month is still worth it, particularly big tippers like Sam.

  By the time I get home, I receive a text from Sam: Wow, wow, I mean, seriously, I can’t stop thinking of you.

  These types of post-session texts make me nervous. I mean, after all, how well does this guy really know me? He should not be impressed. And “thinking about you,” feels more like he senses a connection beyond my hand to his crotch.

  “What dress size are you?” Sam writes. I respond. “What shoe size?”

  Uh-oh. I might have a clinger. I reply to each text politely and simply. Sometimes guys are in a post-session glow that triggers an attachment. Usually the feeling fades and they return to normal, not thinking they need to buy gifts. They don’t need to impress me or give me things. I’m just in it for the cold, hard cash.

  Thirty-One

  While I’m having sex with Jack, I often close my eyes and pretend it’s Cole. I’ve never had sex with Cole, not even kissed him, so that makes it easier to pretend that the man I’m with is the one I want to be with. Like I’ve mentioned before, I’m attracted to Jack. I think most women would be, but I get into it more if I think of Cole, which only works when the room is dark or my eyes are closed, because Cole and Jack look nothing alike and are decades apart in age.

  A funny consequence of this is that when I looked at Cole tonight, I felt sheepish as if I’ve used Jack to masturbate to him. I’m thinking this as I’m listening to the sound of corn popping in the kitchen while sitting on the sofa in Cole’s living room.

  It’s Friday night and we both agreed a night of take-out and a movie would be perfect because it’s been a hectic week and it’s freezing outside. And Analise is sleeping upstairs. We all had dinner together and I put Ana to sleep in his guest bedroom. Cole and I have slept over each other’s places before and by no means is it a segue to sex. Cole has seen me in the morning in pajamas from when I dated his roommate and slept over.

  Cole comes back into the living room with a large bowl.

  “Thanks,” I say as I take a cloth napkin from his hands.

  “Air-popped,” he says with a wink. I’ve warned Cole about the chemicals in microwaved popcorn. It’s not just women who can get breast cancer. I even helped him along by getting him an air popper—an increasingly rare household item.

  He sits close to me, but not touching and I can feel the heat from his body.

  “Are you cold?” he asks. He gets back up to turn on the gas fireplace.

  My mind wanders to my last session with Jack after our night at the restaurant, we went to my studio and although it was supposed to be just a night for a body rub, it led to more. My hope is that that qualifies as one of our one-night-a-week of sex.

  I wonder what it would be like to kiss Cole—deeply— with him removing my clothes and sliding his hands down to my bare hips. I look up and smile, feeling guilty.

  “What’s up? You look like you have something on your mind?”

  I shake my head and stuff a bunch of popcorn in my mouth.

  “Ready to watch the movie?” I ask after I swallow. We’re going to watch Run Lola Run.

  The fireplace is warming the living room quickly. Cole pauses and then takes off his sweater, wearing a fitted t-shirt. He has no idea how the sight of his biceps narrowly exposed in the sleeve drive me crazy.

  “Would you like something to drink? I have wine, beer? Milk?” he says teasingly.

  I tell him I’d love a glass of wine.

  He grabs a couple glasses from his cabinet and brings the bottle back to the living room.

  “No hurry on the movie, let’s sit and talk for a bit.”

  I agree. The fire, the chemical-free popcorn, Cole next to me and my daughter asleep upstairs, it’s all perfect.

  Cole appears to be studying his popcorn. “I was downtown the other day and guess who I saw?” he says with a little wiggle in the corner of his mouth. I’m familiar with this look and it generally means he’s hesitatingly asking this question.

  “When?”

  “Few nights ago.”

  “What were you doing?” I fidget with the napkin.

  “Picking up some supplies for my father. So, aren’t you curious?”

  “Who?” I ask meekly.

  “You.”

  “Really? Did you honk?”

  “No, you looked busy,” he says, pausing.

  “Where’d you see me?”

  “On College Ave.”

  “Walking?”

  He nods slowly. “And holding hands.”

  I take a sip of my wine and shrug. “It was just a date.”

  “You looked pretty cozy,” he says, leaning back on the sofa. “Like it wasn’t a first date.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he le
ans forward.

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure it’s going to go anywhere.”

  “He looked old enough to be your father.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Maybe even grandfather,” he says. “Let’s just be honest with each other.”

  “I didn’t think it was important.”

  He gives me an are-you-kidding expression.

  “I didn’t think you’d care.”

  “You didn’t? With all the time we’ve been spending with each other?”

  “I don’t know why I didn’t mention it.”

  Cole puts his palms up. “I’m not saying you owe me anything. It’s not like we’re dating. I wonder why you didn’t mention it.”

  “He’s an old client from the strip club,” I say, not really sure this is the best response, but feeling the need to explain with a half-truth. Of course, it was Jack.

  Cole opens his mouth in surprise, closes it, and then gets up and goes to the kitchen. I hear the faucet turn on, the cupboards open and close harshly and feel like I’ve ruined the night. I want to tell Cole that he’s the one I want to date, but I can’t because he might actually want to date and I’m not in a position to quit Jack or any of my other clients. And I won’t ever cheat on Cole. He doesn’t deserve that and I guess that means I don’t deserve him.

  He’s making a racket in the kitchen and part of me thinks he has no business being mad. We’re not dating. For all he knows I just went out one time with a guy I’m interested in, one that’s old enough to be my father, but if that’s what I like then that’s my prerogative. I go into the kitchen and before I have a chance to tell him this, he says, “I thought you were done with all of that.”

  “With what? Dating?”

  “Don’t play dumb, going out with those old, creepy guys who think you’re their girlfriend just because they give you money.”

  “It was just dinner.” It makes me sick to lie to Cole.

  “That’s not the point.”

  “What is the point?” I ask.

  “I just wish you’d make better choices,” he says. “You deserve someone better.”

  “Maybe I don’t,” I say, barely aloud.