In two weeks, I turn twenty-four. I've made a man orgasm from kicking him in the balls and brought another to climax by tying him to a coat rack with a necktie and sticking a dildo up his ass. Sometimes dicks are like peppermills I grind to pay the rent, and sometimes they're just good company.
Nerve runs a frustratingly unsalacious essay from Stephanie Serizy about working the handjob routine in a Manhattan massage parlor. You read this essay, hoping for sordid details and bizarro anecdotes, and you do get a few flashes here and there. Most of it focuses instead on the other massage girls and their collective strategies for managing their lives inside the parlor and out. And at the end, you realize it's a pretty good story regardless of the relative lack of titillation and standard anguished sexually precocious youthful memoirist (pierced) navel-gazing. Still, the above killer opener was buried at the end, as is so often the case with personal narrative. Just pretend you read that first, like you did for this post, and see what you think. No touching!