Coffee, Tea Or Tug?

“You don’t have a license to massage? Well, how ‘bout you just jerk me off instead then?” I stared at him, hoping to find an I’m just kidding look located somewhere on his face, but unfortunately it was nowhere to be seen. And so it began: my life as a rub and tug receptionist.

Before I continue, I would like to point out what this same man said to the girl who did end up meeting him in a room: “I don’t want to cum when you’re jerking me off because that’s something I do with my wife. So, could you give me a blow job without a condom instead and let me cum on your face?” Well, as a matter of fact…no.

Prior to my controversial career change, I had been serving coffee at a high-end coffee shop in a shitty part of town. The female customers, in their fur-lined coats, would come far and wide, stepping over drunks passed out on the sidewalks just to get a little foam with their coffees. And the male customers in their tailored slacks would just stare at me without blinking and say things like, “I can’t believe you’re 30 and do this for a living.”

“Me neither, asshole, but that’s fucking life isn’t it?” was my imagined reply, which differed greatly from what actually came out of my mouth: “So, the usual then?” I hated my job with every nerve, tissue, cell, and bone in my body. I wanted to quit. Every goddamn day the thought crossed my mind. I was sick of being belittled.

Knowing I couldn’t stand it for much longer, my roommate, a very sympathetic type, helped me browse through the classifieds. He came across an ad that read, “Receptionist wanted for massage parlor”. We both knew what that meant. While he had himself a good laugh, I sprinted upstairs to make the call.

A few days later and two flights up, I was greeted by a woman who seemed pleasant enough as she invited me in. Upon entering, I was shocked by my surroundings. There was nothing sleazy about the place! In fact, it looked quite cozy. There was a big screen television with cable, a couple of over-stuffed couches, and a stream of sunlight coming in through the bay window. The setting made me feel instantly at home. But that all changed, as soon as my ass hit the couch, when the woman turned to me and said, “You should massage too! You’ll make at least $200 a shift!” Oh, dear God, what have I gotten myself into?

She guided me to a heated room that consisted of a massage table, some towels, oil, rubbing alcohol and plastic gloves. Instead of becoming more nervous as my eyes grazed the materials obviously intended for jerking off men, I became less so. I guess I felt relieved knowing that I’d never need to be in this room, except maybe to clean it.

The owner, a stout, older man, walked in. He seemed pleasant enough too when he jump started the interview by telling me that this would be the easiest job I’d ever have to do, consisting only of answering the phone and doing the laundry. I didn’t even have to clean the room; that was the girls’ responsibility.

And the pay? Better than the coffee shop. Enough said.

I took the job.

As I walked home, I thought to myself, Huh, there wasn’t anything sleazy about him either.

That thought dissipated by the time I heard the message he left on my machine. He mentioned casually that he wanted me to work at his other location instead — which I obviously didn’t know about until that moment. Unfortunately, I was in no position to object. I had quit the coffee shop on my way home.

The place was nothing like the other place. In fact, it was pretty fucking grim in comparison. For starters, the entrance looked like an abandoned 70’s dentist’s waiting room and the receptionist’s room looked like a makeshift office in a warehouse. Contained inside was a tiny TV with only two working channels, a but-fuck ugly, torn up couch, and, to my horror, no window, which meant no sunlight—ever.

The first thing I was told during orientation was that this place was not too long ago an Asian massage parlor, which meant two things: full service and cheap rates. According to the girls, I could expect a ration of men to walk in with their hard-ons all the way up to the ceiling and upon hearing the words Canadian and European, I could also expect to see these men walk out with their heads bowed down low.

The second thing I was told was — oops — there’s no security, which meant I had to be the security. It was a frightening thought. I mean, what can a girl — who is two inches shy of being a midget — do when confronted by a man who had just been refused a $5 blowjob?

Thankfully, the girls kept my mind occupied by sitting with me in the office to talk about their lives and how they ended up there. It wasn’t long before I felt like a momma who wanted nothing but to protect them. Or, I couldn’t help but imagine, like a Madame.

One of the three rooms was located next to the office, and unfortunately for me, its dividing wall was paper thin. I could hear everything. Spanking, slurping, grunting, squealing. They weren’t just rubbing and tugging in there. And when it came to what went on in the other two rooms, the girls told me everything. I soon began to recognize the clients based on what they told me. There was the guy who came in with his camera; he didn’t care who he saw as long as they were willing to take pictures of his erect penis. There was the guy who brought along his bite plate; he picked the girl with the highest of heels to stomp on his balls. Then there was the guy who would always try to sneak a condom in. He wanted whoever was there to let him “put it in just a little bit.” They always said no. There may have been a lot of deviances going on in those rooms, but sex wasn’t one of them.

The girls constantly reminded me that you’d have to be a freak to do what they do; therefore, why wasn’t I doing it? I’d always laugh it off, but I couldn’t help wondering that myself. After all, I was witness on a daily basis to how much money they made. It was tempting. But that temptation didn’t last long; it ended when one girl said to me, “I feel that every time I step into a room, a little bit of my soul gets stripped away.” No amount of money in the world would be worth that.

One day I nearly lost it. An old man came in and paid the standard $40 room fee, which included a 15 minute back rub. For the additional tug, there was an additional fee. He didn’t want to pay that. He wanted an all inclusive deal. Like what he got back when the place was an Asian parlor. In fact, he wanted it so badly that when he started humping the air without giving the girl the money first and was, therefore refused, he jumped up, his pants down at his ankles, and started bellowing out his rights as a cheap bastard. She simply left him there to wallow. When finally he came knocking on the office door, with his pants held tight around his waist, he was downright appalled by the whole system. We were clearly ripping him off and he wasn’t going to leave without a fight.

That was fine by me. I was ready. My position as security was about to be fulfilled. And that’s when it dawned on me: I can tell this customer to fuck off and die and not only would it be expected of me but it would probably mean a raise. Think the coffee shop would ever have such a policy?

In the end, I discovered that my first impression of the owner was all wrong. He was sleazy. Of course he was sleazy: he was the proud owner of a rub ‘n tug, but not only that, he expected all receptionist girls to one day blossom into massage girls. And when he finally realized that this receptionist wasn’t going to be one of them, he fired me.

So, the usual then?