Editor’s note: this piece contains mention of homophobia
I knew I was queer before I hit high school. I think I might have known I wanted to be a sex worker not long afterwards. Of course, I didn’t start doing sex work until I was out of high school (just) but I started exploring my queerness before that. I took every opportunity enthusiastically, but my real education came when I started working in massage parlours in the early 2000’s.
Massage parlours were a different world to the one outside. No matter how bright the day was, the insides were always dim and hushed. Hallways twisted this way and that, permeated by the smell of grapeseed massage oil, perfume, and straightened hair. People sat around in lingerie and robes, combing through their hair extensions, brushing powder on their eyelids, waiting for men to come to us, giving us money to undulate over them. It felt dreamlike, a barely-lit femme wonderland. Of course it was more than this, but I enjoyed the wonderland parts the best. There’s nowhere quite like a brothel to make you feel like you’ve entered into a different world.
Our work was touch, and we were loose with our touch of each other as well. Between clients we’d cram onto the lumpy futon couches, legs jumbled together. There were many slow nights that I sat in the arms of a fellow worker as she played with my hair at 2am. Not all this touch was sexual – most of it wasn’t. It was just part of the glue that held us together as colleagues, as workers, as whores.
My real education came when I started working
in massage parlours in the early 2000’s.
In the 90’s, apparently being a ‘lesbo’ was one of the worst things you could be. At school I was teased for it, spat on, threatened with violence. I wanted to say, ‘I’m not a lesbian, jerks, I’m BISEXUAL. If you’re gonna bully me, get your facts straight’, but I doubt anyone would have listened or cared about the nuances of my queerdom.
But at the massage parlour I let everyone know I was queer. I wasn’t the only one. The brothel was where I could be myself, one of the few places I’d ever felt comfortable or accepted. I was fucking odd, and everyone there was a little odd too. It was heartening to meet people who were queer like me. No one wants to feel like they are an other, and while there were a few queer people around me growing up, I’d always felt a bit like the odd one out. There were lots of other queers in the parlours, lesbians who jammed their butch haircuts under long, blonde wigs, and darling femmes whose girlfriends would pick them up on their motorcycles after their shifts.
Doubles, or duos, with other queer women were where I came into my own, sexuality-wise. These were different from doubles with straight women, where the intimacy was feigned – hands placed strategically over genitals and licked in lieu of actual oral sex, kisses that were showy but without tongue.
With fellow working queers, my adolescent sexual explorations transformed into confident touches. Doubles with other queers are where I learned how to cast off my shyness with women. I’d faked confidence before, but always felt hesitant. I was a little bit scared of girls. This was no doubt a hangover from the bullying I’d previously received for my queerness – that often had me performatively denying my attraction to other women. In these paid bookings at the parlours, I learned how not to be shy, how to touch another woman with sureness, to know that my attentions were welcome and wanted.
Doubles, or duos, with other queer women were
where I came into my own, sexuality-wise.
Doubles were how I explored my attraction with my mutual work crushes, women who I shared only glances and suggestive jokes with until some random client came in and just so happened to book us together. Score! We’d both giggle with excitement and nerves and then, once the booking started, dive into each other with verve and gusto. The client would fade into the background as we’d lose ourselves in each other. Seeya buddy, we’re busy. We have better things to focus on.
Don’t worry – they always got their money’s worth, if what they wanted was a live sex show with enthusiastic participants. And it usually was. After fucking in those dim lit rooms, we’d remember that the client was there and turn our attentions back, finishing him off while giving each other eyes.
I’m thankful for my time in parlours for lots of reasons – they were an introduction to the world of sex work, gave me a place to fit in, an income when I was struggling to hold down other jobs, and allowed me to explore my sexuality with fellow queer women who were as enthusiastic about exploring their queerness with me. Those paid encounters gave me a confidence I might not have found for a long time otherwise.
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