Must I move to Mexico to become a massage whore?

It’s a serious question. My idea of rubbing down the old T&A for cash money is somewhere on the madcap end of the spectrum of my career goals, although not as far out as the idea that occasionally comes into my head of scraping together $30k for flight simulator time and emerging a few months later with instrument certification on one of the fetch-ass Boeing commercial jet series. Going straight for the big metal isn’t as dumb as matriculating to Embry-Riddle, but that doesn’t make it smart.

Becoming a happy-ending masseur for ladies only, on the other hand, is hella smart. I seem to have fallen under a curse whereby women won’t let me touch them like that unless they pay me for it. (The alternative of being the paying party doesn’t really pencil out at this time.) I don’t know for a fact that hotties will have me fondle their warm soft parts for cold hard cash, but I’m pretty sure of it. Contrary to popular belief in my family, I generally get along quite well with women and I definitely have the social skills not to creep them out as a matter of course, especially in a professional setting. Only rarely do I become a clingy bastard. Turning the tables so that it’s the hot ladies soliciting the bad touch would be golden.

As curses go, the curse of having to be paid for the privilege of fondling bare naked ladies is a rather happy one. In fact, it would be the best curse on God’s green earth short of Rasputin’s penis mole if it weren’t for the psychotic regulatory regimes governing massage in the United States. What I would like to do cannot be done legally in most American jurisdictions because SEX! Ironically, California, my first home state, my current place of domicile, and the state whose electorate was addled enough to pass “human trafficking” Proposition 35 by a margin of 85-15, has a limited refuge for the happy hooker in the form of a licensure regime for something called “sexological bodywork.” This is the state-sanctioned codification of the happy-ending massage, but in coherent English rather than Full Metal Jacket ching-chong hawny pidgin. For a state that otherwise pours out concern-trolling idiocy and authoritarian wrath on sex workers, this should be brilliant, and maybe it is, but two concerns come to my mind. First, this certification seems like a ready-made honeypot for anyone interested in someday obtaining a professional license in a different field, allowing the background investigators to run names and disqualify perfectly reasonable license candidates for being dirty old men. Second, I don’t expect to be able to find a certified instructor in this field who isn’t eyeball-deep in insipid New Age mind-rot. Women who attribute their anorgasmia to the misalignment of their external pelvic energy fields have my cordial invitation to keep that concern to themselves. If business is slow enough, I guess I’d humor clients by trying not to snicker at that kind of language, but I’m awfully square to endure it without at least smirking.

Even at its most ideal, a regulatory regime of this sort is creepy-crawly compared to the laissez-faire regime of Mexican massage. The authorities there figure that if the rubdown sucked so mightily, maybe you shouldn’t go back to that masseur. The erotic massage trade in Mexico is largely in the hands of full-service hookers, and the authorities aren’t interested in throwing up a bunch of barriers to women entering a low-skill service-sector trade. Massage is one of the more skilled aspects of prostitution, but Mexico’s powers-that-be aren’t freaked out that dangerous incompetents will ruin their clients by doing it wrong. Their attitude is that these are women who fuck for money, and some of them provide backrubs for money, but if you’re complaining about the backrub, or the blowjob, being inadequate, cry me a fucking river, man. Your hooker didn’t have the moves like Jagger? Oh well.

The same attitude goes for nonsexual massage providers. The health department won’t listen to your complaint that your provider was noticeably less smooth than Carlos Santana with Rob Thomas any more than it’ll listen to your complaint that the tacos at the food cart across the street were greasy and gave you a case of the shits after you ate a whole mess of them like a damn pig. Nor will it listen to anyone’s concern-trolling about unhealthy old guys having heart attacks in massage parlors because the practitioners aren’t professionally trained to solicit and evaluate their medical histories. After all, there are worse ways to die than while being caressed by a cute senorita, and the geezers should have kept a closer eye on their own health if they didn’t want to follow the Nelson-Rockefeller-on-the-hearth school of not going gentle into that good night.

The Mexican authorities correctly recognize that that ain’t medicine. In fact, there isn’t even much opportunity for fraud. The worst that’s likely to happen is that the customer will find the product overpriced and sucky; if he’s too witless to navigate that marketplace, there isn’t much the government can do for him.

It’s unclear whether the butthurt LMT’s who make a nuisance of themselves by concern-trolling about clients falling victim to unlicensed (and usually Asian immigrant) masseurs and masseuses are genuinely concerned about consumer protection. There is obviously a baldfaced effort at regulatory capture in play; the question is whether there is any virtue conjoined to that vice. The other thing that drives the licensed screechers is a visceral case of teh yuck-yuck at the thought of their competitors jerking dudes off and thus sullying the profession by sexualizing it. This is like a Mormon Denny’s franchisee being mortally scandalized that a brewpub down the block traffics alcohol. Only an idiot would confuse a massage parlor that advertises in the back of a weekly alternative newspaper with a clinical massage practice. The people who conflate these two types of practices are the same ones who assume that it’s okay to hit on real nurses because women who dress up as sexy nurses on Halloween are total tarts.

Speaking of sexy nurses: Orville Lynn Majors. Don’t even try to resist the mullet.

What’s really going on with the butthurt, defensive subset of LMT’s, I believe, is that they’re in high dudgeon because people have the gall to even think of comparing them to prostitutes. A trade widely practiced by prostitutes since time immemorial and often requiring its practitioners to rub naked people with their bare hands for money is being compared to common prostitution? How dare they! In effect, this is vulgar social climbing by clinicians who received only moderate training but demand that they be shown the same deference customarily shown to physicians.

Of course, physicians never debased themselves to the point of masturbating frigid women all day and then buying vibrators en masse because old-school handjobs left them no time to practice real medicine. I lie; Victorian gynecologists did exactly that. That’s why Tom Coburn needs to be fitted in a Teddy Roosevelt suit and put in a wormhole to 1895. Giggity giggity!

My problem is that I’m not looking for prestige. I’m just trying to see if I can get paid to practice the ancient art of grab-ass with a veneer of clinical dispassion, preferably in a jurisdiction with de minimis red tape and a major airline crew base. Because flight attendants are hawt, and I shouldn’t need a license for me rub you long time.

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One thought on “Must I move to Mexico to become a massage whore?

  1. Pingback: Around the Web: The (tits and) ass end of the internet | Notes On Liberty

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