"Lisa Bodywork". Midtown West
There are nights when New York shines like the brightest diamond, when it sparkles like champagne, when it begs you to stand up and LIVE, to drink it all in without stopping for even a single moment without even using punctuation or catching your breath.
There are days when New York kicks your teeth in, when it stabs you in the heart for fun and leaves you bleeding on the curb. My city is a merciless ***** but I can't stop loving her, and even as she casts me aside for a younger, thinner, happier man, she reaches out and takes my hand and gives me some reason to stand and walk again.
Fifth Avenue was filled with German tourists and I was at some lousy theme bar where the drinks had names and the names all sounded like strippers. Pink Bellied Berta. Tina Tiny Bubbles. Fuck. The shitty places a man goes in the pathetic pursuit of powerful pussy. Three young women ask you to go somewhere with them and you don't ask questions, you just go.
At the end of a day of genuflecting and accepting horse-whippings from clients whose asses needed kissing, I was tired of puckering up. There are some indignities that a man should never endure, not even for the sake of entertaining a lady. Putting fruit, alcohol and tiny paper umbrellas together demeans and degrades all three. Fruit belongs in the lunchboxes of schoolchildren. Tiny paper umbrellas should be used to keep the rain off tiny paper men or to cover the tiny paper tits of tiny paper burlesque entertainers in tiny paper vaudeville houses. Alcohol is far better off alone than anywhere near the other two.
I slapped a bunch of cash on the bar, bid my companions adieu and beat a hasty retreat. The evening air was heavy with mist and the anticipation of my own stupid self-indulgence. Cash on hand. 85 bucks. In Manila or Angeles City that'll buy you the girl of your choice for the night. In Chinatown it'll buy you an hour on the table and a handjob with 10 bucks left over for dumplings. In Midtown. What? I needed a momentary oasis of calm and quiet.
I called Lisa. An independent massage provider near Herald Square. 45 bucks an hour. And headed south and west on foot. She came well-recommended by my rub junkie brothers and she did not disappoint.
She opened the door and looked me up and down as I did the same. She turned out to be a pleasant woman somewhere in her 40's. She has a pretty, soft face and lovely eyes, doesn't wear a lot of makeup. She doesn't dress "sexy" but she has a nice lean figure with the usual fabulous Chinese ass and nice little breasts that still seemed somehow perky to me. I had been told she wasn't a "looker" and I suppose if you hold her next to a 22 year old KMP girl the KMP girl would emerge victorious, but I can assure you, she's far nicer to look at than 75% of what you'll find at this price point.
Having each passed the eyeball test, she welcomed me in and I followed. Her digs are perfectly adequate for a provider of her scale and simplicity. A single, small, clean, room within a maze of medical / herbal / nontraditional practitioners on the 10th floor of a nondescript office building, it's perfectly safe, secure and discreet. Neither drab nor depressing like some rundown Chinatown dumps, her spot has no shower but the floors are new and clean and the paint's not peeling.
This was her first exposure to King Otis and mine to her, so I didn't expect a miracle and I didn't get one but what I got instead was enough to chase the pallor off a shitty day and Polish the night like a pretty little gem.
She stepped out of the room while I got ready and when she returned she dimmed the lights a little, put the Chinese muzak on the box asked me how I like it."Hard." I said, like I always do."Don't be afraid. You're not going to hurt me."
She went ahead and gave me a good-to-great hard massage. She oiled her hands a little and went to work on my neck and shoulders, working her way down symetrically and systematically with good hard pressure. Finishing down at the feet, she asked me to turn over.
She rubbed my head and then my chest and then she kept moving down until her hands were between my legs rubbing my cock and balls. I reached over and felt her ass, then her nice, firm, real breasts. She started stroking my hard cock as I reached under her shirt and continued to feel her. Harder and faster. Yes, it does take a long time. She was persistent in her dogged pursuit of my satisfaction and. Finally I came.
This was the quiet oasis I needed. She cleaned up and said 'next time, massage only? ' Confused, I asked her why. She pointed to my crotch, 'you no like very much. Take a long time. ' Heh heh. Yeah.
I smiled sheepishly. 'I'm just slow, ' I said. 'I get a lot of massages. I liked it very very much. ' She smiled.
She waited out in the hall while I dressed. I gave her 40 on top of the 45. 30 would have been OK. But she was nice and kind and it was exactly what I needed.
I went down the elevator to 35th Street where the sidewalks were empty now. I started walking slowly, the tiny shards of glass in the sidewalks and streets that strengthen the floor of this asphalt jungle glimmered and shined with the reflection of the streetlights and neon. As I reached the corner I looked up and through the mist I saw neon glowing in a third floor window. 'Bodywork. ' A number I have never called. There are thousands of windows like this that beckon and call on every block in this city. I made a mental note. For another night, another reason to get through a day when New York beats you back, another way to get back on your feet when you think you're down for the count. Another place to go whenever I get around to having another tomorrow.
718-XXX-1898
Shaking off the Dirt of the Day at Sky Spa
I prefer to stay within the five boroughs of New York City unless I am unavoidably required to appear elsewhere. In point of fact, I am not especially fond of Staten Island and rarely make it to the Bronx anyway, so we're talking about Brooklyn, Queens and Manhattan as pretty much the entire universe.
