Thursday, January 24, 2013

Should I date my erotic masseuse?

If you're asking yourself this question or googling it, you are not alone. However, it's a terrible idea.

For one, can you ever forget what she used to be? Who could hold back from computing how many cocks she's had her hands around?

Secondly, it's impossible to know how she really feels. She's getting paid to touch you. I think some clients get this sense that because we're intimate, that we're intimate, forgetting that they just put a bunch of twenties on the table. Honesty is not the best policy in sex work. She might think you're cute; she might wonder why you're here; she might even look forward to seeing your name come up on her phone, but she probably doesn't wish to have a relationship, not a free one. It's difficult to separate the notion of getting bills paid when it comes to clients.

I have to tell myself these things, too. Because at times I so enjoy my time with Jack that I forget it's a paid relationship. I forget that he's married and goes homes to someone else and somehow it bothers me to think that he's having sex with her too. Ridiculous, right?

For right now, I'm just glad he invited me to one of his work functions. I'm not sure how he gets around the obvious fact that I'm not Mrs. Jack, but he's given me some money to buy a dress and Aubree has happily agreed to go with me.

Monday, January 14, 2013

Today I Was Turned On

As you know, I get asked often, mid-session, to be specific, usually while my hands are wrapped around a client’s penis, to be even more specific, “Do you get turned on?” or “You must get sooo turned on.”

The interrogator is usually breathless, erect, and occasionally sweaty. The truth could cause a flatline. And a flatline generally extends a session ten minutes due to futile resuscitation until someone calls it. Deceased. Time and Date. Put the hand paddles away.

So I LIE to prevent a penile cadaver. I want my clients to leave happy, stress-free and fully satisfied and overcooked-linguine dicks make everyone sad. So, what’s the harm in a tiny fib? Nothing, I say, but sometimes, I am shocked to realize that, in fact, my lady juices are flowing and I am turned on.

Today was one just day.

It’s worth repeating: I am always floored when a client can turn me on. Talk about a cadaver...that’s me. But every once in a while, a guy will bring me back from the dead. And his name was Ethan.

I was in a poor-me mood this morning as a result of some disturbing medical-related news. And as a tiny tangent—since when have hospital secretaries been left with the task of telling a woman, a young woman, a woman who makes her living off her tits, that she needs to come back for diagnostic breast screening because her last mammogram revealed a potential “mass.”

Mass is never a good word, not when it refers to church, and not when it refers to something in your right breast. And particularly not when it comes from the lips of a secretary eating a rather juicy-sounding apple over the phone when this news is delivered. Apparently being a secretary has its benefits, because if the woman on the other end of the phone (i.e. me) goes into a tailspin at the possibility of losing her tits and therefore livelihood, the secretary can simply dismiss the conversation, saying, “I’m sorry, I can’t answer those questions, because I’m just the secretary.”

But I digress. Back to Ethan. Understandably this news left me wondering: What good are breasts, really? When was the last time my breasts made me feel good? And with the exception of eight months of breast-feeding Analise and the accompanying insane calorie-burning of this breastfeeding, my breasts seem like nothing more than a hindrance, body-rub income notwithstanding. A hindrance, indeed, particularly when one has a family history of breast cancer. At a Very Young Age.

I had seen Ethan before, but due to an iPhone/iCloud mishap, many of my phone numbers were lost and therefore I didn’t realize it was Ethan The Hot Client that called to schedule. He indicated that he had seen me in November and wanted to see me today. Sure, how about 2? He agreed.

It was a silver lining when I went to the waiting room and realized my 2 o’clock was The Ethan.

Part of Ethan’s charm is what we have in common: skiing, migraines, elementary-school aged children, and custody issues. He’s a classically good-looking guy: brunette, toned, neatly shaved, and within a decade of my age.

“Can I touch you?” he asks, as he is face up with me on the massage table rubbing his thighs—with me positioned in between his thighs.

