The Garden: First Day

Everything they left behind, we folded into towels.

Disclaimer:
This essay contains sexual themes and descriptions of adult experiences that may not be suitable for all readers.

Names, dates, and identifying details have been changed or withheld to protect the privacy of individuals and locations. This piece reflects the author’s personal recollections and impressions, which may differ from the memories or interpretations of others.

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Photo by Katherine Hanlon on Unsplash

On the Upper East Side of Manhattan, past the cafés that overcharge for matcha and the women who’ve never once picked up their own dry cleaning, there’s a building with no name.

Five floors high, brownstone bones, the kind of place that sells for millions, just for the zip code.

At the top, through a door marked only by a faded bumper sticker of a Yantra, was The Garden.

It was my first day.

I climbed the stairs alone, wondering if anyone below had any idea what was happening five floors above their heads. I passed a door left slightly ajar, where a group of startup bros in hoodies and sweatpants clacked away at code. One looked up. Our eyes met for the briefest moment, and I wondered if he knew—his gaze was blank. I kept walking.

You’d never guess what lived at the top of that building. You wouldn’t suspect the heated massage tables, the programmable LED lights set to “Tantric Twilight,” the Sonos speakers purring spa music composed specifically to drown out the sound of grunts, and bated breaths. You wouldn’t know there were women up there folding endless loads of cum-stained towels into perfect hospital corners, whispering about “donation bowls” and which clients tipped extra to touch your breasts. You wouldn’t know, because you’re not supposed to.

I let myself in with the key from the lockbox. The entryway was narrow and black-curtained, more like a haunted house than a place of healing.

“Nova? Is that you?” came a soft voice from behind the curtain.

I hesitated. My real name clung to me like sweat.

Nova Lys was my new holy name.

“Yes,” I said finally, “it’s me.”

“Good,” the voice replied, and the curtain parted to reveal Solène Vale. She was small, somewhere in her thirties, with bleached-blonde hair and a light-pink yoga set under a long white cardigan. She looked more like a prep school mom than a sex worker. Maybe she was both. Nothing at The Garden was ever one thing.

“First things first,” she said, cheerily, “I need to get coffee! I’m not human until I’ve had at least three. Wanna come?”

Of course I did. I wasn’t about to be left alone in this cloister of moans and mood lighting.

We went to the closest Starbucks—iced coffee, venti, no food. Then Whole Foods, for coconut oil. “Fractionated only,” Solène warned, holding two bottles like sacramental wine. “Some gardens have massage oil ready. Not New York. Mother always forgets us!”

She dropped her voice. “She hates coconut oil. Says it looks cheap. But what does she expect us to use? Our spit?!”

We laughed, the way women laugh when the joke is barely a joke.

By the time we climbed back up the stairs, I’d already spent more money than I’d made—Uber, coffee, coconut oil. A Sweetgreen salad soon followed. By early afternoon, I’d spent close to a hundred dollars on the privilege of being here. Still, I reminded myself: one session at The Garden paid more than a whole day at my old job, fixing iPhones at Apple. I had worked at Urban Outfitters, where someone once took a shit in the women’s sale section¹. I had go-go danced on dirty bars. I had folded denim at Diesel. I had nothing to be precious about.

After we ate, she trained me. The day passed in fragments: an iPad calendar where you logged bookings, an OxyClean trick to keep cum from turning black towels pink.

The first booking came in around 3:30pm.

“Hi, it’s Dragon. Anyone available this evening?”

Dragon. That was his code name. On the iPad’s client database, he was listed as Dragon Luke—screened, cleared, with a history of seemingly peaceful encounters and a note field left blank. I booked him for a double session at 9pm with me and Solène, and then sat and stared at the message I’d sent.

It felt like pushing a button on a bomb.

Solène noticed the change in my face. “You’ve never done this before, have you?” she asked, already knowing the answer. “Come on. Let’s go through it!”

Solène dimmed the lights until the room was dusk-colored. It smelled of something vaguely holy—sandalwood, maybe, or old roses. I felt like a girl entering a chapel in the wrong century. I wondered, briefly, if anyone had ever truly relaxed in a room like this, or if they were just pretending, the way we were about to.

