Ever fantasised about being in a massage parlour where you’re happily being glazed with sweet-smelling oils, your body is being stroked and titillated all over, whereupon, with equal measures of disbelief and delight, you find yourself partaking in some lustful communion with a sultry, exotic masseuse?
Just under two years ago, on a visit to Atlanta, I entered an Oriental Health Spa with that exact fantasy lodged in my mind and ready to be fulfilled.
After passing through two doors, paying the entrance fee of $40 to a little old woman and stripping down naked with only a towel around my waist, I was hand-held down a corridor and bathed with soapy foam by a young Korean girl named Chantel; a paragon of Asian beauty. Following that I was led back to my room and asked to lay naked, face down on the table.
A snap of elastic hinted that she had removed her panties, and, as she mounted my back like a jockey to a horse, my suspicion that there was a scantiness of underwear was confirmed by the tickling sensations felt as my back made contact with her pubic region. After a speedy massage was received and my ear penetrated by her tongue, I was flipped over and licked to a standing position – if you catch my drift. Right at that very moment, I was positive that fantasy was becoming an olive-skinned reality.
Alas, it was not meant to be. Just as the experience was entering a sphere of sensuality, my euphoric bubble was popped as business became the order of the day. She candidly (and somewhat coldly and unexpectedly) whispered whether I would prefer hand relief at $100, oral relief at $150 or have “everything” for $200. For anybody who has never had such an inquiry directed at them, this is quite the turn off. A voice in my head, nonetheless, convinced me I’d regret turning back having gotten as far as I had, and on this advice, I shyly handed over the $200.
I’m not going to go into great detail, but I will say this much – protection was used. As for the sex: it was neither an exhilarating experience, nor a horrible one. It was simply an experience. There was nothing salacious or sensual, it was just removed, mechanical intercourse. Once the $200 toll was paid, her gates were perfunctorily opened and I was permitted entry for as long as it took me (which I didn’t or couldn’t). Sport for the misogynist this was.
Needless to say, my disappointment was only my own fault – I had missed the point. You, to her, represent a dollar sign (not that she has a choice). It’s not meant to involve passion or the senses, or to even be seductive. It’s a systematic, wham-bam-thank-you-mam service, where the average customer wishes to ‘come’ and then go. Like the jockey is to the horse; her job was to mount me, ride me and get me over the finishing line as quickly as possible.