Please do!

“Of course,” I say.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says.
Not a chance.

For my well-behaved clients, I do a front body slide, allowing my breasts to touch their stomach, penis—whatever sticks up.

At this point, I was thinking the things I normally ponder while my tits are tickling a man’s naked body: When will the cold snap break? Will I have time to go to the bank before I pick up Ana from school? Will the bank have those cookies and should I snag a couple for my daughter? Like I said, I’m a corpse.

I was enjoying Ethan’s touches though; he was lightly putting his hands on my hips as I moved over him. Nothing too grabby.

“Can you touch your nipples with mine?” he asks. I can’t say that I get this request often. Nipple-touching is a very individual thing for men, I have discovered in my empirical research. Some men love it and others find it highly annoying. I would’ve guessed Ethan to be a non-nipple guy due to his highly sensitive foot arches, which I mistakenly massaged without warning and nearly received a knee to the nose.

“Sure,” I say, as he opens his thighs a little more so that I have room to slide up without wetting my panties.

We were a good nipple-to-nipple match. And that is exactly when the thaw occurred. His arms embraced me a little closer and eventually my arm muscles gave out and I collapsed on his chest. His breathing deepened and I sensed he also wasn’t too concerned about time. He smelled like a campfire and his arms felt solid and protective. On a day like today, it’s everything I wanted.

This all leads me to the conclusion that my breasts do still provide me with immense pleasure.

I hope I get to keep them.

Sunday, January 13, 2013

Four-hand Erotic Massage with George

This post can be found in my book, Confessions of an Erotic Masseuse, available for 99 cents on Amazon.

Sunday, January 6, 2013

Are Body Rubs on Backpage Illegal?

In short, if you live in the United States, yes.

I always like to take a look at the search terms people used to find my blog and the heading question as well as "Are Craigslist massages legal?" are two popular ones. Craigslist massages are probably just body rubs advertised in a more subtle way. Most legit masseuses don't advertise there, or at least that's been my experience.

So why is it illegal? You can't pay someone to handle your junk. And calling it compensation of time probably won't go over in court very well. I mean, really, judges aren't stupid. I was also surprised to learn that kissing someone for money is illegal, specifically it falls under the definition of prostitution.

What is legal, from what I've read, though I don't claim to be the authority, is getting nude and masturbating, even in front of someone. So if you want to keep your rub legal, you could always self-service, but what's the fun in that?

Personally, I don't worry to much about the legalitites. I think it's something the police are willing to look over as long as I'm not pimping. And usually by the time I get to the end of the rub, the guy is so turned on, that I think that would someone be a conflict of interest if he were a cop. That's what I tell myself, anyway.

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

New Year's Resolution: Get More Pussy in 2013

I'm guessing from the amount of phone calls I've gotten since the new year, that getting more action might be a 2013 resolution. And, as always, I'm grateful for it. I took some time off around the holidays and like everyone else, I'm back to work, hoping for a fiscally stronger year.

Although my ad says "No texts," I still get plenty of them. If I've seen the client before, I'll definitely respond. If I haven't, my response is based on my mood I guess. If the texter simply writes, "Hi," then forget it.

In any case, a former client sent me the following text: "Hi Alexa, Stuart here, been to u twice before, good massage. Wondering if there is a next level massage?"

I like the way he phrased this: next-level massage. Unfortunately, there really is no more levels than me topless and the client getting a release, but of course the text left me curious. I'm not sure how many more levels you can have about what I offer without it being sex. In which case, it's no longer really a massage. I get these sorts of questions a lot, usually not in a text though. Usually in the midst of the rub, a client will ask "What other services I offer?"

Some men are okay with the standard FBSM, others need more. Some, like Randy, are okay with a FBSM the first couple of times, but like a drug, they need more to get the same level of satisfaction,
Unfortunately, I won't be responding to his text. I've generally found that guys who want more than what I offer don't end up being very satisfied customers.