Victoria was fired for "dating" clients, so I got more assignments on my own. There were businessmen, travelling from who-knows-where, not high-ranking enough with their clients to warrant an actual hooker. There was a ship full of young Dutch sailors, who made me blush. There were cops. Then there was a paraplegic Vietnamese man, a challenge in a wheelchair.
He needed help disrobing. I could manage his awkward movements as he got onto the table, held no repugnance for his useless legs, and the language barrier was surmountable, but what he made known horrified me: He wanted a handjob. I can still remember this man, with his twisted limbs, withered torso, and frustrated brow yanking my hands towards his crotch. Struggling furiously, he kept forcing my hands onto his penis. I brushed on past and tried to do my job, chiding him with my eyes and voice. I would not let him ditch that towel. He yelled and shook with the frustration of impotent rage.
I was already accustomed to confrontations and assumptions. There was no thought of acting in the role thrust upon me.
Not wanting to further humiliate him, but hearing no one come to my rescue, I had to give up on civility and resolved the conflict. I pinned him down easily, grabbed his neck, yelled in his face, and handed him his clothes. I prayed I wouldn't have to hurt him. Eventually, he relented.