“He’s over there,” the bespectacled late twenty-something says, gesturing at a wide-eyed guy sitting front and center in a BarcoLounger with a red plastic cup in his hand.
I look around the room at the crowd of software engineers, some rotund, many bald, and all relatively polite and plotting internally. This is going to be easy, fun, and lucrative. I really owe Ted for gifting me this one.
I approach the bachelor and say, “What’s your name?” as I tousle his receding hairline. He smiles and says, “Matt.”
I brush his cheek with my fingertips.
“Are we going to have fun tonight?” I ask as I push the lounger back. His eyes get wider and he looks down at my clothed breasts within an inch of his mouth.
One of the guys turns on some loud music, painfully loud as if to cover up his friend’s sudden muteness. A guy shouts, “Touch her ass.”
I turn an ass cheek in his direction, lift my plaid schoolgirl skirt for him to get a good skin-to-skin pat. To encourage him, I pluck my thong. He touches me tentatively as if my buttocks are an electric fence.
He loosens up and moves his hand down my thigh. He smiles, gluing his eyes to the tiny below-the-waist, white cotton triangle. I slide my hand over it and look directly at him, as if he could vicariously feel it, as if I were a tactile ventriloquist. He reaches out and I slap his hand away.
“You need to wait,” I say, shaking a pointer finger at him. Actually what needed to happen was for his friends to begin tipping. Maybe this was their first time. Based on their near immobile stances, it seemed quite possible, and was somewhat endearing.
I get up from Matt’s lap and circle the room, getting close to each guy and guiding my fingers from head to waist, allowing them to touch and smell me. For the less stiff ones, I put both arms around them and whisper in their ears, asking questions such as “What do you want to see tonight?”
“I want to see it ALL,” one bystander says, waving his arm and allowing some keg beer to slosh out.
“Really? Well, I want to see how badly you want to see it all.” I wink, lift my skirt and slip my hand inside the front of my thong. With bulging eyes, he removes some ones from his wallet, the stripper equivalent of “come hither.” Now the party was finally started!
With a couple dollars in my thong, I slowly remove my plaid skirt, allowing a generous amount of hand slithering, as if, even I couldn’t keep my hands off myself. And in this self-titillating state, I couldn’t wait to get my hands on some dick.
I straddle the wide-eyed BarcoLounger resident, without the confines of the schoolgirl skirt. I grind against his bulge and watch it grow. I reach down and press my palm into his crotch, my French-manicured fingertips scratching the fabric, causing his Dockers to moisten.
“Do you want to take off my bra?”
He goes to work on the clasp, grunting and almost sweating in exertion.
“Let me help,” I say, throwing it to the side of the room. I skim my erect nipples across his face and he greedily lunges with an open mouth before I quickly pull back.
I hop off his lap and dance for the crowd, who generously tip me.
Ted was clear that he was running a legitimate business, which meant I was to strip and nothing else. It was illegal to give a hand job or use toys in the strip show. Ted had a “no penetration” policy. It wasn’t clear if all his strippers followed this policy. For me however, I was not running a legal business.
While dancing, I shimmied out of my thong and tossed it to the side. I took turns giving proper attention to his guest, allowing Matt to simmer in his juices before I finished him.
Matt was likely reserved in public and voracious in bed. The way he clamped on to my juicy tit showed he didn’t hold back when he saw what he wanted. My guess was that the spectators were dampening his enjoyment.
I whisper in Matt’s ear, “I’m not done with you. Want to go somewhere private?”
Matt asks one of his friends if he could use his bedroom.
Before waiting for an answer, I take Matt by the hand and lead him upstairs.
“Wait,” he says, pausing on the stairs. “I don’t want to cheat on my fiancée.”
What a sweet guy.
“Don’t worry. We won’t do anything you’ll regret. We’re just going to have a little pre-marital fun.”
Once in the bedroom, I unbutton his shirt and unzip his pants. He dick springs out like a Jack-in-the-Box. He fondles my breasts until I sink down to remove his pants, lingering within an inch of his perfectly manscaped genitals.
He looks down at me with wide eyes and labored breath.
The thing I love about stripping, unlike escorting, is that there was no expectation of services other than undressing. Any touching was considered an extra and something I decided on a case-by-case basis. Mr. Jack-in-the-Box was endearing, groomed, and putty in my petite hands. Eroding willpower usually translated to an emptying of the wallet.
“Will you suck it?” he asks, red-faced.
I shake my head and smile. His fiancée isn’t even a remote thought at this point. With my panties still on, I straddle him in cowgirl position. He closes his eyes and moans, while I gyrate against him. The simulated cowgirl, however, offers the right amount of stimulation to the clit. I lower my body onto his and say, “I’m going to come.”
His eyes open quickly as he looks me in the eye, breathing heavier, and finally expels his breath and whaling in pleasure as I reach orgasm.
Once I get back into the car, I turn the heat on high. I empty my pockets: many fistfuls of dollar bills in varying denominations. It was a fun and lucrative night, although a bit more demanding than doing rubs. I feel vindicated somehow, knowing I couldn’t have done this if Cole and I were together. There’s revenge sex and then there’s revenge sex work.
