Part 1: Rick Mass-ive Waste of Time

CW: a very uncomfortable situation some might consider to be assault, in spite of the author’s own feelings.

I didn’t realize how difficult it would be finding sex work as a woman. I’m not straight, but for my encounter, I was looking for a male masseuse/body worker to give me a happy ending massage. It’s been one of my fantasies for a little while now. I go in and out of phases of getting off to massage room porn. There’s something simultaneously cathartic and arousing about first watching a woman relax with a body massage that eventually turns orgasmic. It’s also one of only a few porn genres where one can witness an actual orgasm.

I hadn’t come to NYC intending to dive into a happy ending investigation. I just happen to be reading a book and the author brought up massage parlors. The passage tipped me off to the proper way to search for the kind of erotic massage I was looking for: “fully body sensual massage” or FBSM for short. I began by searching for female FBSM, but only came up with a list of massage parlors in the NYC/NJ area that offered rub and tug massages for men. The websites clarified that the masseuses were “beautiful, skinny women” and included a number of stock images of nude models massaging handsome men. I didn’t know why the “skinny” part was pertinent, but regardless I could tell it was clearly not for me. I tried searching “erotic massage for women,” and my searches began to turn up some useful prospects. I clicked on a few sites and noticed that “tantric massage” seemed to be another useful search. I found three viable candidates and sent a few email inquiries. Within a few hours, two of them had responded. The first was Rick Mass.

Rick Mass’ website was more or less straightforward. He labeled his work as “tantric yoni massage,” and listed his prices plainly on the home page. It was $200 per hour, which was the most expensive rate I’d seen, but in a way it made me feel assured. If he could afford to set his rates so high, he had to be good, right? In the description, he stated that a session begins with guided meditation and breathing exercises to harness chakral energy; followed by a general body massage to ease any anxiety; then the erotic portion; and at the end a hot stone massage. I’m not especially new-age-y, but I like meditation and breathing exercises. I asked Rick for some pictures of himself, because I was nervous and wanted a data trail in case I ended up rape-murdered. He sent a picture of himself looking into a bathroom mirror with a razor in hand, his chin covered in shaving cream; and a second picture of himself in his boxers. He appeared to be in his fifties, which wasn’t an issue for me. I like daddies. I wasn’t put off by underwear picture, since one of the options for the massage was a nude massage, but it was a little humorous. He was wearing knockoff pinstripe Armani boxers with the band sewed on upside down.

I appreciated Rick’s communication and willingness to send pictures, so I sent a deposit of $100 and confirmed our appointment. He lived in the Upper East Side in a tall apartment building with a reception desk in the lobby. He told me to ask for “Ray,” his legal name. The receptionist buzzed me up. I’d spent the day building up anticipation for the event. It was my first time purchasing sex work solo. I wasn’t bringing along a client to watch and fund the endeavor, it was all me for me. I felt powerful being in the position to be serviced. I could be lazy and let someone else provide my pleasure for a change. Rick intercepted me in the hallway. He had offered to travel to me, but I wasn’t about to be the person not only crashing with a friend, but additionally bringing strangers into my friend’s house to provide me with sex work. My friend, who is a literal angel, had offered me her room for the occasion, but I also didn’t want to cover his travel costs. Rick’s little studio apartment sat perched on the 20th floor. In spite of the posh lobby, his space was clearly quite modest. There was no sense of decor, just items placed about out of necessity. Rick was no baller. In the center of the room he had set up his massage table, and in a corner I saw an illuminated aromatherapy humidifier. It wasn’t much, but I didn’t feel unsafe.

