Snap Amy points to the sign scrawled in black magic marker, Scotch-taped below an anatomical drawing of the human form. We're in a small, dark room on the second floor of a brick building on Roosevelt Avenue in Flushing, Queens, the heart of the Asian massage industry in America.
Amy, a year-old massage workerβher name, like that of others from the industry who appear in this story, has been changed to protect her identityβis clad in a not particularly seductive outfit: a canary yellow t-shirt and black leggings, a royal blue visor atop her head, black hair pulled back in a ponytail.
I'd read on RubMaps, the so-called Yelp of massage parlors βa subscription website where people provide detailed reviews of their sexual experiences at "rub and tugs"βthat happy-ending massages occur here.
I'm wondering if Amy provides them, but the sign isn't promising. In fact, Amy is insistent that she doesn't offer massage either, but "body work," a distinction that may be unimportant to customers, but is essential to her.
Many massage workers don't have licenses, and so refer to massage offerings by euphemism because operating a massage parlor in New York without a license is a class E felony that can result in up to four years behind bars.
