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The Spa Diaries

The Devil's number isn't 666, it's 800.


Male or female, here's a memory I think we can all relate to. 

Remember being in math class, or chemistry class, and not having a clue what the hell the teacher was talking about and suddenly thinking, "fuck it, I'll just become a stripper?" Some may have gone with porn star, others a hooker, but I always remember saying, "I'll become a stripper." Back then, it was just something I'd say to express to my friends how bad I was at math and how much I was willing to avoid it; I had no idea that my life would become the very joke I'd laugh about in class. 

Well, let's fast forward a few years, shall we? I'm around 20 years old, and my job has nothing to offer me. It's a city job, so it pays better than most, but unless you're related to the senior staff, kiss major ass, or rat on everybody you work with, you'll never get anywhere big. Working a dead-end job was draining and unmotivating, and what I once considered to be the best job that any teenager could ask for, as I hit my later teens and early twenties, it slowly became the reason I grew bitter towards everything, having to accept the harsh reality of the type of world I lived in. Hard work didn't pay off, apparently, so I knew I had to make a change. A drastic change. 

I tried stripping the one time and it wasn't my scene. I'm not a drinker but believe me, to do that job (well) you pretty much have to be plastered the whole time to deal with the abundance of assholes and rude bitches riddled with the aroma of daddy issues and alcohol. So, I'm back to square one, until I stumble across an ad for a spa attendant. I'm intrigued, so I visit their website. One, two, five, seven, good, positive reviews? That hardly ever happens with these types of places, so I go to check them out. 

Luxury. That was my first impression. Luxury. It was so luxurious that I almost forgot men go their to get their willies tugged on. It was so clean, the lights beautifully dimmed, candles everywhere, and big, thick comfortable couches. The flat screen showing highlights of some game kept the men occupied while they waited to be seen by the ladies they hand picked moments earlier. The manager takes me to the VIP lounge for my interview, and that's when it happened. I see a girl (practically a doll with her perfect face, hair, makeup, and body) that was almost too pretty to look at; we'll call her Mia. I remember feeling the need to look at the table or my hands, anything but at Mia, like I wasn't worthy or something.  I then understood why men paid $120 for 30 minutes with these girls. The manager excused herself from our conversation to talk to Mia, and then pulled out a brick of money, let Mia know she had been chosen, but then strategically proceeded to ask her in front of me, "how's your shift so far?" so I could hear exactly how much she had made in the few hours she'd been on shift. "It's such a slow day, I'm only at $800, like, where are all the men?" $800...$800?! In a few hours of work? I was sold. She handed her over the money, and that is when the old me officially died, and I found myself being reborn into a girl whose only goal was stack a pile of cash so high it could hit the ceiling. 

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm a pretty smart girl. I knew what those girls were doing in there to make well over $800 a day and it was much more than a massage and a little tug on the old worm. Believe me, I knew they were doing extras and stuff, but that didn't matter to me because I knew who I was and what I was comfortable doing for the amount of money being given. I didn't care to make hundreds of dollars with each client because I knew what I had to do to get that. Instead, I was very happy making my base pay knowing all that money would be saved. You see, I've come to learn that most of these girls have been in the sex industry for as long as they've had sellable pussy, some as young as 16 years old, maybe even younger; they've never worked a real job before, so they have no idea what it's like to work 12 hour shifts and maybe make $120 the whole day. But I did, and I was more than happy to be making $90 for 30 minutes of work and not degrading myself anymore than I already felt I was. That's what I told myself I would do, but the real world hits you like a ton of bricks. Money bricks, beautifully bundled up in perfect stacks of $1000. Oh, they hit me, alright.