I remember the first time someone implied that I was a sex worker in scrubs. He got a gleam in his eye when I told him that I worked as a massage therapist. I had been sitting in a coffee shop, minding my own business, enjoying a latte and a book, when this older guy sat next to me and asked me what I was reading. We chatted for a bit—he seemed nice enough. That is, until the conversation came around to what each of us did for a living. He told me that he was a lawyer at this prestigious firm. I could tell that he was trying to impress me by name-dropping some big clients and talking about billable hours.
I told him that I was a newly licensed massage therapist and that I was really happy to be starting my career; I was going on about wellness and the whole mind-body connection and the undeniable growth of the self-care wellness industry, when he raised his eyebrows, leaned in close to me, and said, “Oh, you work at a massage parlor?”
I explained to him that calling it a parlor was offensive in today’s world, and he let me know how tired he was of being called “offensive.”
Most clients were respectful and seemed to understand that very few sex workers hid behind the professional label of massage therapist. I wasn’t na?ve and knew where the stereotype came from—that work was its own lane on another highway. I had nothing against women who decided for themselves to be sex workers and, out of respect for their choices, I hoped they could work safely, with self-determination. There had been a recent bust of a little massage place on the other side of town, and that shook me up a bit. I had applied for a job there before Mali hired me, and I got the creeps thinking about how close a call that might have been for me. It also made me appreciate my boss even more. The way she ran a tight ship, looking out for our best interests.
I prided myself on professional relationships with all my clients. Was I crossing the line with Kael? I tried hard to focus on the treatment I was providing, without so much as a gratuitous glance at his body, no matter how difficult that was. I had never thought about a client in this way before, and I wasn’t going to start. Well, it had already started, but it wasn’t going to continue. As he lay on his back with his eyes closed, I tried to distract myself with physiology, by naming all the chest muscles. Pectoralis major. Pectoralis minor. Serratus anterior. I remember learning in class that women are biologically wired to prefer men who have strong chests and shoulders, something about testosterone levels. So, really, I wasn’t being inappropriate. It was biology.
Kael’s voice cut through the dark, surprising me. “This is a great song.”
I wanted to tell him that Kings of Leon was one of my favorite bands of all time and that their first album was the closest thing to a masterpiece my ears had ever heard. But after he left last night’s conversation—again without an explanation—I was done opening up to him. And certainly not in this setting.
When I finished working on the top of his thigh over his pants, I moved up to the end of the table where his head rested. My fingertips trickled down his scalp, pressing firmly against the soft tissue of his neck. His eyes, which had been closed when I worked on his legs, opened slowly.
I fought my impulse to ask where he went last night or why he came here today. I decided to try to keep my tantrum to myself and not let it spill out.
I skated my fingers down his chest, circling around the span of him. The way his tight muscles felt breaking up under my fingertips, I could almost feel the tension releasing as I touched him. This was the best part of my job, seeing the relief of any type of pain. That’s why I did this.
“You’re quiet today,” Kael said.
My hands stopped moving.
“You haven’t said much,” I countered.
“I just said I like the music.”
I rolled my eyes, pursing my lips together. “Bravo for having good taste in music?”
“Wow. Attitude is strong today,” he said in a playful tone.
“Sorry, I’m tired and hungover.” I’d thought of the easiest excuse. “You saw how much I had.”
He was quiet for a few beats of the song.
Kael’s hand shot up from under the blanket, his fingers wrapping around my wrist. I definitely wasn’t expecting him to touch me. It made me take a step away, but not so far that he had to let go. His fingers were as warm as a towel out of the heater, pressed against my pulse. I knew it was pounding under his fingerprints. My insecurities told me he was searching for a weak spot.
I had so many things to say. So many things to ask. But my thoughts were blocking my words. I didn’t have a clue of what he had locked away in that head of his. I didn’t know where to begin processing everything about him, especially what happened last night. I genuinely didn’t know if I had created something in my head and was reading the entire situation wrong. The more I swiped through the memories of the night, the more blurry they became.
“Look.” He sat up, still gently holding my wrist, his thumb brushing my palm. His touch made me dizzy, and I thought for a moment he might reassure me with some actual answers.
“I’m sorry that I left last night. Something came up and I had to go. I had to be there.”
I freed my arm from his grip. “Something you can’t talk about? Why can’t you tell me what was going on?”
His brow raised. “I don’t know. I didn’t really think about it.” He looked down at his hands. I wasn’t sure if that made it worse or better that he didn’t think about how that made me feel.
“I’m, um, not the best at this. I don’t usually get into confrontation with my friends. And if I did, we would handle it the way soldiers do—physically, until someone apologizes.”
“How mature.” I rolled my eyes. Combat soldiers were forever mentally sixteen when it comes to fighting. I knew they were trained to be that way, but it didn’t make it less obnoxious.
“I’ve talked to you more than ninety percent of the people I know,” he said, leaning back on his elbows, putting more distance between us.
I started pacing around the small room. Friends? Even though I knew damn well we were just that, if that.
“I’m not asking you to be my boyfriend or tell me where you are at all times, I don’t have the space for complication in my life right now,” I rambled. “You come and you go, and I’ve had enough of that in my life. I know we just met, but—” I stopped myself from continuing. I didn’t even know what I was going to say, and that scared me into silence.
When he realized I wasn’t going to continue, he spoke.
“Got it. I’ll communicate better next time and try not to add stress to your life. Don’t worry, I’ll only be here for a few more months . . . at most.”
I processed his statement. It was a cup of cold water splashed against my face. In that moment, I was so glad he was looking toward the wall and not at me. It made it so much easier to answer him.
“Ah, yeah, only a few months.”
I felt myself shrinking again, knowing that I made a big deal out of nothing. We are at most temporary friends. He’s leaving and I have enough shit to sort out in my life without worrying about men in any capacity. Like, what the hell am I even doing with my life?
“Let’s agree to enjoy each other’s company until you leave,” I suggested, as a kind of truce.