“Is it safe?”
“How do you mean?”
“You are just going into some guy’s house,” I said, “and it’s just you and him? A stranger? I don’t like that. Seems way too fucking dangerous.”
“What are they going to do? Chain me up? You will be right outside. If I don’t come out, you call the cops. Or just charge right in, tough guy.”
She kissed me on the cheek and I felt a little better but not much.
We get the table and then it’s another trip to the library to post an ad online after we both sell plasma at the clinic for a little extra cash. Between us we got fifty bucks, a few stale cookies, and two miniature cups of apple juice. At the library we read a bunch of ads before we posted ours.
Sensual In-Home Massage. Satisfaction Guaranteed. We found a picture of someone who kind of looked like Mo, close enough to avoid someone flat out saying it wasn’t her even though it wasn’t actually her. Posted it with the phone number of a little burner phone we bought with the absolute last of our cash on our way to the library, after having bought a bottle of generic baby oil and a couple washcloths from the dollar store.
The fucking dollar store has everything you need to begin your own disgusting little start-up. Aisle after aisle of toxic plastic and stale food and discount Bibles. You ever seen someone buy one of those Bibles from the dollar store? Me neither.
Then we just waited for the phone to ring.
I drove.
Those first houses, those first guys, are all a beige, lumpy blur in my mind. I’d stop, help her get the table out of the back as she slung her bag over her shoulder, then get back in the car, lean the car seat back while she went and rang the doorbell or knocked or whatever. I would peek up, curious about these men. They were always men. They answered their doors in sweat suits, robes, khakis, football jerseys, without shirts. One guy in a full suit and tie. One guy with what looked, I swear to God, like a cape. Then I’d lie back in the car with the motor and the AC running, listen to music or sleep. Daydream. Worry.
I didn’t ask until after the third one. Because I already knew and I didn’t want to know.
“What happened in there?”
“What do you think?” Mo was double-checking the money. One hundred per hour and a forty-dollar tip. “Rubbed him down. Listened to him talk about a lot of nonsense. I’m pretty sure he was lying about all of it. Trying to sound cool or something.”
“Then what?”
Mo turned to look at me. “What are you asking?”
“Are you doing anything else? Who pays that much for a fucking massage?”
“Did you read the ad? It said sensual massage. What do you think happens?”
“You tell me.”
“Don’t boss me. You don’t own me. Who’s paying for your fucking lunch?”
“I drove. I did something.”
“Fuck you, you did something. You didn’t have to jerk off some guy, folding his gut up with one hand while you jerk him off with the other. Listen to his bullshit while wiping off your arm. Fuck you. What did you think was happening in there? Or did you just need to hear me say it? Is that what you want?”
I didn’t know what I wanted. I just drove on. We had another lined up for after lunch. And I still drove her there.
At night I would massage her hands and her forearms and her shoulders. She was sore all the time. I thought about her washing those hands, what she was washing off, I thought about the hunched-over old woman and her hands like tree roots. She told Mo to get what she wanted. I wondered what Mo wanted and if she was getting it.
I understood how it was and how it was reversed at night, me rubbing down Mo after a day of pulling and pressing flesh. Her sex drive pretty much disappeared. And so did mine. Then some days she would be all charged up, needing to fuck, to grind down against me until she came. She’d turn my face away, tell me to stop breathing, to not exist until she was done. Or she would hold my face with both hands and stare into my eyes and we’d feel fully in love. Then she would finish and curl up against me. Or she’d finish and leave for the couch. Or she wouldn’t finish and she would stomp out of the room and stand naked in front of the open refrigerator, the cool air chilling the sweat on her.
One time, as she stood naked in front of the fridge, I told her that having the door open would cool her off but the rest of the room would get hotter, that that’s how it works — it seems better but just gets worse all of the time.
“Shut up,” she said. “Go to bed.”
Then one day she said she had a new plan.
“You need to start pulling your weight,” she told me. “And we need to pull in more money.”
We were in a nicer place. New cell phones. No more going to the library to post ads. Bought a fancy new camera to get shots of her that would bring in more money, went out to eat, bought our pot from the places that had put me out of business. She’d chew down a gummy before going into the houses of the repeat guys she thought were disgusting. I hated those days. She’d lose track of time on the job, anything could happen. I had stopped asking questions, but I hadn’t stopped wondering.
“I hate these guys. Every one of them. I hate their stink. I hate when they touch me. It needs to be worth it. And that means we need to go bigger.”
“What does that mean?” I said. “Raise your rates? We could but we’d lose a lot of people. Probably just come out even in the end.”
“No. We need to make sure they tip more. Lots more. We need to get you better with that camera. And we need to get you some dark clothes.”
It wasn’t a sophisticated plan. I’d drop her off, unload the table, lie down, and wait, like always. Then, halfway through the massage, when she went to get the hot towels to wipe them down, she would open up the curtains, just enough for me, now hiding in the backyard, to get a shot with the long lens, a shot of them getting jerked off while rubbing her ass, make sure to get their faces, make sure to get their cocks, make sure to get wide shots and make sure to get close-ups, make sure it is obvious what is happening, make sure who it is happening to.
Then I’d text her the pictures.
She’d finish the job, collect, and ask for more. Then show them the pictures. Say she noticed the tan line from the wedding ring that was now sitting next to the bathroom sink. Say their wives might want to see these pictures. Say their bosses might want to see these pictures. Say that their HOA would probably be interested in these pictures. The HOA thing scares the shit out of rich people. It’s crazy. Then she collects more. She’ll take a personal check, sure. Write it out to cash. If it bounces or if it’s canceled, she still has those pictures.
And it worked.
Who were they going to tell? What would they say? They’d pay out.
And for some reason, there was still repeat business. They seemed to think it established something, made her safer in some way, made it certain she wasn’t a cop. They’d tip big and call again. Some guys seemed to love it, the danger of it, the torture of it. They wanted to see the pictures, asked her to be even meaner to them. That was mostly in Indian Wells, where the richest of the rich live. Something demented going on over there. She was asked to work a party there once. Turned out to be an orgy. They set up a room for her with her table in the middle and audience seating all around. She told me all about it. A crystal bowl for tips, larger bills for taking suggestions. I never saw the insides of these places, just slices through the curtains, backgrounds to all of that skin and hair.