So when I tell you that I had to go to Islip to take care of some dumbass paperwork with the Town Clerk, I can assure you in no uncertain terms that it was unavoidable. And when I say that I walked from the LIRR to the Town Hall, you will understand that no one walks more than 20 feet in any direction on Long Island unless they happen to be on the wrong side of the mall relative to Johnny Rocket's when the urge for retro faux-sitcom bullshit fast food hits. I will take my stinky, damp, angry, crowded agitated New York City over any of the places around it.
The suburbs jangle my every nerve and make my ankles hurt. The sounds of lawnmowers and souls slowly dying fill the suburban air, punctuated by the machine-gun-with-Tourette's bursts of new cancer clusters popping up and dotting the barren moonscape.
There is good and bad in everything I suppose and there is one redeeming quality in every trip to Long Island: at the end of your return trip, the LIRR drops you at 34th and 7th, the epicenter of Midtown Monger paradise.
It took me 3. 5 seconds to identify a place to which I have never been a block from Penn Station. Emerging from the special circle of hell below Madison Square Garden that has been outfitted with shops and restaurants for commuters I called and within five minutes was ringing the bell. Five minutes after that I was being attended to by a beautiful Chinese girl in her twenties.
My addiction grows and consumes whatever it encounters because life feels bad and indulgence feels good. But there is good and bad in everything. The bad gives way to good. The good means nothing without reference to the bad.
Sky Spa appeared as if, well, out of the sky, like any one of a thousand similar places folded into the batter of New York. It's a decent sized place in the exact same building as another provider I saw last week. The space is clean but there are privacy issues in that the walls are short and doors are. Not doors. The good obscures the bad.
There's a nice fishtank up front filled with fish who scattered in terror when I growled at them. The mamasan is not an old lady and most definitely works the tables herself. It seems like a two girl operation. When I walked in it was empty so I ended up with Jenny, a young, cute girl with nice B cups, a tight ass, and amazing hair. A pleasant person to be around with a hot little body and a pretty face. Things were looking up. I paid the 60 buck house fee and got myself comfortable. The good was getting better and the bad was running for cover.
Jenny gave me a good hard rub, an above average massage for sure. She went a little heavy on the oil, but, on the other hand I didn't try to stop her. Maybe oil would wipe away the out of town muck anyway. She worked every ounce of her 100 pound frame into the process, and by the end she was working up a sweat. She went for the hot towels and rubbed me down.
The good got even better. She ran her hands over my ass and between my ass cheeks, teasing me. She reached under me and grabbed my swelling cock, tugging at it until it was too hard for me to lay back down, and she whispered sweetly for me to turn over.
She rubbed my chest and looked into my eyes and I felt connected to her for just a second. There was only good, the bad was gone. As she traced her hand down my chest, past my belly, to where my cock was waiting for her touch, fully erect, burning for her attentions.
She wrapped her oiled hand around my impossibly hard cock and stroked it lightly. I ran my hands over her perfect little body. Her tight little ass. Her perky breasts. I could feel her nipples getting hard through her shirt.
She touched her finger lightly against my asshole and looked at me as if to ask "yes?" I nodded slowly and she slid a finger in my ass as she began pumping her hand harder and faster on my hot and glowing cock. I slid my hand under her shirt and pushed her bra aside. I felt her hard nipples and she exhaled hard staccato breaths and gave a low rumbling sigh of pleasure. That was all I needed and the good melted into perfection as I came and came and came with the stupidest smile in history plastered across my face.
She giggled at my goofy grin and leaned over and touched her lips lightly against mine, in a perfect little gesture, a tiny shared moment of intimacy, of human connection, of simple good feeling.
We made a little small talk as I dressed and she cleaned up and then I handed her a 50 for a tip. She smiled and said she hoped I would come back. I said I would. I wanted to scare the fish again. She liked that.
The bad recedes and the good succeeds. I felt alive again as I hit the street and walked through the throngs of dead-eyed commuters heading for Penn Station. I bowed my head in a silent prayer of gratitude. Gratitude for the beautiful women in my life and the many more I hope to meet. Gratitude for the controlled insanity that is New York. Gratitude for all that is good and right and just in my world. For handjobs and massage oil. For Ray Charles and Charles Bukowski. For beauty, for truth, for love.
For all of these things I gave thanks.
Sky Spa.
35th between 7th and 8th
Sticking a Finger Up the Ass of Propriety. With Michelle of SunGold
Let's get a couple of things straight here.
1."Prostate massage" is a phrase that appears here and there on the boards. What does it mean? It means sticking a finger up a man's asshole far enough to make contact with his prostate. Guys who enjoy this like to call it "prostate massage" because it sounds nicer, and way less gay, than "having something shoved up my ass." Nevertheless, that's what it's about.
2. For those who enjoy this sort of thing, prostate massage, when timed and executed properly in conjunction with activity along the lines of a handjob or blowjob, can produce orgasms that will blow the top of your skull clean off and leave you with your cranial fluids and brain matter dripping onto the double-layer massage table liner.
3. In the entire recorded history of the universe there is not a single documented instance of a man being "turned gay" by a sex act. Straight men who "go" gay were not in fact straight. They just did not realize they were gay until something happened that made them realize that they love cock.