I admit it, I probably need the help of a therapist.
My phone rings. I look down and see that it’s Cole. What better way to answer his call than with the paw prints of a bachelor party on my body?
“How’s my girl?” he says.
“Okay.”
“I hear you’re having a plumbing issue,” he says.
“Who said that?”
“Aubree called. She said you were hung up at work. Sounds like a real mess,” he says. I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Remember our deal?”
“What deal?”
“You’d let me know if anything needs fixing. You’re not bothering me.”
“Sorry, I thought I could fix it myself,” I say, anxious to get off the phone and call Aubree to find out what she’s up to.
“When’s a good time?” he asks.
“For?”
“To come fix it. A small leak can do serious damage.”
“Right, I guess I’m used to landlords that don’t fix anything,” I say.
“So?”
I look down at my outfit and think of how disappointed Cole would be to see me in a stripper-gram costume. I had told him I was done with all that.
“How about tomorrow?” I say, hoping I’ll be able to reach Aubree.
“See you then,” he says.
I turn on my car, drive around the block, and park. I won’t talk on the cell and drive and I can’t wait until I get home to talk to her.
“What the hell?” I say as soon as Aubree picks up.
She laughs. “You’re welcome.”
“But I don’t have a plumbing problem.”
“Well, that’s easy to fix,” she says.
“What’s the plan?”
“He’s coming over and then we’re all going out. To get drunk. And you are going to seduce him,” she says. “I’ll be there to make sure. I’ll be your seduction sponsor.”
“You’re crazy. He won’t cheat.”
“Who says they’re exclusive?”
Forty
Calvin finally called: you may recall that he was the hot, married, guy I saw. Months ago. I thought we had a good session. I had been thinking about him the other day, wonder
ing if my holiday weight was that obvious, or if the room hadn't been warm enough, or if my massage had been lackluster and perhaps that was the reason he hadn't returned.
He told me today that he kept thinking about me and that's why he had held off on coming back. Oddly enough, I had another client say the same thing to me yesterday.
"That's when you know you're developing feelings," he said. "And so I had to wait to come back."
It's flattering, but bad for business. And a shame, particularly in the case of Calvin because attractive clients are the best part of being a body rub girl. Calvins are rare. In addition, he’s nice, kind, and why in God's name is he coming to see me? And if that wasn't enough, he actually tipped. And then I remember that he’s married and feel guilty for thinking these things.
Calvin is young and wears his wedding band in the session, but usually doesn't talk much about his wife (many do). I don't even know if he has children. But I do know that he's there more for the affection than the hand job. He's a self-service guy, more of a will-you-lie-next-to-me guy. He's clearly on an intimacy diet. And yes, I don't know her side of the story, but from my perspective--topless and hovered over his gorgeously naked body--I don't get why you wouldn't want to cuddle up to that every night.
I will admit to thinking about him after our last appointment and knowing that he was thinking about me too, well that won’t help matters.
"I know I don't know you, but I feel like I know you," he says, which would be a line if I were in a bar, but really, he’s already paid for the session so I'd say "lines" aren't necessary.
I don’t know what to say. I look at him and he’s face up on the massage table. He’s naked, toned and well-groomed and his arm is covering his eyes.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you last time. That’s why I waited before I came back.”
“That was why?” I ask.
He nods with a big smile but still has his arm slung over his eyes. I’m massaging his thighs.
I get on the massage table and work the front of him: legs, pelvis, stomach and as I glide up to his nipples, my body touches his. His breath deepens and I slide back, allowing my nipples to trace the length of his penis.
“I like to think of you seducing me,” he says.
And I like the idea of seducing him, I think. Of course, this is “my job” but this time I’m actually enjoying it; I’m not faking it.
“What do you think about when you’re doing this?”
"Depends on the guy, but I usually think about what bills I need to pay or what to make for dinner."
See that? That's an erotic masseuse trying to play it cool, because I'm actually thinking about how I would love to spend the afternoon hanging out with him. Of course I can't tell him that. I'm not too forward in situations where I actually like a guy (or, God help me—client). In real life, I can't even flirt, or look a guy in the eye that I like. I'm the quintessential romance nerd.
"You make me realize what could have been," he says, which is a sentence that I will be mulling over for the next two weeks, because really I don't know what it means.
I wanted to ask....what exactly could have been, but I couldn’t because I’m also thinking of what could have been for me as well. If I had been smarter about the kind of guys I dated, ones with good jobs and a caring heart instead of the bad boys, then maybe I’d be happily married to a guy like Calvin (or Cole), except that I would be affectionate, unlike his wife. I’d be the kind of wife whose husband wouldn’t need to see a sex worker, but of course I realize that there’s no guarantee of a husband’s satisfaction.
I lower myself so that my body is touching his. He puts his arms around me and pulls me in. We are skin-to-skin and he feels warm. I normally pull back when a client puts his arms around me, but I sink lower and eventually place my body on top of his. Calvin kisses the top of my head and hugs me tighter.
I look at the clock and realize our session is almost over, which is a reminder that it is, after all, just an appointment and perhaps he has somewhere to be: work, wife, or a child’s soccer game.
