My job was to sell services. Much like champagne in a topless bar, the product was not what was expected. For a fee, you could get a "full body massage," but towels stayed firmly in place and genitals out of the way. For a little extra, you could get a sponge bath, or even sample the sauna (alone) down the hall.

For yet a steeper price, an underage girl would touch you.

After a vicious competition between the pros, I found a mentor. I followed Victoria's hands as she massaged her clients, and mirrored her sponging strokes. She, the older, motorcycle riding alpha-pro, was transparently whoring me out. She never shared the tips. As junior partner, I didn't complain.

The lulls between calls were filled with cigarettes and card games with the pros, and escargot from the restaurant down the block. It was very romantic when the waiters would come calling with gifts of snails – that was the kind of cool I wanted to be.

Soon I was thrown into the rooms alone, having lost my post at the desk to an older Swedish woman. Strong and clinical, while empathic, I spooked the clients at first. I've never been keen on selling, especially of my own services, so my sessions were rarely over the standard 20-minutes.