4. Enjoying prostate massage does not mean you're gay. Enjoying cock means you're gay. Wanting a woman to stick her finger up your ass will never ever mean you're gay, assuming the fact that it's a woman on the other end of the arm actually has some significance to you. Wanting a man to stick his finger or cock up your ass might mean you're gay. Or at least willing to learn.
Are we all on the same page here?
First reply to this post to imply that liking prostate massage means you also like show tunes, wine spritzers and cock wins an involuntary prostate massage.
OK then, on with the show.
I'm on board with a good prostate massage. Is it necessary at all times for me to reach orgasm? No. Does it help get me to a joyful conclusion if I'm having one of those nights where Little Otis stubbornly refuses to capitulate and dispense his ammunition? Definitely. Is it an important part of this complete breakfast? You bet your Cocoa Puffs it is.
A year ago, I blundered stupidly into SunGold on 43rd Street, the same way I blundered stupidly into dozens of places before I found out there were actual boards devoted to actually reviewing these places so you wouldn't wind up dead or in prison or separated from your wallet or upsold to oblivion or bait-and-switched into hell. I saw an ad, I called the number, I showed up with some cash.
Lucky for me, Michelle happened to be working that night and happened to be available at the moment I happened to walk in. A pretty Korean woman in her 30's with a generously proportioned pair of C cup tits and a superb ass, she's fun to be with, has a playful sense of humor and a pretty face (she does, however, wear her makeup like a mask. I'll bet you I couldn't pick her out of a lineup without it. And. Damned if I know how pretty or ugly or in-between she might be without it.)
There were others working at the place and although the cast of characters has changed since then one thing has not: Michelle is the superstar of the place. The others are OK, though they tend toward the older end of the spectrum. Nevertheless, while Michelle is amazing, do not necessarily spurn Bebe and Cici in your travels. They will both work hard for your pleasure.
This is a pretty typical midtown Spa setup with private rooms, a very clean environment, tasteful decor, clean towels and a table shower. All the expected amenities are there.
Broadly speaking, here is what you can expect: a fun and playful table shower followed by a very good, not great, massage, followed by a hand release with roaming. The hand release will start with a long buildup involving touching, breathing, maybe even some nibbling. And she'll stick her finger up your ass. If you aren't into that, don't bother coming here. If you require more mileage, you'll have a hard time getting it and may never get it here. But if this sounds appealing. Read on.
I decided to pay Michelle a visit for the first time in a while this afternoon. There was a period of time where I came to see her like once a week. My, ahem, social schedule is more cluttered these days and it's probably more like once every couple of months now. Prostate massage is kind of like Indian food. When I have it I like it, but it's not my regular diet.
I strongly recommend calling ahead. There are generally only 2 or 3 girls working here and only one of them is actually Michelle. I walked in on time and she gave me a nice greeting."Been busy?" she asked."Yeah" I said,"work, work work." She offered me a deal on 4 hands but I declined. I wanted her and her alone.
I paid the 70 house for the hour and she led me down the hall to a room where I took off my clothes. Just as I was about to sit down and wait for her to return, the door opened and she led me down the hall to the table shower.
She stepped into the giant rubber rain boots they keep by the door of the shower room and got to work. She's always playful and fun on the table shower and this time was no exception. Plenty of soaping up the ass crack, nice pleasant rubbing. Rinse off. Turn over. She soaped my chest and then started soaping my cock, which responded quickly and jumped to attention, producing from her a dirty little giggle that made me wish I could bend her over that table and teach her some new tricks.
She dried me off (she always rubs the towel up the ass crack and says "open the door" heh heh) and brought me back to the room where I laid down and waited the usual 5 minutes for her return.
A good solid massage ensued. We made minimal chit chat during the massage. There is a professional distance in the relationship that works out ok. She certainly has no idea how much time I spend on this hobby and we're all probably better off that way. She gave good attention to every part of the body. Head, neck, back, glutes, legs, feet, arms, hands. Thorough and professional, the massage is always very good though not best-in-show.
Then she hot-toweled my back and dimmed the lights. Running her fingers down my neck and spine, then up my legs and over my ass, she leaned over and licked then bit my ear, exhaling a hard, sharp breath that made me shiver. She rubbed my ass cheeks again. And then rubbed my asshole. And then applied a little oil and slowly inserted her finger into my ass. My filthy-minded companion little Otis stood up and saluted. Then demanded equal time.
I flipped over and Michelle gave me hard little bites on my chest before moving down and biting my inner thigh. As she stood over me I felt her heavy breasts through her shirt. Then under her shirt. Before laying back for the main course. With my hands roaming all over her outstanding breasts and feeling her ass through the tight yoga pants, Michelle put one hand on my straining, iron-hard cock as she slid that finger back into my ass. My eyes rolled back in my head and she started slow strokes on my cock, all the time with that finger touching my prostate.
This girl knows the rhythm and timing that makes me come the way a squirrel knows nuts. She positioned herself on the table, sitting between my legs, one hand on my red hot cock, the other with a finger in my ass. Three times she brought me close and eased off, up to the brink and back, until finally I reached down and touched her shoulder and just looked into her eyes and she knew it was time.
