Best Rub And Tug Toronto

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Best Rub And Tug Toronto
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I was 23, broke and desperate, barely getting by on my office salary, so I changed professions
After high school, I left my small hometown in Nova Scotia to study aviation, and later ended up in Australia. In a distant continent, where no one knew me, I decided to try stripping. I’d always been curious about what it was like and wanted to see how much money I could make. The first night, the bar supervisor taught me a simple routine, which I performed while Justin Timberlake’s “SexyBack” played in the background. It was hard to get undressed while still looking sexy, and even more so to climb offstage gracefully with a fistful of lingerie in one hand and a wad of $5 bills in the other. But it was exciting. By my third performance that night, I felt like I’d been stripping forever. The strip club was my playground—a place where I could shamelessly flirt and get attention from men without having to perform sex acts. By the end of the night, I’d come home with as much as $800.
At 23, I moved back to Toronto and got a desk job. My salary was barely enough to pay my rent, and I yearned to be earning stacks of cash like I had in Australia. So I started stripping again. But the Mississauga club that hired me was more like a brothel. I was expected to perform sex acts in the lap dance rooms—something I wasn’t prepared to do at the time. I quit, resolving to never work in Toronto strip clubs again. Instead, I decided to try the erotic massage industry. I would only provide massages and hand jobs—no “extras,” which, in industry parlance, meant intercourse and blow jobs.
I took a job at a newish spa in a rough part of Hamilton, where the owner claimed I didn’t need a licence. From the outside, you’d never have known it was a spa. The building was nondescript, without any signage or branding; the owner advertised the place on Craigslist. Inside, there was a dim lobby and five small treatment rooms, each with its own shower. Prospective clients would pick one of the spa attendants out of a lineup. In between clients, we’d wait in the “girls’ room.”
When a man chose me, he’d be shown into a room to shower. As the massage progressed, I would undress and give him a hand job. I made between $40 and $80 per session and saw up to eight clients per shift. Despite the “no extras” rule, many clients pressured me for sex. They’d beg to just “put it in for a second,” as if I were a walking and talking microwave. Treatment room doors were left unlocked so a law-enforcement officer could open them at any time. Our only recourse for safety was the onsite manager—also the receptionist—who oversaw operations and monitored security cameras.
The place in Hamilton closed after a few months, and I started working at a so-called “holistic” spa in Etobicoke. But first I needed a licence. Ideally, a rub-and-tug would operate under a body rub licence, but the city has capped the number of those establishments at 25. As a result, many erotic massage spas operate using holistic licences, outraging the legitimate holistic health community. To get my holistic licence, I got a full criminal background check, acquired a phony health care practitioner certificate and faked evidence that I belonged to a holistic health association. All told, it cost over $500.
Within a few months, I’d quit my desk job to work at the spa full time. But the honeymoon period ended quickly. My bosses would dock my pay for a variety of unpredictable reasons: not convincing enough walk-in clients to stay, not cleaning the treatment room to their satisfaction, being late, being sick. The rules were inconsistent: one day, no one would notice a wrinkly bed sheet; the next day it would earn me a $40 fine. I was often fined upwards of $100 a shift, even when I followed the rules. The owners made me work 60 hours a week, claiming I owed them for not seeing enough clients. They’d malign other spas, telling us how much worse it would be if we worked anywhere else.
The spa had one rule that never changed: I was never to be caught naked or performing sexual acts of any kind by bylaw officers. Doing either of those things in a municipally licensed establishment is a definite no-no, and often resulted in tickets or fines. Rumour had it that if an attendant was ever issued three tickets, she would get a permanent record. The attitude at the spa was “just don’t get caught.”
It took a few years and stints at several spas to find one that was, dare I say, pleasant to work at, where I was allowed to make my own schedule and received clear and consistent instruction on how to avoid fines. This spa was thoughtfully decorated and had a relaxed atmosphere, and during my first week, we had a training session where expectations were clearly outlined, both in and out of the treatment room. The place focused on the clients as individuals instead of just walking dollar signs. For the first time, I felt comfortable enough at work to make friends with my colleagues.
