Rita

Rita's hands talk as they move, expressive, emphatic, incapable of a dull sentence, and the massage inherits all of it. Twenty-seven, up a Jordaan staircase.

In conversation Rita's hands conduct; in session they orate. There is an expressiveness to her touch that guests swear reads like speech, emphasis here, an aside there, a long fluent passage down the spine that lands like a paragraph of good Italian. The cinema name suits her: something in every gesture is slightly, wonderfully performed. She is twenty-seven, dark-haired, installed in the Jordaan where the evening light does her colouring favours. Her English is vivid and unbothered by grammar's finer feelings. The erotic oil hour is her stage. Book the evening slot, she is, by her own admission, nocturnal talent.

Rita decides which bookings she takes and may decline any of them; she sets the limits for what a session includes, says what they are, and may end a visit at any point, as the terms set out.