She machine-gunned her hand up and down my cock, the other hand still with the finger deep in my ass, rubbing back and forth until finally I exploded what felt like a river of cum, so much it felt like it would never stop.
I melted like a pat of butter on a warm slice of freshly baked bread as she got hot towels for cleanup. When she walked back into the room I closed my eyes and stuck my tongue out, pantomiming that she had killed me. She laughed and slapped my leg, saying "wake up."
She cleaned up then massaged my face and head and then the hour was up. I stood to get dressed and she started to help me. They do that here. Button your shirt, put your socks on your feet. Personally I'm not a fan of it. Some guys like it. I waved her off, saying "I'm a big boy now. I can dress myself."
She busied herself with other stuff and then I handed her a 50 buck tip (40 is perfectly fine here as a tip. 50 or 60 is generous but not necessary) , the usual hug and peck on the cheek, two flights down and I blend right into the traffic on 43rd Street, another faceless everyman hustling his way around at lunch hour. A faceless everyman with a big giant satisfied smile.
43rd BTW 5th and 6th
Where to in the Upper West
Folks,
I have a business trip to NYC and will be staying in the Upper west.
Any suggestion for a good massage place in the area or along the 1, 2.3 metro?
Moreover. Please teach me some manners. How much is the standard price for 1 hour massage and how much should I tip the masseuse for HJ? Any place where good massage is provided with BJ?
Thanks
TOFTT With My Shame Sherpa At Oriental Bodywork
The air was crisp and cool and the bright sun made Manhattan levitate and when it landed I had both feet on Fifth Avenue headed downtown.
I hit a 'don't walk' signal and stopped to breathe the cool air. One day before, I felt nothing. Today, I felt everything. Yesterday, a weight on my chest. Today, I could breathe.
Then it caught my eye. 'Body Work. Foot Rub. ' The sign towered above the head of the 75 year old woman holding it, which put it roughly at eye level for me. With the crowds of shoppers and tourists around me I tried to discreetly read the phone number. Had I called them before? Was this a place I've already visited, or yet another unknown hole in the wall with a rickety massage table and questionable fire safety standards?
I couldn't match the number but by now it was too late. The teeny tiny grandma holding the sign noticed I was looking at it and approached me. She sidled up to me, her discount store boots toe to toe with my snakeskin shoes.
She put a business card in my palm: 'Oriental Bodywork. ' On the back, I saw the usual down-market rates. $30 for 35 minutes, $40 for 45, $50 for 60.
She asked me how much I wanted. I looked at her sideways. What if I didn't want any? That was a stupid thought. I pointed at the 35 minute choice and said 'half hour. ' She said 'hour? ' I said no, 'half hour. '
She pointed stubbornly to the 60 minute rate of 50 bucks. Not a chance. I pointed to the 30 buck rate for 35 minutes. She smiled. I started to walk in the direction of the address on the card and. So did she. I realized, suddenly, that she planned to lead the way to the place with her "body work" sign held high, like she was leading a guided tour of my personal embarrassments."To your left is the place where this guy got three blowjobs from three different girls on one day. Coming up on our right you will the place where he got such an oily massage he had to buy a new shirt before he could go back to work. '
I'm fearless about this kind of shit to a degree that's potentially foolish. I walk into places that I know will be dingy, dirty, maybe even disgusting by some standards. I don't particularly worry about who sees me going in or out. But somehow being paraded down Fifth Avenue by what looked like a miniaturized Chinese Grandma carrying a sign almost twice her height advertising massages had even me feeling embarrassed.
I've said it before and I'll say it again: when I commit, I really commit. So even though the pervert parade down Fifth was vaguely mortifying, and despite my certainty that I was about to do something I would come to regret, I forged ahead and followed my Shame Sherpa to a building on Fifth Avenue.
There are moments in life that seem so precisely, sublimely, perfectly calculated as practical jokes that it's almost enough to make me question my own atheism and accept that there is a supreme being out there somewhere with a sense of humor so dry you might think Kalahari's just another punch line, and as the tiny great grandma opened the door and led me inside, I had one of them. Turning to make sure I followed, she started walking up the stairs and I had an actual true moment of rising panic, thinking to myself,"Oh, wait. Is this. Am I. Is she. Is SHE going to do the fucking massage?"
I trod carefully up the stairs behind her and heard god's low rising laughter evolve into a full-blown guffaw as she pushed a door open on the second floor and I saw a younger woman stand to greet me. Bear in mind, gentle reader, that I use the comparative construction of the word "young," meaning that my massage "girl" was younger than my Shame Sherpa but I implore you, friend, do not make the mistake of assuming she was "young."
My massage "girl" was "Betty," or so she said. For me, the name "Betty" conjures an image of a 1940's bar girl with seams up the back of her stockings, stiletto heels, big red lips, hair that looks like a wingback chair, an ass like a sculpture and breasts that fill a bullet bra that could double as a shelter from the sarcastic sandstorms of a night in god's Kalahari of irony. It does not conjure a Chinese soccer mom with a pronounced overbite in mom-ass jeans and a red "Gap" knock-off t-shirt that somehow manages to spell "Gap" wrong. God tried to muffle the laughter but I could hear the snickering anyway. Ask for a Vargas girl. Get the lady who does your dry cleaning.
