Tuna Hand Roll (Hand Jobs?)

From a Nerve.com article detailing the life of a Hand Job Masseuse in New York City, some choice bits:

A month later, after I spent a day in Queens filing in the nude, my sister requested that if I was going to sell myself, I do it someplace where she wouldn’t worry I’d be raped or killed. So I answered a Craigslist ad for “artists” — full-time pay, part-time hours, no sex — and there I was, sitting with Robin in an Upper East Side diner at three in the afternoon, picking at my pancakes and talking about handjobs.

Emily hangs up, and I draw a line connecting one grotesque breast to the other, a sexual barbell. As a kid, I idolized Amelia Earhart, Joan of Arc — lunatics who dressed up in knickers. I was always the dirtiest girl at recess. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, my Mom told me.
“If you can’t beat them, beat their dicks and take their money,” I tell Emily.

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. I’m jaded, but I’d rather be jaded than needy. I can watch porn by myself and not feel dirty. I’m harder to get into bed, but I think that’s a good thing.