Rick was thrilled when he saw me. It’s obviously the kind of job one does primarily because they love it, since women are historically not the most generous or consistent sex work consumers (as much as I believe that will eventually change). I had gotten stuck in a cold drizzle on the way to his apartment, and I was shivering still as I tried to make myself at home. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to getting naked, considering my circulation issues. I get cold easily, especially if I’m not moving around. My hands were already frigid. Rick saw my physical discomfort, and thought it was nervousness. He asked to hug me, which I didn’t mind. I felt it was important to breach the touch barrier as soon as possible to get the show on the road. It was a platonic hug, and I felt a little warmer after. He offered me wine and weed, both of which I accepted. I was a bit nervous, but largely because Rick also seemed a bit nervous. While I sipped wine, he told me a bit about himself. He had gotten into the industry after his business failed. He always enjoyed giving massages, and considered himself to be a generous partner. He used to give one of his partners erotic massages before he opened his business. That was where he honed his craft. He started off posting on Craigslist before the site was taken down by SESTA/FOSTA. Eventually he built a website and started using the term “tantric” to describe his work because

Rick: It made what I was doing sound better to women.

Which made sense in a warped way. Women only seemed to be entitled to pursue their own pleasure when it’s pathologized (think treatment for hysteria), and now only with the pretense of spiritual awakening.

Rick was a real chatterbox, and after a point I truly didn’t care. I wasn’t afraid of him. He was about 5’9” and a little pudgier and saggier than the photos he sent represented. He spoke with a heavy New York accent, which I hadn’t anticipated. It wasn’t the sexiest accent, and I wasn’t sure how it would be listening to him talk me through a relaxation meditation with his voice such as it was. I cut him off and let him know I was ready to begin. I popped into the bathroom to undress. I could have done it in front of him, but I didn’t want to give him a show and pay for it. I walked out wrapped in a sheet and laid down on the table.

From the start, I knew this guy was full of malarkey. He didn’t know shit about meditation, and proceeded to bumble through some kind of mantra while simultaneously massaging my back in a truly confusing manner. He would push my shoulders a little too softly and a little too briefly, and then slide his fingertips up my arms to my elbows. He whispered into my ear

Rick: Breathe in love and peace, breathe out doubt and fear.

I hate when people whisper into my ear 99% of the time. This was no exception. Additionally, his breath didn’t smell particularly fresh. He continued on in this manner, gradually shifting his massage further and further down my back until he began massaging my glutes. I had no problem with where he was touching, what I had a problem with was the fact that the man decided the best place for him to do this was at my head with his body leaning over mine. His gut smushed my head. I couldn’t believe this man did not realize smushing me was not a pleasant experience. I should have piped up at this moment, but I was hoping he would move on and approach the massage from a better angle. I was also a bit stunned by the clumsiness of the encounter up until that point, but I was horny and wanted to get off. Eventually he moved to the side of the table and began playing with my ass. He started off rubbing by between my lips up to my asshole, but then shortly after without much ado, slid a pinky into my asshole. I was not prepared for a pinky in my butthole. I like anal stimulation under the right circumstances, and luckily I had done an especially thorough cleaning prior to the massage because I wasn’t sure if he would go for anal stimulation. The problem was that he hadn’t done enough foreplay, even though the whole massage would be what some people consider to be foreplay. It wasn’t pleasant anal play. He wasn’t rough, he just didn’t seem to know what he was doing. He didn’t pair the anal play with clitoral stimulation or even massaging my anal opening. It was clear I wasn’t into it, and he had at least enough sense to run to the sink and wash his hands thoroughly before continuing the erotic portion of my massage. When he returned, he had me flip over and began the vulva centric part.

I love being fingered. It reminds me of high school when I was constantly covertly getting freaky with my first boyfriend before and after class, on field trips, in parks, etc. But everyone knows you can’t just dive inside without equal clitoral stimulation. Yet Rick the maverick decided internal was the way to go. At first it was pleasant enough, but eventually it got frustrating. You truly have to be the worst yoni massage practitioner if you don’t understand that the clit comes first. He would occasionally graze my clit, and he had moments where he managed to do pleasurable things to me, but he just wasn’t doing what I needed him to do. And I felt frustrated that the idiot needed me to guide him through how to do his job. You’d think that after nearly a decade of running this business, he would know a thing or two about pussies, but I swear to you he proved at every turn not to know what he was doing. He asked if it was okay if he took off his shirt to avoid getting oil on his clothes. I didn’t believe that that was the reason why, but I didn’t mind. He took it as a sign clothes were optional. At some point, I realized his dick was out.