I told Betty "half an hour" and eyeballed the place. How many months ago was this someone's little import / export business or whatever? Two plywood stalls were crammed into a studio. Short walls and curtains, a microwave oven and the smell of cheap perfume and defeat completed the desperate ambiance.
I usually carry tens and twenties so I can pay and tip without having ask for 'change. ' But this was an unplanned excursion and I had in my pocket a fifty and two twenties. I handed Betty the fifty and as I took my clothes off she went to get 'change. ' She came back in and acted like she was ready to get to work. Sigh. The fucking Kalahari wasn't quite enough, god? You just have to keep tossing 'them at me?
In the grand scheme of things, do I give a shit about 20 bucks? No. But on the other hand, I knew damned well if I didn't ask for the twenty dollars it would be 'forgotten' and then when it came time to tip I'the have to talk about it or pay twenty more than the service was actually worth. I asked. She pulled a rumpled bill from her back pocket and handed it over like it was a used Kleenex, which it might almost have been.
On to the massage. Nothing to report. Another mediocre to bad massage.
Then she asked me to flip and I did. She looked at my cock and held up four fingers, the universal symbol for 'care for a 40 dollar handjob? ' Sure, I wanted a 40 dollar handjob.
She oiled up her hand and started tugging. I ran my hand over her ass but, you know, it wasn't that nice an ass, really. I looked up at her face and the big choppers. She did have nice eyes. I focused on the eyes. I got hard. God coughed up another desert.
I ran my hand over her breasts. Nice, firm B cups. My cock grew as the sands of the Sahara pushed a little further outward, consuming another chunk of arable land as god removed his hat to cover his almost uncontrollable giggles.
She started the usual Chinese jackhammer and I got my hand under the shirt, into the bra, felt a hard nipple, closed my eyes, and imagined I was somewhere else. Now, gentle reader, allow me to remind you why most men begin the dangerous habit of paying for sex: the pursuit of satisfaction for an urge or need they cannot otherwise satisfy on their own.
One man may simply not get enough sex at home, so he supplements his sex life with paid activity. Another man may crave variety, or have a fetish or need for a particular act that won't or can't happen in the marital bed. Another may have no shortage of women willing and able to attend to him without direct financial compensation but what he craves is freedom the ability to walk away a couple hundred dollars lighter and 100 pounds more free. But in any event, the purpose of paying is ultimately to get what you can't acquire at no cost.
So, to review, I was laying on a grubby massage table far less comfortable than any furniture in my home getting jacked off yes, I have two fully functioning hands my own self by an apathetic woman who I had to close my eyes and imagine was someone else. In other words, I could have saved myself 70 bucks and jacked off to internet porn and then gone out and bought a new hat and I would have been even. Was that the sands of the Gobi I felt around my ankles?
I decided if I was going to rely on my tired imagination, I'the go big. Betty. Betty. Yeah, Betty. She was a USAO. Girl. I was on shore leave and we danced to Louis Jordan's Tympani Five and went outside to smoke. Her hair was like a fountain, her ass was like a mountain. That bullet bra could fire a hundred rounds but it wouldn't keep me from her. And with that thought, I felt the levee break and I finally unleashed a sad little load that was as dry as the sands of Death Valley. Fuck you, god. Fuck you.
I put all the fucking clothes back on in a tired ritual that desperately needs an efficiency upgrade with some Velcro or whatever. Underwear, undershirt, shirt, socks, pants, shoes, the fucking shoes, Jesus Christ again with the fucking shoes could he please stop mentioning his god damned motherfucking shoes, tie, hat, coat, check the oil, dollar gas, forty bucks to Betty and I hit the road.
On Fifth Avenue, it was still bright and clear. I looked up and saw my Shame Sherpa. Holding a card. Talking to a fat guy in a hat and sunglasses. And as the desert wind swept through one last time, I took a deep breath and let it go and I stood in the cool December air and I laughed out loud with god. Finally. I laughed right along with god, and it felt good.
Brothers, it felt damned good.
Oriental Bodywork.
212-967-0607
Eastern Bodywork: Everybody Knows This is Nowhere
Plans were made and abandoned and I was left standing alone in the rain on Park Avenue. My two-tones couldn't help me anymore. They were made to look good, not to keep feet dry. Sadness was everywhere around me and I was nowhere at all.
When it rains, Manhattan goes from good to bad. What was a nice stroll yesterday is today an obstacle course of umbrellas and scaffolding, of ankle-deep puddles and taxis that pass too fast to get out of the way and splash you with the filth of my dirty old town from neck to knees.
It's a round world, baby, and if you're reading this you know I'm talking to you. You can only hide from what you feel inside for so long, you can tell yourself lie after lie after lie but one day you'll have lied so much you stop believing yourself and then the truth will make you fall to your knees and beg for love when just yesterday sex would have been enough.
From 30th to 39th Street between 5th and 8th Avenues, the neon lights twinkle in the blacked out second floor windows like the diamonds in Juliet's eyes when she drank the hemlock and took the plunge. On every block the lace curtains call to me like the desperate dirge of police sirens, mocking my disgrace, my disgust, my dead little soul.
Time is always short, precious, limited. When you want an hour you have 45 minutes. When you need 45 minutes you get 30. When all you need is 30 you take whatever you can.
