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The Sacred & The Profane
What it’s like to work in erotic massage

by By Ms. X

May 05, 2005

After getting out of the shower, the man lay naked on the futon mattress. He was in his mid-40s. Even after the shower, he was still dirty and greasy. He was on his back, with his legs clutched to his chest, raising his butt into the air.



“Spit on me, bitch,” he said.



“If you call me ‘bitch’ one more time I’m not going to massage you,” I said.



Though I did end up spitting on him, I refused to fulfill his next request that I stick things up his butt.



For 11 months, I was paid to “massage” guys like that. It’s funny to me that I went from seeking the love of my life to jacking freaks off. But it was my job.



Maybe it was my year of celibacy before coming to Maui that got me there. I remember turning myself on by reading the adult section in the back of the New Haven Advocate, an alternative paper similar to Maui Time Weekly.



I would mentally place myself with couples searching for an extra partner. Beyond the personals were many ads for escorts. Once I spotted an unusual ad by a “professional gentleman” looking for “Oral Relief.” I created a fantasy from that one in which I discretely entered his plush office, accepted a large wad of cash, sat down with him behind his desk and relieved him. Curious, I called the number in the ad, though my life at the time would not have allowed me to do that. He was willing to be quite generous.



 I looked at sex as a sacred act and did not want to share it with someone I wasn’t going to have children with. At the same time, I developed a vivid fantasy life from those ads, then from internet porn. My fantasies became more involved and eccentric. Daydreaming about being paid for sex added to the effectiveness.



Life led me to Maui. I broke my year of celibacy while on mushrooms at the hostel where I worked. He was older, not quite handsome, and desperate. He also had the smallest penis I had ever seen, and he didn’t know what to do with it. I further humiliated myself by listening to him sing “It’s not the meat/it’s the motion” during breakfast, then watching him hit on every woman around with the confidence our lame lovemaking had created.



 The next person I made love to was my future boyfriend—a possessive, jealous man. But the sex was good and I wanted to be “in-love,” though I should have realized how foolish I was. It was while seeing him that I first saw the ad for “playful bodyworker.”



When I mentioned the ad to him I must have been rebelling in some way. “I’m going to find a woman who makes me feel like a real man,” he said.



I wished him luck, then called the number in the ad.



The owner answered the phone and described the work in very general terms. The ladies worked topless, providing full body massage that culminated in a “release.” Her voice was girlish and melodic. I pictured her speaking from a lovely spa surrounded by tropical views. She said the ladies received $70 from the $130 charged for an hour massage. I made an appointment for an interview.



 My illusions of the luxurious goddess temple shattered upon arrival. The owner welcomed me to “Maui’s version of the back alley,” a very basic two bedroom apartment on the North Shore. The place was neat, decorated with a hodge-podge of furniture and wall hangings that were a little outdated. My new boss said she had been in the adult business on and off for 20 years.



“How many times have you ended relationships with men and got nothing?” she asked. “You might as well get paid for it.”



She described a typical massage, which would be the easiest. The masseuse would answer the door in lingerie, then show the customer to one of the rooms. After he paid she’d escort him to the shower, allow him time to get comfortable on the futon mat on the floor, then remove her teddy or robe and give him the massage. For $50 extra, she’d get completely nude.



The best-case scenario was the man laying down and enjoying the massage, then flipping onto his back about halfway through for a “happy ending.” In actuality, she said, most men would want more.



Oral sex and intercourse were prohibited, but of course clients asked. There would also be encounters with rude, unattractive, unrelenting and troubled men. I had once been a nurse’s aid, so I had experience with many kinds of people. I also believed in unconditional love and treating people with kindness. I believed I could do sensual massage.



 My first day was slow. I paced nervously in a lacy bra, trying to keep it together. Thankfully the first massage I ever gave was with my co-worker as part of a four-handed team. The man was like molten testosterone under our touches and he “released” in 20 minutes. I became so turned on during the encounter that my legs were wet. It was so simple and easy. There was money in my pocket and a fantasy made true.



 The best experiences I had happened that first month. Since the energy of it all excited me, I found the work easy. I loved wearing lingerie and it gave me that opportunity. The men enjoyed the sessions because I enjoyed them. I loved touching people.