She stripped down with no hesitation, folding her dress into a neat square and placing it on a chair. I followed, clumsily. In only my underwear, I suddenly felt like a prop—barely human, and too fresh.

“Get on the table,” she said softly. I climbed up, straddling the padded surface like I’d seen her do earlier, legs open, exposed but trying not to seem fazed. She climbed on facing me, our limbs twining together like vines trained to grow around the same post.

“This is Yab-Yum,” she whispered, already breath-slow and in character. “It’s about presence. Feeling. Letting them be seen.”

Her hands came up to my collarbone, rested there. She rocked me slowly, eyes locked on mine, and I felt an odd hush fall over the space between us. She was acting. But she was also believing. Or at least—she had learned how to let herself look like she believed.

I wondered how long it had taken her to get this good.

“Not everyone gets it,” she murmured, like she could hear me thinking. “It’s not just a job. It’s a transference. We pull things out of them—pain, rage, loneliness. They leave it here. And we… fold it, into a towel.”

She smiled when she said it. I wasn’t sure if it was a joke.

I let myself melt into the rocking rhythm. I hadn’t been touched by another woman in months. Her hands smelled like eucalyptus and coconut, and I tried to memorize the choreography of her movements: the pause between a stroke and a sigh, the way her eyes stayed half-lidded like she was in a trance. She ran her fingers over my spine and said, “It’s all about slowness. Tease them into stillness. You don’t want to wake the animal. You want to cradle it.”

I didn’t say anything. I was trying not to cry.

Then she lay down and had me trace her.

“Start at my ankles. Go light. Now lighter. You’re not rubbing a thigh. You’re breathing through it.”

I moved in slow circles, my hand hovering half a centimeter above her skin, then barely brushing it. Her skin was smooth, warm, slightly damp from nerves or exertion—I couldn’t tell. She moaned theatrically, eyes closed, lips parted like a woman from a Renaissance painting.

“They like sounds when you touch,” she said, not opening her eyes. “But not too much. Not porn. Just enough to make them feel like you’re moved. Like they move you.”

Her breath slowed. I kept touching her back, her ribs, her hipbone. I realized we had been like this—half naked, folding into each other, whispering like sisters in a confessional—for almost an hour. I didn’t even know her real name.

“You’ll be fine,” she said finally. “You’ve got a good energy. You’re soft, but not stupid.”

I didn’t know if that was a compliment.

Around 8:45pm, the iPad lit up. Dragon Luke had arrived. “I’m on the corner,” the message read. Solène stood up, adjusted her thong in the mirror, and texted back: “Almost ready. We’ll let you in.”

We moved quickly now—like stagehands, not ladies of the night. The room transformed again: lights dimmed to violet, “Spa Day” playlist on Spotify activated, towel warmer loaded. We sprayed the sheets with lavender mist. Just freshly showered, we tweaked our light makeup, and threw white dresses over our bodies like veils.

Solène took one last look around the room. “Okay,” she said. “You get the door. Stand behind it when you open. Smile.”

I nodded. My hands were trembling.

He knocked three times.

I opened the door, standing just out of sight behind, like a maiden in a brothel from a period piece.

He stepped in.

Dragon Luke.

He looked like he’d just gotten off a conference call, and was out of breath from the climb. Six feet tall, J.Crew normcore, khaki energy. Polite. Soft-spoken. He nodded hello. Removed his shoes. Set down his briefcase.

And then, like it was a normal Tuesday night, he reached into his pocket and placed a folded stack of bills into the glass bowl on the massage table. Like a tithe. Like a sacrament.

“Five flights of stairs,” Solène chirped. “But I promise it’ll be worth it!”

He smiled, still slightly winded. She handed him a towel. Showed him the bathroom. He disappeared down the hall to shower.

And then it was just us again.

“When he comes back,” she said, “we’ll be naked except for the thongs. Don’t let him touch you, unless you want him to. You can always ask for more money! Technically it’s not allowed, buuut…” She shrugged. “That’s between you and Holy Spirit!”

She turned toward the mirror, smoothed her hair.

“That’s the thing,” she said. “Everyone wants something, and no one wants to admit what!”

I had no clue what she was talking about.

1. I WILL POST A FUCKING PHOTO IF YOU DON’T BELIEVE ME.