I hurry through the rain to. Where? Something will appear, something always does. 39th Street. The fog clears. A sandwich board says "body work." I stop without thinking. Like breathing, like the beat of my heart, like sleep it comes without a thought, without conscience or consciousness it comes and takes me and I follow because it's in charge and I am not.
I ignore the buzzer and try the door and of course it opens and of course I enter. Second floor. Lace curtains on the door. Skeleto-muscular diagram in the window. Lace curtains say something, lace curtains mean this is a spot, a place where the rub is followed by a tug. I push through the door knowing that when I do I am committed, I am not leaving until I satisfy the need that eats away at my humanity a little bit every single day.
A dirty little place, it is, four massage tables tossed into an office with cheap new floors, curtains hung on rods for makeshift stalls that are a winking nod to privacy but nothing more. She says her name is Linda. She's thirty-something with an athletic, slim body in a pair of sweats and a polo shirt. Her face is pleasant. An arm reaches out of a stall to my right to pull the curtain fully closed, like I give a shit what's going on with some other dude's junk in there.
An open door to the left. An exposed bulb and a toilet. She takes me into an empty stall. One side is an actual wall. The office-standard cabinets are still mounted there with boxes and crap atop them from someone's hasty New York real estate exit. The curtains are hung with shower curtain rings.
I take 45 minutes for 40 bucks and I hand her the house and take off my clothes and lie down. Through the curtain I hear Chinese conversation, and the guy on the next table snores.
Linda comes back in and asks me hard or medium and I say what I always say and she covers me with a gray towel and starts. I hear the handjob in the next stall vividly, the distinctive rhythmic slapping. It stops after seconds. I wonder what kind of man comes 10 seconds into a handjob.
Linda pushes and prods and it hurts my back but fuck me fuck me fuckme I fucking like how it feels and I say nothing. Guy next door mumbles in Chinese and the girl answers in a courteous high-pitched singsong voice like a mockingbird with arsenic on its claws and absinthe on its wings.
The rain pours down the street outside like a river flowing to the sea but the river doesn't want me and the sea has better things to do. More oil, more pushing, more hands hands hands hands.
The hot wet towel comes and then the pillow and I flip. Two female voices next to me speak in broken English. One girl is new on the job. The other is teaching her. Fuck it. Drop in ceilings and fluorescent lights above me that will not be used today. Linda shuts the lamp in the stall and rubs my chest. I touch her firm ass and my cock likes it and tells me to keep on going keep on keep on keep on going til I get what it needs.
Linda oils my hard cock and I reach under her shirt. I push the padded bra aside with my white hand and touch her little breasts and hard little nipples and I come and come and come and come.
She brings water and I put my shit back on and hand her two more twenties as I drag my ass down those stairs. For today, that will do. For today, that's enough.
39th Street is a river and I float, I float like a cork on the ocean until it takes me away from here. And I am gone, but I remain, I remain, I remain alone.
212-575-1858
How Studio 49 Stole The Grinch Who Stole Christmas
Some days, it's good to be the king. Others. Not so much. Yesterday was a not so much. Something about the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas feels like a long, slow setup for a sucker punch. The air gets thin and crisp and you're lulled into a false sense of security.
Then one afternoon you're walking somewhere with purpose and you get distracted by a window display. You stop and stare as a toy train circles a fake pine tree and your ears are filled with some folk mass peace on earth goodwill toward whoever bullshit and you feel yourself relax and before you know what's happened you're being hustled in and out of obligatory holiday crap at work and at home. You're spending your handjob money on presents for relatives. All of that builds to a crescendo and finally on New Years Eve you wind up with your head in the toilet and something sticky on your shoes that will never disappear no matter what you do.
Every man, every woman likes Christmas a lot. But Otis, that Grinch, damned right, he did not.
Walking across town yesterday, that thin crisp air was in evidence and the hair on the back of my neck stood up when I felt it. Clearly I needed to take action and get my clocks cleaned.
In the depth of my mind I had an idea. This Grinch got a wonderful, awful idea.
Conveniently, I found myself in the vicinity of Studio 49. The place is perched precariously above a fast food chain restaurant. The neon glow from the second floor window warmed my heart and I turned the doorknob and hit the stairs.
One flight up I found a perfectly nice, clean place with private rooms. I ponied up the $70 for the house, Mamasan brought me down the hall, and I made myself at home. The massage rooms do have doors, however, they're the paper sliding kind and are obviously no noise barrier. There is a table shower, which does have that mildew-infused disinfectant table shower smell that ought to be bottled and marketed as a fragrance for the wives of mongers looking to inject some excitement back into the marriage. The entrance leaves little or no ambiguity as to where you've been, if you're one to worry about someone seeing you hit the sidewalk. Those are fairly minor drawbacks. On the whole it's a nice, well-maintained place.
All the rooms were quite dark. No one knew I was there. All my friends were all working away in Times Square. Then we came to a room, and she left me in there.
I was handed off to Mimi, who is in her forties I would guess, about five feet tall and in good shape. Nice little teacup titties and the outstanding ass that is the birthright of every Asian woman. She looked good. She had on nice clothes and makeup and those cheap open-toe high heel "shoes" they wear to look 2 inches taller.
