Afterlife spa treatments at luxury funeral home

This week’s Harlotry is a continuation of Cathryn’s attempts to explore the world of erotic massage. Part I is here.

I was not impressed at all with the lack of notice for my first appointment.

I barely had time to rush back to the little basement dressing room, change into shoes that weren’t completely ratty and gross, and gather my nerves before I got the text message from “Marjorie” informing me that my client was at the gate of the apartment complex.

The walk to the gate was a long one. I had no idea whether or not my client was established–and could only hope that if he was a police officer, he would at least be an off-duty one. As scary as the idea of being arrested was, the humiliation of being arrested in such a sleazy, dirty place was almost as horrifying.

When I finally let my client in, though, I was a bit confused by his look of shock.

I decided to push on anyway, and gave him a friendly greeting anyway. “Hello,” I said, “I’m Rosa, it’s wonderful to meet you.”

He was silent, but I enthusiastically directed him to follow me. Once we were in the dank little hallway, my client finally spoke, “I was actually expecting to see someone else,” he told me.

My confusion intensified. “Well,” I replied, “I’m not sure what you’d like to do. I’d be happy to see you anyway, I’m not sure who you were expecting, but no-one else is available.”

“No,” he answered, “that’s okay. I’ll just go.”

It was suddenly clear what had happened. My session had been flipped when the client’s first choice was unavailable, and he hadn’t been informed. I had no idea what to do, so I just showed him out, apologizing profusely. If I hadn’t been trying to get a good story out of the experience, that would have been enough to make me quit on the spot.

While the sex industry may be socially unacceptable in most circles and widely frowned upon by the general public, I strongly believe that all adult businesses should hold themselves to a high professional standard. Bait-and-switching clients is not professional, and it certainly isn’t a good way to build a reputation or keep people coming back. I returned to the basement room and resolved to chat with the owner as soon as I found him.

I had barely sat down on the less-dirty looking of the two dressing room couches when Joe returned.

“Hey,” he said, “I thought you had a guy. What happened?”

“What happened,” I replied, “is that Marjorie flips sessions without telling the client. This guy thought he was going to see someone else.”

This didn’t seem to faze Joe at all. While any reputable owner might have been concerned and asked for more information, Joe flat-out denied it. “No,” he said in a tone that indicated he’d never admit the truth, “she’s not doing that. There’s no reason for her to do that.”

It seemed to me that actually there were several reasons to do such a thing, none of which were good, and all of which made sense only to Joe, but I didn’t have a chance to say anything because right then a pretty Vietnamese girl with dark purple hair and glasses entered, introduced herself as Mia, and immediately started complaining to Joe about the very same thing: when she had worked the past weekend, clients kept showing up, expecting her to be Gia, another girl who apparently worked at the parlor.

Evidently the bait-and-switching was constant and widespread.

Mia grumbled a bit, but quickly seemed to forget about the issue and moved on to gossiping with Joe about girls who used to work at the spa and fielding inappropriate questions about what kind of sexual contact she’d had with former employees. Finally Joe decided he had asked enough invasive questions, walked out of the room, and grabbed her ass on his way to the door.

I was grateful I was sitting on the couch, far out of Joe’s way.

Luckily, about ten minutes later, I got a text from Marjorie informing me I had an appointment with a man named Peter in fifteen minutes. I put on my shoes and went to collect him.

The man waiting outside was not the kind of person I assumed frequented massage parlors. He looked a lot like the kind of men who came to see me at my normal job: middle-aged, probably at least somewhat wealthy, and well groomed. I had expected that most clients would be schlubby and blue collar, but this man looked, well, successful in that way you can’t quite put a finger on.

I greeted him, gave him a hug, and led him into the spa. Joe had informed me earlier in the day that the air conditioning was out, but it had been so early that the heat hadn’t quite become oppressive. Once Peter and I got into the massage room, it was a different story. I hoped it wouldn’t be too much of an issue as I handed Peter the envelope he’d place my fee inside–the temperature was already rising in the least sexy way possible.

Once the fee was safely enclosed, Peter asked what exactly he could get for it. I froze up. He was fully dressed, and outside of the structure of some sort of power exchange, I wasn’t sure how to get him out of his clothes. I suggested we “get more comfortable,” which prompted Peter to ask if he could use the bathroom.

This did not make me feel any better: what if he had realized I was a whore and was calling for backup? Sure, I hadn’t agreed to perform any illegal services, but they could still give me a hard time and totally ruin my massage experience. While Peter was in the bathroom, I hurriedly stripped down to my lingerie in the hopes it would encourage him to follow suit.

Fortunately, my plan was successful! When he got back, he stripped and lay down on the massage table. I started giving him a back rub, but quickly realized he was much more interested in simply talking to me.

It may have had something to do with the fact that the room was now so hot that movement of any kind was unpleasant, or it may have been that he was just more interested in a personal connection, but he told me he didn’t even want a hand job. We sat and talked about the areas of the sex industry I’d worked in for about forty five minutes, and then showered together. When we got back to the little massage room, he got dressed, tipped me an extra fifty bucks, and I walked him out.

The whole session was incredibly strange, and I decided I’d have to work for at least one more day to determine what a normal session would be like. I told Marjorie I’d come in for the next weekend shift and headed home, disappointed and perplexed. I’d hoped my massage experience would be excitingly sleazy and terrible, but instead it was just… anticlimactic?

If it hadn’t been for the fact that I wanted a good story to write about, I never would have gone back.