Lovin’, touchin’, squeezin’.

I’ve never been more proud.   Really.   This makes it all worthwhile.   I can die happy.   I might as well do it now.   This fucking instant.   Because the only way you’re becoming a massage therapist is over my cold, dead body.

There is no way in hell.   You’re a beautiful, intelligent, questionably rational girl.   Be a doctor.   Be a fucking lawyer.   Be an accountant for god’s sake.   Hell, be a receptionist if you just want to deal with the public.   But a massage therapist?   No fucking way.   If you want a career involving overstated and questionable health benefits, insurance fraud, and very little training, be a fucking chiropractor.    At least they call themselves doctors.

It’s a gateway career, kid.   It is.   You start rubbing guys for money, next thing you know you’re on your knees supporting a forty dollar crack habit.   You laugh, but it’s true.   It’s starts innocently enough.   You give a few massages, and everything’s going great.   The hours are great.   The people are great.   The tips are great.   Then some hairy, fat guy rolls over with a c-note wrapped around a hard-on, and oops, you’re a ho.   So let’s not sugar coat it.   Admit it.   You want to be a crack ho.   Nice goal setting.

I’m through discussing it.   It’s not happening.   Period.   End of fucking story.

Fine.   Ask again when you’re thirteen.   You’ll get the same answer.   Now go do your homework.

About the Author: Jon Carter Jackson

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