She gave a nice table shower. And that means something coming from me, I'm really not a fan of infantilizing shit like table showers that justifies itself in the name of "pampering." Hell, the word "pampering" itself feels like the verb form of a diaper brand name. But Mimi made it sort of fun. By soaping my ass crack repeatedly and then doing the same courtesy to the expanding franchise that of my cock.
Then back to the massage table. My comfort zone, if I have one, being the sort of self-denying schmuck who seems to thrive and flourish in situations of discomfort.
An average massage ensued. Mimi had good strong hands, she just never really hit that groove, that place where it approaches a blissful kind of poetry and the hands seem to go to the right places on their own and do the right thing when they get there.
I was ready to flip, to turn in a pinch. To feel those strong hands on the front of the Grinch.
Hot towel on the back, lights went dim, out of traction and back in action. She leaned over, licked the outside of my ear and whispered for me to turn over. I never deny a lady her requests, so naturally I obliged. She ran her tongue down my chest and briefly sent an anticipatory jolt through my chest which had me looking for the nearest defibrillator when, unprompted and unannounced, she went ahead and started licking my balls.
Then slowly it happened just as they say, the Grinch's small cock grew three sizes that day.
Yeah, I was pretty fucking hard all right. She oiled up the hand and touched me nice and slow. With her other hand she rubbed my taint and my balls. I gently rubbed her ass and then felt her nice little breasts through the bra. She was kind enough to help me avoid complications and she pushed that bra right out of the way and pulled her shirt up, giving me access to her lovely hard nipples.
I felt things speeding ahead a bit, but if there's one thing I know about myself it's that I will never be mistaken for a premature ejaculator. Mimi, it seems, may have psychic powers. She must have sensed that this was going to be an arm-wrecker and I guess wanted to hasten things along. Down came the pants and the panties together and I felt my way slowly down her ass to my destination. I touched her wet pussy with my finger and she pushed herself downward, so that it was buried inside her. As she jacked me off without missing a single beat, stroke or half-step, she ground up back and forth on my hand.
Yeah, that did the trick. She gave a good final salvo of fast strokes and I gave her a dna sample that could feed a family of four.
She cleaned up, got me a dixie cup of cold water and tried to help me get dressed. I waved her off with a smile and dressed myself like a big boy. She gave me the obligatory ooh / ahh over my shoes, and I gave her the obligatory tip. 60 bucks, because she went an extra half mile to make me happy. 40 would have been fine but suddenly I felt generous.
I stepped out on the sidewalk and watched the passers by, men and women who had not had the joy of a massage and a hand job that day and yet somehow, they weren't sad. They were smiling.
They smiled without oil, they smiled without lotion. They smiled without hands in an up and down motion.
I pondered this thought that I could not ignore. Maybe handjobs, I thought, would turn into a bore. Maybe happiness can't be bought in a store. Maybe Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.
TOFTT / River Spa / Midtown West
An excerpt from "Zen and the art of Erectile Maintenance: The Monger Bible," available at better bookstores across the entire world of my imagination.
In the monger world as in life there are givers and takers. Without one the other withers and dies. If there were no takers, the givers would have no one to whom to give and they would have to become takers and before long they would merely end up giving to themselves, which isn't giving at all. And if there were no givers, from whom would the takers then take.
The spirit of giving in our community of mongers, rub junkies, perverts and good old fashioned down-home sex addicts is embodied by "taking one for the team," e. G. Risking your own funds and possibly more to try an unreviewed, undocumented service provider. It's not for everyone. Some of the brethren don't have the budget to burn on a possible waste of time or worse. Other members of the flock just prefer to deal in known quantities and rely on more adventurous souls to seek, find and identify new and different things.
The givers in our world are the brave souls, the intrepid men who troll Backpage looking for untested subjects for research and development, who wander the darkened alleys of Chinatown and the misshapen streets of Koreatown looking for neon signs beckoning with the promise of "tui na qi gong" or "accupressure" or plain old "body rubs." These men take risks. They risk being ripped off, arrested, killed, upsold into a state of poverty, or spending an hour or more with old ladies, midgets, behemoths, crackheads, junkies, borderline retards and every other bent or broken sort of creature that may lurk behind a half-opened apartment door.
Let us bow our heads in silent appreciation of the good works of these men, men who have endured massages with no handjob, shitty covered blowjobs and halfhearted and unenthusiastic missionary position service that makes necrophilia look like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. These men have been teased to the very brink of orgasm only to find themselves upsold for even the most basic release. Let us give thanks for the brethren who are willing and able to take one for the team.
Walking away from a rub and tug a couple weeks ago, the neon "Body Rubs" light in a third floor window caught my eye and I clocked a number I'd never called. I put it on my list and today seemed like a good day to call it. I hoofed it crosstown in the afternoon and entered a dumpy building on 35th Street.
River Spa is the name of the place. I entered the building and went up two flights and the door was open. Three ladies were in evidence. Decent looking women in their forties I would guess with the sorts of friendly attitudes that compensate for physical limitations and shortcomings. These were no beauty queens but they're nice women with smiling faces and a willingness to please.
The place is in a good sized space with no obvious hygiene issues. There's no shower, or at least none was offered. The massage stalls are divided by heavy curtains, which means privacy is most definitely an issue and if that kind of thing turns you off, do bother with this joint.
