And then there was Spencer — perhaps one of the most interesting clients I met during my months on Madison Ave. Spencer was the wet dream of any Bridgehampton daughter: early thirties, tall and lean, blond and blue-eyed, wealthy. He was known among my coworkers for being courteous. Since I’d never given a man a full-bikini treatment — balls, ass (interior and exterior), and penis — my boss told me to take him.

“You’re new,” Spencer said. He seemed nervous, lying naked on his stomach on the treatment table.

“I am,” I said, maintaining my confident façade.

He remained quiet for a few minutes as though he was thinking to himself. “I’m getting married in a few months,” he finally said.

“How lovely,” I said, spreading his cheeks.

“That’s actually why I’m getting this done. My fiancé, Michelle, wants it all gone.”

I examined the areas he wanted treated — all of his hair was blond and fine, his skin pale. Of all the skin and hair types, his was the least likely to see results. I told him this.

“Do it anyway. I’m sure I’ll notice something,” he said. The client is always right, I thought.

When I began, Spencer started to make curious sounds. He was wriggling around, but not in pain. He was letting out sighs of pleasure. When he flipped over so I could zap the front, he revealed a full-blown erection. Outwardly, I continued, unfazed. Inside, I was bemused: as per my boss’ stringent requirements, we all “enhanced” our appearances at work to be “aesthetically pleasing for the clients.” That meant wearing tight, expensive-looking attire, high heels, and lots of makeup. This, I guess, was the desired result. 

When I was through, he smiled.

“Thank you,” he said, and handed me a twenty-dollar tip.

I told my coworkers what I saw.

“That happens sometimes,” they said. “Just ignore it.”

Spencer’s next appointment wasn’t for another six weeks. But he came in the next day.

“Michelle said you missed areas."

I was surprised; I had done a thorough job, especially considering the situation. But I took him to a room.

When he disrobed, he looked like he had chicken pox; hundreds of tiny circles in red pen covered his ass, balls, and dick (including the head) to show me the individual hairs I had missed. I explained to him again that the laser would not work on “peach fuzz.”

After a treatment, the skin looks slightly sunburned and swollen. “If each circle isn't puffy, she’s going to speak with your boss,” he said.

It took me an hour to zap each red circle. The whole time — his knuckles white from clutching the table, his purple erection bobbing excitedly — he was quietly moaning in ecstasy. I kept wondering, “Can I go to jail for this?”

“Done,” I finally said. He looked more than adequately covered with bee stings. I thought he was going to ask me to leave the room for a few minutes. But he just got off the table and threw on his jeans and Brooks Brothers jacket. “Thanks,” he said and handed me 100 dollars. 

When he was gone, I stood still for a second: was the hundred-dollar bill a tip for a job well-done? Or hush money? Was Michelle really his fiance, or even a real person? Did I just unwittingly play a role in some BDSM ritual?

I never found out. It was the first week of October and I was still barely making rent; despite what my boss had told me, I was only pulling in 300 dollars a week. So I quit and became a waitress at an Irish pub in Hell’s Kitchen a few weeks later. Because I was the new girl, I was expected to work Halloween night. Management told us we needed to wear a costume. I’d kept my white lab jacket (a symbolic middle finger to my old bosses) and decided to make use of it.

Vampires, pirates, and superheroes looked approvingly at my red lipstick, my thigh-high lab coat, and the stethoscope dangling from my neck. “And who are you supposed to be?” a drunk cowboy asked. He wrapped his arm around my waist and pressed me against his body. I smiled confidently and dug my nails into his arm — hard — until he let go.

“A witch.”

Photography by Daisy Blecker.