She agreed to tell me her story on the condition that I not reveal her true identity. For her customers, Ivy puts on a breathy Marilyn Monroe voice and wears retro baby doll nighties and stilettos.
The space is cozy in a utilitarian way, with a shower stall in the corner and a padded massage table in the centre. But for a few boom-chicka-wah-wah detailsβmirrors on the ceiling, candles, lights turned down loooowβit could be an ordinary massage clinic.
The client disrobes, showers a city bylaw requirement and lies facedown on the massage table. Ivy spreads oil on his back and engages in small talk. They like her to be attentive, sweet, a little helpless. As she moves her hands further down his back she pays careful attention to his body language. Sometimes the client might request something off-menu: to be tied up and whipped with a wet towel, for example. Extras are a firm no. Assisted by massage oil, she lays herself face to face with him, stimulating his penis with her calves or thighs, or swivels to face his feet, so she can use her hand or breasts.
On Internet message boards, men who frequently use escorts and visit body-rubs will review spa girls and criticize clumsy body slides. A good review can bring in dozens of new clients. After years of doing slides, Ivy can time an ejaculation down to the second. When the deed is done, she might spend a few minutes with him, hugging or chatting idly while he winds down. Some men want to be left alone, so she makes her way to the shower. Clients love it when attendants recall their names and what they like; some spa workers even log details in journals.
Once the client is gone, Ivy collects the towels and hauls them out to a back room where the women do laundry, gossip and check their email. Then she waits for the next guy to walk in the front door. Over the last decade, spas have proliferated across the GTA faster than Starbucks.
