Massage Parlor Memoirs

[el_victorino]

I thought it was interesting. Found it on sex scrolls dot net.





Massage Parlor Memoirs
Sex work in the 70s




False Eyelashes & Fresh Towels



By nineteen seventy-seven, I had been working at the massage parlor for just under a year, learning the sex trade from a safe spot. The place was clean, pretty groovy in its d?cor and best of all, there was a bouncer.


I started as a front desk hostess. I?d book the girls? time slots and make sure they all cleaned up their session rooms after they were done. I inspected and reported and made sure laundry was done. I worked reception with this other woman. I remember how beautiful she was with long dark hair and bangs that framed her eyes in the most exotic way. She had a very sweet smile and greeted the ?guests? as though they were all her favorite. She?d been working there two years when I started, her savings going toward paying the tuition for the degree she was taking.


The place had more red shag carpeting than I had ever seen or ever saw again. It was the seventies. Shag was still stuck to walls and headboards. The lobby was actually cool though, with tiffany swag lamps and nice settees; very clean and inviting.


The rooms were each a theme or so they strived for the idea of a theme. Mostly it had to do with color schemes. Each room had a shower, cleaned thoroughly after each client had gone. There were always plenty of clean white fluffy towels and glass doors for maximum sanitary conditions. The place, at any given time, was spotless. No mold or damp towels or musty smells anywhere; clean and inviting and very non-sleazy. To have it otherwise was business suicide in those days.


Most of the session rooms were done in dark blue walls, massage tables and or waterbeds (it was the 70s), soft flowing draperies and pretty rolled towels. (I once asked the other receptionist why the towels were rolled. She laughed and said she?d asked the same thing. She said she was told it was because you could unroll them faster than unfolding them. She assumed I knew why they?d need unrolling fast. I did.)


Clean white linen lay over the table, waiting for the next body, the next illicit act.


Part of my job was to make sure the gentlemen knew what we required. Payment up front, a shower was mandatory and use of condoms at all times.


Of course the House didn?t ?know? about any sort of sexual behavior. We were a massage parlor. We gave body rubs. If anything else occurred, that was strictly between the young lady and her client. We assigned them their ladies unless they asked for a specific one. The girls weren?t allowed to sit out in the lobby. They were in a staff room at the back. Fairer that way.


The women all got along, but you could feel an underlying tension. Even though we sorted the clients among them equally, they knew why they were here and it was all about the money. Most of the time, they laughed and enjoyed each other?s company. They redid hair or nails or gossiped about the latest client. We kept them quiet, but sometimes it felt like a den mother?s job.


I remember one woman who was about ten years older than the average woman there and was gay. She detested men but you wouldn?t know it by her earnings. She did well. She had those weird false nails that were so long you wondered if she did herself a mischief when she wiped. She was bleached blond and wore false eyelashes that were way too long for her face. There was always lipstick on her teeth. Red lipstick. She never wore any other color.


She had her regulars. We always figured it was the masochists who asked for her. She was brutally rude to men in general and some of them just ate it up. She made very good money and I came to know her well enough to know she had the most generous heart. If one of the women didn?t get any ?tips? on a shift she worked, she made sure she bought that woman dinner or paid her cab, whatever was needed.


She ended up marrying a gay guy we all knew. A sweetheart who wanted to appear straight to his parents. She had her reasons for wanting to be married?much the same as his. They were perfect together. As far as any of us knew, the marriage lasted.


Her eyelashes would always be lifting at the corners.


Lots of us still wore false eyelashes back then. There was a trick to it and some never got the hang of it. They ended up with clumps of glue or ends that lifted. Some of us really got it right and they'd end up looking damn near perfect. One of the women taught me how to apply them with a method that never failed me.


It?s funny, the things we remember. The details. I haven?t worn false eyelashes since the beginning of the 80s. But if I had to put on a pair, I know they?d go on right.

[el_victorino]

Massage Parlor Memoirs
Sex work in the 70s




Can You Hear Me Now?



As a hostess at the massage parlor, one of my jobs was to ?knock out? a session. In other words, I had to mark the time the girl and client went into their session room and knock them out when the client?s time was up.


We?d knock discreetly. Well, as discreetly as we could, considering all the session doors opened onto a central hall. Knock on one door, all rooms heard it. Needless to say it caused some confusion.


One of the women that worked there was partially deaf. Anna heard well if her good ear was toward the noise. However, if her deaf ear was toward the noise, she could not hear it. This little glitch ended up creating more than a few interesting moments during knock out times.


One evening, Anna and two other women had sessions. Anna?s client was a particularly nervous little man. He constantly looked guilty when he was there.


I?d put them in the main three rooms, session rooms we always filled first because they were the nicest. One of the other women had her knock out time and I gently rapped on the door. She didn?t answer, but I heard a loud thump from another of the rooms. I couldn?t tell if it came from Anna?s room or the other, but it wasn?t from behind the door I?d knocked on.


Again I knocked, a little louder this time. I heard the thump again, only this time much louder, followed by a string of invectives fit for the docks.


Annie came charging into the hall, covered by the white linen sheets we used on the massage tables. She held the shirt with one hand and rubbed her tailbone with the other. Her client hopped out the door on one foot, attempting to pull his trousers on while managing to get his tie around his neck. He looked frantic and fearful.


Annie yelled at him to get out, which he did, post haste. He shouted something over his shoulder about seeing her next week (they had a standing appointment) and made a beeline for the door.