Over the next several years, I tried to leave the spa industry four times. While I was able to secure some freelance blogging gigs, I had trouble finding regular office jobs. Employers would point out gaps in my resumé—the years I’d spent at strip clubs and rub-and-tugs—that I couldn’t explain. Discouraged, I’d always return to the spa world. Sometimes I’d come back intending to work as a receptionist, determined not to rely on fast money again. But within a couple of months, I’d always end up back in the rooms as an attendant.
By the time I hit my 30s, I’d accepted my spa job as a career rather than a temporary cash fix. As I got older and gained weight, however, the glory days of “no extras” were over for me. The rules and standards I’d always valued so dearly became barriers to making money. So I decided to provide full sexual services for some of my clients. But I kept my boundaries clear. I always used condoms for intercourse and never engaged in sexual acts with clients if I felt uncomfortable. If I didn’t like how a client was behaving, or felt I wouldn’t be able to control the session, I didn’t offer anything more than a hand job. I would expertly apply makeup and wear silky lingerie; by 10 a.m. on a typical weekday, I looked ready for a photo shoot. I specialized in the girlfriend experience: I kissed clients and feigned desire.
Soon, I’d developed genuine relationships with some of my regulars. I looked forward to seeing many of them, and I knew they felt the same way. Many clients came to see me at least once a week. One of my favourite clients was a property developer, much older than me, who visited once, sometimes twice a week. We’d finish the sexual portion of the session early, then spend the rest of the time catching up and updating each other on our lives and families. Sometimes I wonder how he is doing, but I respect the boundaries between us, the same boundaries that allowed us to share so openly in the first place.
As I developed my craft, my shame around sex work evaporated. I was making a difference in my clients’ lives. But I suspected that people still judged me, so I started conducting some experiments. The next time I went apartment hunting, the prospective landlord asked me what I did for a living. For the first time, I told them the truth. They hung up on me immediately. Another time, I signed up for an aromatherapy course. When the instructor asked me why I’d enrolled, I told her I wanted to make natural soaps for myself and my co-workers, who had to shower several times a day. She booted me from the class.
There were many days that I didn’t feel safe at work. At one point, I started suffering extreme headaches and violent vomiting after long shifts. I suspected I had mould poisoning. Another time, a client assaulted me in an unlocked treatment room while I screamed for help. When I told my fellow attendants, they said they heard what happened but figured I could handle myself. “If it was me, I would have just punched him in the face,” one co-worker said nonchalantly.
After working in the massage industry for about nine years, I was painfully aware of its dark side. I became a kind of den mother in the break room, offering contacts for accountants who were sex work–friendly and safe sex tips. I would listen as young women would list the benefits of having a pimp with unshakeable bravado. Their so-called “boyfriends” would drive them to work, help them get housing, finance a car loan. I couldn’t blame them. They wanted someone to take care of them.
I became involved with Maggie’s, a charitable organization that provides a safe space for sex workers. It was there that I met other people in the trade who took their jobs seriously and cared about the Canadian sex work industry. I sat around a table with escorts and massage workers, enthusiastically discussing how to overcome challenges in our lives and in the industry as a whole. Some of them were students, or daytime office workers, or parents, ranging from their early 20s to their 60s.
Earlier this year, I left the massage world for good. I moved back to Nova Scotia to be with my aging father and started working full time as a web copywriter. Less than a week after arriving, I matched on Tinder with an old classmate. He proceeded to tell me the rumour-mill version of my history as a sex worker that had been spreading around town. I quickly realized I needed to be honest about my past, especially if I wanted to help people with similar experiences.
I knew I had to tell my dad before someone else did. He knew nothing about how I’d been paying my bills for the past decade. Outing myself to the person who loved me most was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. But I believed the benefits would outweigh my discomfort. I prepared myself for the worst, sat him down and told him my story through streams of tears. He nodded and told me he was glad I was home. Then he took me out for Swiss Chalet.
Email submissions to memoir@torontolife.com
An earlier version of this story numbered the city’s cap on body rub establishments at 30. The correct number is 25.