“Jesus holy Christmas tree!” one customer exclaimed repeatedly during an extended orgasm.



The regulars were addicted to the service and probably spent thousands in a month. Many were married. Most were in their mid-40s and up, and far from handsome.







The boss booked appointments with tame clients for women who were starting out. Men made appointments by calling the same day and hearing descriptions of the women and choosing by what they heard.



Ages were usually exaggerated. For instance, my boss advertised women in their mid-30s as “late-20s.” Large breasts, slender bodies and youthfulness were big selling points.



I didn’t agree with the approach, feeling that all women are beautiful. I began getting annoyed with men who called and asked, “Who has the biggest titties?” But worse was to come.



One guy came to the door wearing sweatpants up to his nipples, cinched by a studded belt, and a dog collar. He carried a satchel of toys and brought us muffins—infused I’m sure with a special ingredient—that were wrapped in Subway napkins.



Another regular, an older guy who visited every week, liked me to pose in the room’s mirrors so it would appear that I was taking it from behind or orally pleasing him. To keep an erection he put on a belt normally used to hold a strap-on dildo. He nearly had heart attacks when he came.



The women I worked with were between their early-20s and early-50s. The turnover rate was high. There were usually eight women on the schedule at any given time. Two women shared each shift.



Competitiveness and insecurities often plagued the atmosphere. Beautiful young women worked with haggard ladies supporting drug habits. Some were just crazy. One woman came to work with stitches and bruises from her abusive boyfriend. Listening to her was torturous. She was a mother and would talk about performing oral sex in her car for money while her baby was in the back seat.



My boss didn’t condone such behavior, but she spoke openly about it and it was quite obvious that she was breaking the rules as well. Her drug dealers came to the business and she’d get into fights with her loser boyfriend. One lady—who stood 5'6" and weighed 90 pounds—was so wasted on pills she once passed out on a client.



 But I also worked with some loving, beautiful women who were solid in their expressions. Any man would have been honored to receive their graces. Even the crazy ones became sisters. Though we all had our different approaches, we all saw the same men naked.



Though I never considered myself a prostitute, I essentially was. But I usually told people what I did for a living. I have read about priestesses in the past who became sacred prostitutes to keep men open to love. Often it was required before marriage. I guess some of us are priestesses in this life, though a little lost.



 Men in sessions would beg for sex, which I thought ruined the whole experience.











Often, men who started out nice would turn reptilian after getting sex during sessions with looser women. One really nice guy was blown away after my first session with him, proclaiming that the power of touch was awesome. But then he received oral sex from another lady.



“Ain’t you gonna suck it?” he asked during our next session.



I was pinned down on a few occasions, forced to push away liquor-laden tongues, probing fingers and other appendages. I did not encourage those men to ever see me again.



Fortunately I attracted a few regulars who treated me with respect and tipped well. I loved the humble gentlemen who knew what to expect and enjoyed it for what it was. I agreed to meet some of them later, outside of work. On a few occasions I had intercourse during these outcalls.



The money was huge, though sometimes I’d walk away feeling separated and out of control. I was prostituting myself, but I still felt that love shined through.



 By now I was only having a few sensual experiences of my own outside of work. Not many men could handle being with a woman who handled so many penises. I was drained. I looked different, as if I had aged years in just a few months. I forgot my joy.



The day I had to pop a couple of Vicodins to make it through work was also the day I realized that my job was taking me down. I started feeling grossed out at the thought of seeing my regulars again. Though I had come to know them, it hit me hard that I would never choose to be with them if didn’t pay me.



My boss only cared about the money, not my comfort or well-being. I had no control over who I might have to spend an hour massaging. The fun was gone, the novelty worn off, just as masturbating to porn became boring years ago.



No amount of money seemed enough to cover the loss of my soul. I woke up one day and thought, screw it. I went to the beach instead.



Since I quit I’ve seen some my old clients around the island. One of them offered to pay quite a bit of money to continue sessions, but I declined. Perhaps another round of celibacy is in order until something besides money tantalizes me. MTW