Amy points to the sign scrawled in black magic marker, Scotch-taped below an anatomical drawing of the human form. "No Sex No adult stores Only Body Work," it declares. 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 40-year-old massage worker—her name, like that of others from the industry who appear in this story, has been changed to protect her identity—is 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. "We're not sex slaves and nobody I've talked or worked with is a sex slave by any means," she wrote me. "Most of my coworkers are immigrants, yes, but honestly they're in it for the money and they make more money doing this than working in a restaurant washing dishes or in a dry cleaners folding laundry."