I spent 16 years as a radio host, talking and talking until I was miserable.
Then, one day, I turned off my mic, took a three-month vow of silence and walked nearly 1,000 kilometres. How shutting up saved my life




By D. G. Marshall


| Photography by Katherine Holland
| August 22, 2022


A s long as I can remember, my mouth has been getting me into trouble. Growing up just north of Toronto, I was the class clown, the guy who would say anything to get a laugh, no matter how crude or cutting. I used the gift of gab to get what I wanted from my parents (money, stuff, a later curfew) and to get out of what I didn’t want (chores, groundings). I was asked to leave four different schools, mostly because I talked too much, and every one of my report cards said some variation of the same thing: I’d do much better if I would just shut up.
My mouth served me terribly as a student, but it set me up perfectly for a career in radio. In 2003, I launched a talk show on an AM station in the GTA. I would ask people about their religious beliefs and the role faith played in their lives. I interviewed not just rabbis and nuns but also witches, Wiccans and Satanist high priests. Some listeners boycotted the show, but others couldn’t get enough. I got celebrities, politicians, religious leaders and spiritual gurus to open up about their most intimate beliefs. In my 16 years hosting the show, I interviewed Larry King, Sinead O’Connor, Stephen Harper, Deepak Chopra, Alice Cooper, Rainn Wilson, BB King, Mahatma Gandhi’s grandson Arun and hundreds of other guests.
I think the show succeeded because it engaged the sort of people who don’t usually listen to religious radio—people like me. I’d grown up in a churchgoing household and, earlier in my life, had talked my way into a gig as a pastor despite a lack of credentials. By the time I started the show, I had mostly given up on organized religion and was beginning to question my faith, but I was still fascinated by others’ beliefs. How could anyone be so certain about something so invisible? I was consumed by the quest to understand the unknown and the unseen, and I travelled the world in search of answers. I meditated at the Wailing Wall, prayed among ancient petroglyphs in Australia, slept at Stonehenge and wept at the Holocaust memorial in Jerusalem. If I visited all the sacred sites and interviewed every spiritual leader, I thought, surely I would discover some divine truth.
The only truth I discovered was this: I was a jerk—a selfish, egotistical, judgmental bastard. It hit me about six years ago. I was about to turn 50, an event that naturally inspires some self-reflection. Almost every significant relationship in my life was in tatters. My wife of 28 years wanted a divorce. My adult son, who was about to welcome his first kid into the world, was hardly speaking to me. When I asked my daughter what I was doing wrong, she told me she didn’t have enough time to explain it all.
I knew this much: I was an addict, not to drugs or alcohol but to the search for some higher power or deeper meaning. I had neglected the people who loved me most. Instead of spending time with my wife, I was drinking mead with druids or herding sheep in Nazareth. Rather than cooking for the family, I watched the six o’clock news to scout stories for my show. I prioritized my guests, with whom I might spend an hour, over my loved ones, the people who actually meant the most to me. The hunt for transcendence made me unbearable. I was constantly tearing into anyone I perceived as less enlightened than I was, criticizing them until I pushed them away. Profanity and sarcasm were my default modes of communication. I drank too much and listened too little. I was miserable, as was everyone caught in my caustic orbit.
As I considered life after 50, I knew one thing for certain: I didn’t want to be a lonely, grumpy contrarian, constantly chasing some truth I’d never find. I wanted to be a better friend, a supportive husband, a loving and laid-back grandfather. My report cards had been right—I’d do a lot better if I would just shut up. If my mouth was the root cause of my problems, maybe it was time to stop talking altogether.
I needed something big to turn my life around. Years earlier, I’d watched a movie called The Way starring Martin Sheen and Emilio Estevez. The film follows their journey along the Camino de Santiago, a series of 1,200-year-old trails that converge on a cathedral in northwestern Spain, where the remains of Saint James the apostle are said to be buried. If there was ever a time to walk the trail, this was it. I decided to take a three-month sabbatical from the radio show and follow the almost 1,000-kilometre route without saying a single word. At worst, it would be another one of my futile soul-searching stunts. But I had already torched everything that mattered to me. I had nothing left to lose. My admittedly optimistic plan was to finish the trek on my 50th birthday a changed man.
