photos by J. D. Fleishman
My thighs wrap tightly around his neck. His head is between my legs and I’m squeezing with all my might. The guy’s about to get off and this is how he likes it. I don’t want an explanation. Extra tight around his neck until he can barely breathe, an extreme head crunch. He turns a dark shade of pink. I squeeze harder; my legs begin to weaken. I don’t go to the gym enough. He senses me giving out and whispers that we can take a break, if another half-hour’s added on. Can I last that long? He stays the extra half and I make it through his happy ending. It’s a long Saturday afternoon, the Saturday before Christmas.
Client #2 tells me he’s a doctor of radiology at a nearby hospital. He’ll be going on vacation soon, but before he leaves, he absolutely has to see me. He’s stiff and uptight, loves it up his ass, enjoys the physical size differential. I totally dominate him.
Once he’s "completely comfortable" (nude), I begin the bodywork. The lotion he insists I use sucks. No slide or glide, like him, dry. I put a little bit on my latex gloves. His dick starts to stiffen. Now it’s hard and the good doctor is ready. He likes to be called doctor. "Doctor John your cock is sooooo hard! Why, Doctor John, why is it so big and hard?"
Doctor John wants to jerk off on the massage table. I stand behind him and grab his neck. He feels my strength and succumbs to my power. He’s smaller and weaker. While towering over him, I force him to masturbate. I tell him I ‘ll fuck him in the ass with my big black dildo, that it’ll be so good he’ll never want anything else from this life. The doctor cums, finally.
Saturdays I work from 10-5. I always have at least one client. This particular Saturday, a guy named Burt calls. He sounds very mature. He gives his code; I flip through the rolodex and out comes the card. Here’s the story: Old, 70 or more, enjoys slow dances, holding hands, hugs and kisses (which are out of the question since I don’t kiss clients). The card says he ‘s sweet, harmless, and has a little cash; just a frisky old retired doctor.
"Sweet gal. You’re such a sweet smiling gal. So very lovely." He wants to slow dance, a drag dance, while he semi-humps me. Such a dirty little old man. He loosens his pants and next thing I know, pops pops out. He gets a paper towel, wraps his medium-sized erect cock-not too bad for a guy his age-and says, "This way no one will get wet while we dance." Then Grandpa Walton trembles a long sigh. "You’re wonderful, sweet gal. Thank you! Thank you so very much." Everybody needs love and attention. Thank heavens he’s generous with his tip.
My next client calls. He gives his code and the info comes up. Joe 3-19, works in construction, looks like a scruffy, tired Nick Cage. Youngish, single, lonely, looking for Miss Right. He only wants a half-hour, but I’m sure it will go longer because it takes him a while to get revved up.
He showers, climbs onto the table. I do the usual 15 minute rub, then turn him on his back. Time for the sexy part. I oil my gloved hand and begin. He rolls his eyes around moaning, going "ohhh, ahhh." Joe 3-19 prefers latex gloves over bare hands, though I never ever touch dick without a glove. He struggles to get an erection and keep it. I ask what he likes. "Only to kiss your nipples." I tell him that’s out of the question ‘cuz I’ll get turned on and my pussy will get wet. The P word makes his cock rock-hard. I realize I have to keep it going, keep him hard and ready to explode. I whisper in his ear, "If I get wet, I’ll feel like a good hard fuck." Finally, he ejaculates his flow onto his stomach. Lost Atlantis, lost again; at last he relaxes.
My last client is a guy named Tom who books me for two hours. He looks like Liberace with dark hair and large eyes, has 007 fantasies, really thinks he’ s CIA. He lives to tell stories about his covert classified missions.
Holding me hostage for 45 minutes, he questions me about bomb codes and locations of missile silos in the Middle East. I’m a lab tech with high security clearance and access to classified military information. I kneel on a floor of satin pillows, a silk scarf covers my eyes and my hands are stretched high over my head. I’m being held up, a kind of stick up. He’s close behind, questioning me slowly. I feel his dick swelling against my leg as he softly interrogates me. I know he’s aroused by my screaming. "Please don’t hurt me! I’ll tell you what you want to know. I have the information." When I can’t answer, he pinches my nipple lightly through my black lace push-up brassiere. It’s oddly stimulating. He craves my heavy breath, my begging and crying for my life in exchange for the classified information. At the end of the session, he jerks himself off as I breathlessly repeat the codes for the bomb. I hear him groan and release himself to ecstasy. He tips me $100 on top of my session fee. Very sweet.
These are some of my experiences as a massage parlor girl. Here in NYC it’s illegal and I could be arrested for practicing without a license…
Looking for Maya by J.D. Fleishman is a 32-page booklet featuring 20 photographs (both b&w and color) by Fleishman, an excerpt from the novel Privilege by Black Alex, and an interview with the elusive Maya by playwright Lauri Bortz. (Click here to read the interview>>) The booklet was printed in a limited edition of 1000, published by Abaton Book Company. It is available through the Abaton website, www.abatonbookcompany.com and can also be ordered by email or telephone; firstname.lastname@example.org 201.369.1591.
three from Now, Here, This: Half-SonnetsBy Ron Silliman
FEB 2023 | Poetry
Ron Silliman's latest publications are a co-edited collected poems of David Melnick, entitled Nice, to appear in 2023 from Nightboat and in the Russian anthology whose title translates into From Black Mountain to Language Writing: The Newest Poetries from the United States. Ivan Sokalov has recently translated You into Russian as well. Silliman lives in Pennsylvania but may be moving to Delaware. He teaches at Penn.
Half a Dozen Fresh Baked DancesBy Hallie Chametzky
NOV 2022 | Dance
Named for the patisserie that once inhabited the 1920s-era building, Art Cake has taken the gallery aesthetic to the extreme with white floors, white curtains, white track lighting. Though seemingly designed for visual rather than performing arts (the floor is cement), this years second ever Dance Series featuring six artists showed its potential as a home for experimental dance.
Like Being In Your Head Not MineBy Bianca Stone
NOV 2022 | Poetry
It is radical to comprehend the importance of the simple act of naming something in front of another person. Yet, poetry engages in this particular kind of conversation all the time, naming what is, to make possible what might be.
Designing Motherhood: Things That Make and Break Our BirthsBy Ksenia Nouril
OCT 2021 | Art Books
Whether or not a birthing person, one will find a more comprehensive and empowered approach to sexuality, procreation, and rearing in this book than in any mass-market guide, medical textbook, or doctors office. The fact that this information must be conveyed through the guise of art and design points to our societys deep-seated discomfort withand lack of substantial support forbirth.