You may be thinking, “this is wild, and sounds assault-y.” I think if I didn’t have such a high bar for the weird and sexual, I would be more triggered, but I was unphased by the dick. I would have minded if it was smelly or ugly, but it was a decent penis and hard dicks are hot to me. I played with him a little, for my own erotic enjoyment. Rick thought it meant I was interested in the session going “all the way,” but I stopped him.

Me: I’m not having sex with you.

I scoffed. It was almost hilarious that he thought he had any chance to fuck me considering he hadn’t even managed to get me off.

Rick: Oh, okay.

He continued trying to massage my pussy, and then shortly after I came close, he pulled back and got out the hot stones.

Him: Roll onto your stomach again.

He massaged me with the hot stones. I was confused. I wondered if it was part of the technique, taking my erotic energy back down just to ramp it up again. I enjoyed the stones because I’d gotten a little cold being exposed for so long. He finished the stones and then said

Rick: You can lay there for ten more minutes if you want to.

Me: What? Is that it?

Rick: We’ve been going for over an hour. The time is up.

Me: But I didn’t come???

Rick: You didn’t? I thought you did?

Me: I didn’t.

Rick: Why didn’t you say anything?

Me: I didn’t know our time was up.

I was livid. All the horniness I’d built up during the session became a churning white hot mix of rage. How does a guy who does this for a living not know when a woman has come??? I got ready in a rush and texted Danny, who I’d planned to meet for dinner after the massage. I could not believe this bullshit. I had paid extra and not even gotten what I’d come for (pun intended). He didn’t deserve to get paid. I felt like I deserved my money back.

Simultaneously, I wrestled with the other side of those emotions. Sex work almost never comes with a guarantee that the buyer will get off in the end. The men who buy hour-long dances with me may want to get off, but it’s never a promise I make. FSSW’s charge by the hour, not by the orgasm. While he had done a real shit job, he had provided his services to me for the amount of time I had paid for. In fact, he had given me an extra half-hour without expecting additional payment. I could have communicated more, as much and I felt like I was paying not to have to tell a man how to please me. If I wanted an encounter where someone simply followed my directions to get me off, I could have gotten that for free. I paid to be selfish and passive, and in the end neither of my desires were met. But, was that entirely his fault? Every vulva is different, and communication might be an inevitable part of a happy ending experience. I mulled this over as I put on my clothes and began to walk out without paying.

Rick: Don’t you owe me something?

Me: Didn’t you owe me an orgasm?

Rick: Fine, but if you don’t pay me, I don’t want to ever hear from you again.

Me: Fine.

I walked out, unsure of whether or not I was planning to actually stiff him or not. I walked through the lobby. He started texting me.

Rick: That was very low of you. You should know better, considering we’re in the same profession.

Me: Look, I’m frustrated and I have a lot of feelings right now.

Rick: Why don’t you come back and we can finish things? I hate having bad blood.

My uber pulled up and I hopped in.

Me: I can’t. I’m meeting my friend for dinner.

It was a difficult moment. I half considered going back up and giving him instructions, but Danny was waiting for me, and I didn’t want to go back to Rick. In spite of my disappointment about the appointment, I decided to pay him the other half of what we had agreed upon. I did it because I know how shitty it feels to be stiffed by some guy when you’ve done your best. Rick was a bit of a fuckup, but he had tried. Additionally, I didn’t want him searching my legal name and blowing up my life. It was part duty, part hush money. I didn’t want to speak to him again. I sent it.

Rick: Thanks for that. Let me know if you’re ever free again while you’re in town. I wanna make this right. I’ll take care of you for free next time, but without all of the tantra stuff. It’ll be more like a handjob.

There was no way I was making the trek back up to the Upper East Side for another lackluster experience. I left the conversation there, and met Danny at the Empire Hotel for drinks and an empathetic ear to decompress.