Rants, Feelings & Opinions

Sex Work Diaries, Vol 1: Politically Incorrect Hand-Jobs

August 24, 2017

Dirty talk takes a politically incorrect turn for a teenage hand-job artiste at an Upper East Side massage parlor. 

“Vixen”
New York, New York

At the start of my sex work career, I was 19 and giving body rubs (read: hand jobs) in a quiet, Upper East Side apartment. Unlike full service sex work, massage consists of same-day, short-stay clients who offer little-to-no screening information—we took our own calls, and we decided who to see using little more info than an in-house blacklist, and how the person seemed on the phone. One Wednesday evening, I took a new client. On the phone he cockily described our impending encounter as “the easiest session you’ll ever have,” which is never a good sign. But it was May, finals season, and I was short on cash after calling out of work repeatedly to study (and to recover from studying-induced sleep deprivation).

He arrived exactly on time, and a quick once-over through the peephole showed he was tall, white, vaguely middle aged, and clean cut—in other words, indiscernible from 90% of my clients. Forgoing the massage table, he undressed and moved to sit on the Ikea couch. He fished a clinically crisp white towel from his Whole Foods tote bag and placed it between his bare ass cheeks and the scratched black pleather of the sofa. He motioned for me to kneel in front of him and reached his hand back in his bag. While rummaging, he looked down at me and told me he wanted to ask me some “simple black and white questions.” His hand emerged from the sack wrapped around a small pump bottle filled with lotion. He meticulously lathered his cock and began a slow, gentle jerk as he turned his gaze back to me. Poised and ready, his eyes bore holes in my head as he asked me: “Who do you think is more athletic, Jewish men or Italian men?”

Not what I was expecting. Caught off-guard, I couldn’t help but laugh, and I truthfully responded that I didn’t know much about sports. He made a face and tried again. “Who has a larger penis, Indian men or Jewish men?” I told him, again truthfully, that the largest penis I’d ever encountered had been attached to an Indian client of mine. He seemed equally unhappy with this response and fired off an assault of questions: “Who is more studious, white men or Jewish men? Who is more respectful, Black men or Jewish men? Who is taller, Mexican men or Jewish men?” It goes on. When he finally let me speak, I explained that I don’t associate a certain quality such as intelligence, athleticism, attractiveness, etc. with a particular race or ethnicity. He smiled in anticipation and told me I “suffered from a disease called political correctness.”

He then began rambling stats about Jewish people: what percentage have won nobel prizes, what percentage go to ivy league schools, what percentage are lawyers, doctors, Hollywood producers, etc. He told me that Jewish people are the most powerful and supreme race, and that they manufactured the Holocaust as a sneaky ploy for sympathy to distract from their quiet and rapid path to global domination. All the while, he referred to me as a “worthless little gentile” and, between lotiony-strokes, asked me how I liked his “powerful Jewish cock.” “Do you have a sugar daddy, little gentile? I could be yours. You aren’t Jewish and can never be on our level, but you can get as close as a gentile can. Do you know what a kosher woman is? It means she’s pure.” He brought himself to climax while simultaneously asking me about my IQ level (spoiler: I didn’t know then and still don’t).

When I got home at 1:30AM, I recounted the story to my Jewish partner who squealed with delight and disbelief before dubbing him “powerful Jewish cock client.” He kissed me between laughter and muffled comments about my being his unpure, wicked shiksa. I only saw P.J.C. one other time after our initial encounter. It was six months later and he had the same barrage of questions (and personal towel-couch-barrier + lotion lube), although this time was with the added joy of comments about whether I thought he could out-wrestle my boyfriend. Unfortunately, the Great Jewish Wrestling Match never took place, but four years later my partner and I still find ourselves mentioning the P.J.C. in humorous passing.

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