I give Calvin his release and he’s only slightly erect, like a non-committal boner.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says, leaning up to look at me.
I’ve never had someone tell me that I don’t have to do the release; it’s pretty much a requirement of a body rub. It’d be like going to the dentist and telling her that she didn’t have to clean your teeth because you were there just talk about toothpaste.
I pause and he starts stroking himself in a half-hearted way and then stops.
“Do you want me to do this?” I ask.
“I don’t know. You can just tell me to leave,” he says.
“Don’t leave.”
He’s still and I wait for direction.
I massage his thighs in an upward motion and say, “What do you want to do?
“Everything,” he says, shaking his head.
I laugh. “Within the limitations of what I do.”
“I know, I know.” Without another word, he strokes himself and comes quickly, without a sound or body twitch, matter-of-factly as if he’s scratching an itch.
He looks sad, defeated almost, which isn’t a typical post-rub expression.
I turn, hand him a moist, heated hand towel. He gets up from the massage table and I dress.
“Are you going to be doing this for a while?” he says as he hops on one foot to put his boot on while standing up.
I shrug. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do. This was supposed to be a temporary thing and here I am, years later still doing it.”
I can’t tell if he’s judging me or if he wants to know if he’ll be able to keep coming back to the same person. Many body rub patrons like variety, but Calvin strikes me as the kind that prefers the same woman.
I can’t read his face. He’s one of those people with an unreadable smile. Like he’d smile if he were angry just as often as when he’s amused.
I put my clothes back on.
“It’s hard to give up the flexibility because I have to pick up my daughter at 3:30 from school.” I feel the need to explain. Perhaps he’s wondering why a girl would give hand jobs all day.
“You seem like a nice person. A kind person.”
I like to think so. I mumble a “thanks” and walk over to give him a hug. He squeezes me and quickly lets go.
After he leaves, I feel really sad. I can have intimacy, if you can call it that, for an hour and then it expires. And a guy like Calvin (or Cole) will never be interested in a girl like me. Sex work is the ultimate tramp stamp.
The next day I send him a text message letting him know about a Friday “half-price” special. There really is no special; I want to see, feel, and smell him again. I get no response and feel like a fool.
Forty-One
I look out my kitchen window as I hear a vehicle pull up. Aubree is in her client’s Hummer, the one she’s house-sitting for. She doesn’t knock and clickety-clacks her way up the stone path in her Christian Loubitin’s.
I open the door before she has a chance to knock. She wouldn’t tell me her “plan” over the phone, instead insisting that she’d fill me in when she got to my place, which is a mere thirty minutes earlier than when Cole is supposed to be here to fix the “plumbing problem.”
“Hey,” I say, trying to keep the anxiety out of my voice.
Aubree throws her purse on the couch and it lands with a hefty clatter. “What do you have to drink?”
“How about a glass of Malbec? It’s organic.”
She nods. “This is quite an upgrade,” she says. “Cole is a true craftsman.”
I hand her the glass. “So what’s the plan? Because I don’t have a plumbing problem.”
She walks over to the sink, opens the cabinet underneath, crouches down, fiddles with something and then stands. “Now you do.”
“What did you just do?” I ask.
“Don’t worry about it,” she says.
&n
bsp; “Did you break something?” I ask trying to keep the anger from my voice. Aubree doesn’t seem to have much attachment to things, but to me the kitchen is a gift.
“Stop whining. It’s a little part to fix, but you might want to get a pan for underneath the sink because it’s leaking.”
Rather than argue with her, I just want to prevent further damage, quickly finding a pot and situating it to catch the drips.
“I should never have told you about Cole’s girlfriend,” I say.
“You mean, soon-to-be ex, right? And seriously, are you going to wear that?”
I look down at my argyle sweater and GAP jeans. “Yes.”
“First of all, take the hairband off,” she says, stepping close to me and pulling it out of my hair.
“I like it, it keeps the hair out of my eyes.” I would never wear a headband while working, but when I’m off the clock, I go for comfy over sexy, even when I’m with Cole.
“Maybe you wouldn’t have this problem with him if you’d look a little different when he’s around. You’d never dress like this in front of a client.”
“Fine, I’ll change. I assume we’re going somewhere after Cole ‘fixes’ the sink,” I say with air quotes.
“Yep, I’ll be the designated driver so we can get him loosened up with liquor. I was thinking we’d go to Lucky Joe’s.”
“I could do this by myself.”
“What?”
“Get him drunk and come on to him,” I say.
“But you won’t. Not unless I’m there.”
“I sorta do it for a living....well, not the drunk part.”
“That’s completely different. This is someone you like. You could get rejected,” she says.
I glare at her, but she has a point. It’s not difficult to be a sensual to a 50-something George Castanza look-a-like. “And if I don’t do it?”
She spins on her right high heel. “Oh, you don’t want to do that. Just remember I have your biggest secret.” Her eyes are wide. “Your happy endings.”
I open my mouth in horror. I know the same about her, but I know she doesn’t care who knows. Everyone in her life is either a client or a sex worker. She never speaks of family. The girls at the strip club claimed Aubree had been “hatched,” rather than born.
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