Hot Massage

It was an odd request, but one that I’d learned not to take to heart - for some reason there was a sort of person who felt like they had to judge your hands to know if you would be a good masseuse. Usually it came from wealthier clients, but I’d had a woman at the hotel who I could best describe as ‘poor white trash on holiday’ do the same thing. She’d tutted and said I would be ‘good enough’ and then didn’t leave a tip afterwards.

So I held out my hands to Mrs Booker, palms up, and let her inspect them.

“Very nice,” she nodded, like she was judging a vintage of wine. “I’ll just go get changed.”

“I’ll be waiting here for you to bring you back,” I nodded.

Thus began my workday. My clients would show up for their appointment, usually a half hour but some of them up to an hour, and I would meet them at the door to welcome them. They would go disrobe in the appropriate change halls, then come meet me wrapped up in a fluffy white Club robe and complimentary slippers, and I would bring them