B y the time I arrived at the start of the Camino, in early October of 2016, I was already worried that my quest was doomed. I was terrified that I’d accidentally speak, that my bum knees would prevent me from finishing the route, that even if I made it the whole way, I’d return home still a schmuck. Nonetheless, hungover from the night before, I walked out of the charming French town of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port and began my two-month journey.
The first stretch of trail was a steep incline into the Pyrenees, and my body hated every step. I quickly realized that my $600 Lowa hiking boots, sturdy enough to climb the Alps, were too narrow for my feet. My 13-plus-kilo Osprey backpack—filled with a few changes of hiking clothes and deodorant (I’m not a total troglodyte)—felt heavier with every stride. My knees started to creak, and sweat permeated every piece of clothing I owned. One hour in, I wanted to give up. I don’t know whether it was my ego or the goal of becoming a better person that propelled me forward. Either way, I kept walking.
Around the 12-kilometre mark, I trudged into the first albergue, one of hundreds of hostels along the Camino. The rustic abode, equipped with bunk beds and a rudimentary kitchen, was crawling with hikers speaking a potpourri of different languages. It was there I began to understand that the physical challenge, excruciating as it was, would be far easier than the vow of silence. When the hostel staff or fellow travellers spoke to me, I tried to explain to them that I was not speaking. I pointed to my mouth, mimed the act of talking with my hand and then slid my index finger across my neck. I could usually get what I wanted using some combination of pointing and improvised hand signals. (To ask for milk in my coffee, for instance, I pretended to milk a cow.) If that didn’t get the point across, I’d pull out my old iPhone and show people its screen, which read, “Please forgive me for not talking. I’m travelling for three months in a vow of silence. You can still talk to me :).”
And people did. Along the Camino, I was joined by pilgrims from Switzerland, Holland, Israel and Ireland. Some walked with me in silence; others shared their life stories in breathless, hours-long monologues. One traveller, a gay man from Ireland, told me about the rejection he’d experienced from his family. Another traveller shared her struggle to go on after the death of her child. I yearned to ask questions, to offer my advice or condolences. I was so used to interjecting myself into every conversation, relating others’ experiences back to me and my selfish search for meaning. But, on the trail, all I could do was slowly and awkwardly type out a few concise questions in the Notes app of my phone, hoping I wouldn’t scare them off with my directness. I didn’t. Eventually, everyone unloaded onto the silent Canadian, relieved to speak their minds without feeling judged.
Yet I couldn’t keep my judgmental side entirely in check. One morning, about a month into my trip, I woke up around 5:30 a.m., grabbed my boots and pack, and walked downstairs to the hostel lobby, where I spotted a skinny, scruffy guy in his late 50s with his hair in a ponytail. He looked drunk, staggering around and slurring his words. I was no stranger to monstrous hangovers, but I’d never been flat-out hammered first thing in the morning. Drunk before dawn? What’s your problem, dude? I didn’t want this guy—or my hostility toward him—accompanying me on the trail, so I quickly tied up my boots, skipped breakfast and left.
Later that day, I peeled off the route to check out one of the many historic and architecturally stunning churches that dot the Camino. When I returned to the path, I heard a voice say, “Buen Camino,” a common greeting among pilgrims. There he was: the guy I had tried to avoid. I smiled politely and then hurried off down the trail. I figured I could outpace him. But, three kilometres later, he was somehow still close behind me. Finally, he yelled out to me, so I paused to let him catch up. I feared I’d spend the rest of my day listening to the ramblings of a drunkard. Instead, I quickly realized how wrong I had been. The man introduced himself as Nico and explained that he had Lou Gehrig’s disease. It had ravaged his nervous system to the point where he stumbled and slurred. He’d decided to tackle the Camino while his body would still let him. I felt awful.
Before the Camino, I had been
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