Most clients were respectful and seemed to understand that very few sex workers hid behind the professional label of massage therapist. I wasn’t naïve and knew where the stereotype came from—that work was its own lane on another highway. I had nothing against women who decided for themselves to be sex workers and, out of respect for their choices, I hoped they could work safely, with self-determination. There had been a recent bust of a little massage place on the other side of town, and that shook me up a bit. I had applied for a job there before Mali hired me, and I got the creeps thinking about how close a call that might have been for me. It also made me appreciate my boss even more. The way she ran a tight ship, looking out for our best interests.

I prided myself on professional relationships with all my clients. Was I crossing the line with Kael? I tried hard to focus on the treatment I was providing, without so much as a gratuitous glance at his body, no matter how difficult that was. I had never thought about a client in this way before, and I wasn’t going to start. Well, it had already started, but it wasn’t going to continue. As he lay on his back with his eyes closed, I tried to distract myself with physiology, by naming all the chest muscles. Pectoralis major. Pectoralis minor. Serratus anterior. I remember learning in class that women are biologically wired to prefer men who have strong chests and shoulders, something about testosterone levels. So, really, I wasn’t being inappropriate. It was biology.

Kael’s voice cut through the dark, surprising me. “This is a great song.”

I wanted to tell him that Kings of Leon was one of my favorite bands of all time and that their first album was the closest thing to a masterpiece my ears had ever heard. But after he left last night’s conversation—again without an explanation—I was done opening up to him. And certainly not in this setting.

When I finished working on the top of his thigh over his pants, I moved up to the end of the table where his head rested. My fingertips trickled down his scalp, pressing firmly against the soft tissue of his neck. His eyes, which had been closed when I worked on his legs, opened slowly.

I fought my impulse to ask where he went last night or why he came here today. I decided to try to keep my tantrum to myself and not let it spill out.

I skated my fingers down his chest, circling around the span of him. The way his tight muscles felt breaking up under my fingertips, I could almost feel the tension releasing as I touched him. This was the best part of my job, seeing the relief of any type of pain. That’s why I did this.