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I was 23, broke and desperate, barely getting by on my office salary, so I changed professions. By Anonymous October 2, After high school, I left my small hometown in Nova Scotia to study aviation, and later ended up in Australia. In a distant continent, where no one knew me, I decided to try stripping. But it was exciting. The strip club was my playground—a place where I could shamelessly flirt and get attention from men without having to perform sex acts.
At 23, I moved back to Toronto and got a desk job. My salary was barely enough to pay my rent, and I yearned to be earning stacks of cash like I had in Australia. So I started stripping again. But the Mississauga club that hired me was more like a brothel. I quit, resolving to never work in Toronto strip clubs again. Instead, I decided to try the erotic massage industry. The building was nondescript, without any age or branding; the owner advertised the place on Craigslist.
Inside, there was a dim lobby and five small treatment rooms, each with its own shower.
Prospective clients would pick one of the spa attendants out of a lineup. As the massage progressed, I would undress and give him a hand job. Treatment room doors were left unlocked so a law-enforcement officer could open them at any time. Our only recourse for safety was the onsite manager—also the receptionist—who oversaw operations and monitored security cameras. But first I needed a licence. Ideally, a rub-and-tug would operate under a body rub licence, but the city has capped the of those establishments at As a result, many erotic massage spas operate using holistic licences, outraging the legitimate holistic health community.
To get my holistic licence, I got a full criminal background check, acquired a phony health care practitioner certificate and faked evidence that I belonged to a holistic health association. But the honeymoon period ended quickly. My bosses would dock my pay for a variety of unpredictable reasons: not convincing enough walk-in clients to stay, not cleaning the treatment room to their satisfaction, being late, being sick.
The owners made me work 60 hours a week, claiming I owed them for Rub and tugs in toronto seeing enough clients. The spa had one rule that never changed: I was never to be caught naked or performing sexual acts of any kind by bylaw officers.
Doing either of those things in a municipally d establishment is a definite no-no, and often resulted in tickets or fines. Rumour had it that if an attendant was ever issued three tickets, she would get a permanent record. It took a few years and stints at several spas to find one that was, dare I say, pleasant to work at, where I was allowed to make my own Rub and tugs in toronto and received clear and consistent instruction on how to avoid fines. This spa was thoughtfully decorated and had a relaxed atmosphere, and during my first week, we had a training session where expectations were clearly outlined, both in and out of the treatment room.
The place focused on the clients as individuals instead of just walking dollar s. For the first time, I felt comfortable enough at work to make friends with my colleagues. Over the next several years, I tried to leave the spa industry four times.
While I was able to secure some freelance blogging gigs, I had trouble finding regular office jobs. So I decided to provide full sexual services for some of my clients. But I kept my boundaries clear. I always used condoms for intercourse and never engaged in sexual acts with clients if I felt uncomfortable. I would expertly apply makeup and wear silky lingerie; by 10 a. I specialized in the girlfriend experience: I kissed clients and feigned desire.
I looked forward to seeing many of them, and I knew they felt the same way. Many clients came to see me at least once a week. One of my favourite clients was a property developer, much older than me, who visited once, sometimes twice a week. Sometimes I wonder how he is doing, but I respect the boundaries between us, the same boundaries that allowed us to share so openly in the first place. As I developed my craft, my shame around sex work evaporated. But I suspected that people still judged me, so I Rub and tugs in toronto conducting some experiments.
The next time I went apartment hunting, the prospective landlord asked me what I did for a living. For the first time, I told them the truth. They hung up on me immediately. Another time, I ed up for an aromatherapy course. She booted me from the class.
At one point, I started suffering extreme headaches and violent vomiting after long shifts. I suspected I had mould poisoning. Another time, a client assaulted me in an unlocked treatment room while I screamed for help. When I told my fellow attendants, they said they heard what happened but figured I could handle myself. After working in the massage industry for about nine years, I was painfully aware of its dark side. I became a kind of den mother in the break room, offering contacts for ants who were sex work—friendly and safe sex tips. I would listen as young women would list the benefits of having a pimp with unshakeable bravado.
They wanted someone to take care of them. It was there that I met other people in the trade who took their jobs seriously and cared about the Canadian sex work industry. I sat around a table with escorts and massage workers, enthusiastically discussing how to overcome challenges in our lives and in the industry as a whole.
Some of them were students, or daytime office workers, or parents, ranging from their early 20s to their 60s. Earlier this year, I Rub and tugs in toronto the massage world for good. I moved back to Nova Scotia to be with my aging father and started working full time as Rub and tugs in toronto web copywriter.
Less than a week after arriving, I matched on Tinder with an old classmate. He proceeded to tell me the rumour-mill version of my history as a sex worker that had been spreading around town. I quickly realized I needed to be honest about my past, especially if I wanted to help people with similar experiences. I knew I had to tell my dad before someone else did.
But I believed the benefits would outweigh my discomfort. I prepared myself for the worst, sat him down and told him my story through streams of tears. He nodded and told me he was glad I was home. Then he took me out for Swiss Chalet. submissions to memoir torontolife. The correct is All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part strictly prohibited. Twitter Facebook.
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My job at an Etobicoke rub-and-tug