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. But it was exciting. The strip club was my playground—a place where I could shamelessly flirt and get attention from men without having to perform sex acts. 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 quit, resolving to never work in Toronto strip clubs again. Instead, I decided to try the erotic massage industry. 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.
As the massage progressed, I would undress and give him a hand job. 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.