She continued the tirade as I pushed her into the girls? lounge and went to get her dress from the session room. When I returned, she?d let the sheet drop and her rather perfect behind was beginning to show bruising.


I was infuriated. Annie, still nursing her bruised backside began to laugh. Being half deaf all her life, her laugh was very loud. I?m not sure why but it could be heard all over the House. I looked at her like she?d gone mad. Mad Annie, I decided was a spectacular new nickname for her.


She pulled her dress on, wincing as it slid over her butt. I asked her what might be so funny, but first I wanted to know if her regular had hurt her. She shook her head no and went on to explain to me that the first time I knocked for the other girl, I had startled her and she ?bit down?, causing her client to jerk on the table, thus thumping it on the floor. The second knock (apparently occurring during her climb up onto the massage table) gave her client such a start that his head smacked hers and she fell off the table backwards, thus the tailbone injury.


I sent her home and had her room cleaned.


The following evening, a delivery came for her. She received a dozen beautiful deep red roses and a heating pad?and a check for three hundred dollars.


She penciled his name back onto the schedule.

[el_victorino]

Massage Parlor Memoirs
Sex work in the 70s




Shag Money



One of the parlor?s owners decided to redo the oldest of the session rooms. It happened to be the largest and had a larger than usual massage table in the center. The room featured an old fountain in the corner and Mr. NoTaste decided to leave the fountain.


He redid the walls with?you guessed it, shag carpeting. That hideous deep red that shouted whore house. Not limiting himself to the floor and walls, he carpeted the ceiling. The room was resplendent with shag.


He also gilded the room?s sparse furniture entirely in gold, thick gooey paint that he just knew was sure to last.


I kept telling him the rest of the House looked great, without being overdone. I also reminded him that when he laid carpeting on the ceiling, it would have to be vacuumed like the walls. Shag (as anyone who can remember it knows) holds dust like a bitch.


He didn?t care. He saw himself as a talented decorator. His partner was the one who?d picked out the rest of the interior. Unfortunately the partner was in London when this guy made his decisions.


After he?d finished the work (mid evening on a Friday?busy time) I stood leaning against the doorframe looking into the newly decorated room. Let me just say that this man thought south-western to be the height of sophistication, so he had arranged cacti around the stone-look fountain. It sat near the only window in the room, a narrow, shadowed window, replete with the old stained glass of the original Victorian architecture. I loved that window but it failed miserably with the newly hung bamboo roll-ups.


I held my sleeve over my mouth and nose to keep out the harsh chemical smell of the carpet glue and with a glance at the now-red-shag overhead, I shook my head and stepped back, shutting the door to that awful space. Even the old d?cor sang with semi-classic charm against this mess. He readied himself to leave, saying something in passing about the glue drying quickly and that the room should be ready to use in just a little while. Yes, sure, I thought. Twat.


Clients were complaining of the smell and we had two and three waiting for sessions with the women in the remaining five rooms. Not the best time to have a room unusable, not to mention the stench in the upstairs hall.


By the time I got to the main floor, I found general calm with Sophie, the other hostess bringing order out of the chaos. I?d opened all the windows upstairs (thank god it was summer) and hoped we could get that room usable soon.


A client stood in front of the reception desk, getting a credit card out of his wallet while trying to describe the kind of girl he wanted. He had that insistent tone of a guy who is rarely told ?no?. You?ll take what you get, buddy?.and like it, I thought.


I told him that unless he?d had a session and could describe her to me or he knew her name, he?d be having his session with the next lady in rotation. His double chin tripled as he harrumphed and I thought the top his head might just blow off.


Suddenly I heard a dripping sound and it seemed very close to me.


I looked up as the next drop hit the floor at the front of the reception counter. The trail of water was unmistakably coming from the newly decorated room. I sent one of the girls up to shut off the fountain and she screamed as she got to the door of the room. Sophie stayed at the desk while I ran up hoping it was just another ordinary histrionic day at the House.


Getting to the door of the room, I knew that wasn?t the case. The hallway shag carpeting was squishy with water, but inside the acid-test-gone-wrong room, the shag carpeting on the ceiling now lay over the fountain and massage table. The gooey glue made it impossible to get over to the fountain to turn it off.


Slipping only a few times, we got the ceiling d?cor rolled back instead, finally uncovering the fountain. The cacti he?d so carefully placed in the shag room with the Victorian window had been knocked into the fountain, heartily clogging the drain. It was a mess. We shut the fountain off and left, our feet squishing in the soaked shag carpet, that felt like a scummy pond bottom.


When I got back to the front desk, Mr. ThreeChin stood at the counter, obviously infuriated but too worked up to leave without our services. He was still grumbling about not having a parade of ladies to show him. I looked at Sophie and she just shrugged, laughed and returned to taking Mr. ThreeChin?s money.


The women refused to sit in the lounge upstairs because of the soaked rug (nothing worse than a bunch of high-maintenance women with a water problem) and so were there for the grumbler to see. I could tell he had a real thing for one of them and couldn?t help but laugh at it not being her turn.


He grumbled all the way up the stairs, but he still disappeared for the hour he?d purchased with the shapely redheaded ?masseuse?.


The room was redecorated?tastefully, by the other partner. No shag on the walls or ceiling, but he couldn?t resist red shag on the floor.


At least he ditched the fountain.

im not reading all this shit:

Fuckin Foetus broke my rep. LOL.

[ThatHaole]

tl;dr

Bitches ain't shit but hoes and tricks