I went with Cici, a moon-faced woman with a nice slim body. I gave her the house money. 50 for the hour, took off my clothes and let her get to work. She gave an average rub, thorough and professional with a few nice touches here and there.
She gave me the hot towel and then started running her fingers up and down my spine. Then my ass. Then between my legs. I pushed myself upward to give her access to my cock and balls and she rubbed them both and then she asked me to turn over.
She stood over me and rubbed my cock nice and hard. She began rubbing my taint with her other hand. I ran my hands all over her ass and then under her shirt and right into bra, where I felt her nipples getting harder. She kept up her rhythm and finally I let loose a squadron of paratroopers in her hand.
Afterward, she came back to the room, laid her head against my chest and whispered "next time." It sounded a lot like a promise to me.
I gave her another 50 and she thanked me up, down and sideways as I hit the stairs.
A final except from "The Monger Bible":
The good monger citizen, having taken one for the team, will report his adventure faithfully, so that the brethren may follow in his footsteps and share in his good fortune or learn from his lesson and stay the hell away.
And so, dear brothers and others, partake if you will of the basic, simple joys available for your pleasure at River Spa on 35th.
212 695 7059
Playing a Perfect Hand at Red Spa 21. 212-229-2090
Success comes from hard work, determination, skill, timing and, perhaps most importantly, good luck. As one year ends and another begins, even the lonely monger assesses his highs and lows, his weaknesses and strengths, and attempts to learn, grow and build greater success.
Then he chucks it all out the window and rolls the dice on something new. If he's lucky, if he's dealt a stunning hand, he relies on his skill and his experience to play it right,
As this year ends and the next begins, I've been dealt one such stunning hand in my recent visits to Red Spa 21, a new place in the location of the former "Evergreen Spa". The place is a nice little treasure trove of lovely and talented Asian women in a secure, clean location that is absolutely vine-ripened and ready to capture your hearts, minds and other organs as well. Interested? Read on, brothers, read on.
The successful monger plays his game successfully by following five guiding principles. Follow my lead, gentlemen, earthly rewards await, and to illustrate, Red Spa 21 serves as our example of how, when, where and why to achieve success.
A reading from Chairman Otis' Little Red Book of Monger Success and Socioeconomic Justice:
Guiding principle the first: Open your eyes and ears to the opportunities around you. Free your ass and your mind will follow. Hone your senses and be prepared to use each of them independently.
In addition to posting to the various boards dedicated to massage and other related pursuits, I have rituals for finding new places and prospects for research and development. I walk the streets of Manhattan keeping my eyes out for neon signs and sandwich boards. I troll the Backpage ads. And I read new posts on several boards, looking for feedback both good and bad.
In this last way, I happened to notice a brief but enthusiastically positive review of something called "Evergreen Spa" in Chelsea. I filed it away but lo and behold a few days later another short review appeared suggesting the place was merely average at best.
The disconnect struck me and I resolved to investigate. Yes, gentlemen, I am your humble servant, and I take my noble mission seriously. Quite frankly, someone had to go get a handjob, and I solemnly accepted the responsibility.
Guiding principle the second: Embrace good fortune when it presents itself. The world of the monger is overrun with grubby little joints designed for cheap and dirty relief. These places are fine but they will never sustain you. When fortune presents you with a perfect hand, it becomes your duty to play it to its maximum potential.
I spent an awful lot of 2011 in places that most would consider vulgar, vile, even disgusting. I frequented places with sandwich boards on the street outside and neon lights in the windows. I spent hours in places with walls that didn't reach the ceilings or didn't exist at all. I lay on tables behind curtains with hands that might have belonged to anyone.
Red Spa 21 is none of those things. The massage rooms have full walls and pocket doors. The entrance is discreetly marked and anonymous. The place is spotless from floor to ceiling and is equipped with a good hot table shower and sauna. The shelves are stocked with clean linens.
I have to admit, brothers, it's nice to feel like I don't have to apologize for it the way I have had to with some of the grubby little dives I have embraced in the past.
Guiding principle the third: Make time to understand and appreciate beauty. The value of what you are dealt depends in part on how well it will sustain you in the lean and mean days between rubs. On cold winter nights when you can't make it out of the house, savoring the memory of your last brush with beauty will feed your mind and fuel your soul.
Standards of beauty and charm in our little community are all over the map, and I have learned quickly that there will never be a day when all men can ever agree on who is hot and who is not. But by making a continued careful study of attractive, pretty, lovely, cute, even beautiful women, I do try to hone my skills.
My visits so far to Red Spa 21 have revealed talent I can recommend without hesitation. So far at 21 I have had the pleasure of meeting:
Daisy, a petite 30's-ish Chinese woman with a pretty face and an athletic body and a warm personality.
Mina, an absolutely lovely 30-year old half Japanese / half Korean girl with nice little A cups and perfect little ass.
And loveliest of all, to my taste, Anna, a Thai girl with absolutely spectacular eyes and an ass that is surely among god's proudest achievements.
Not a soccer mom or grandma in the bunch. All three are more than welcome to join the ranks of Team Otis.
Guiding principle the fourth: When you have your winning hand, hold what you've got. Enjoy what luck and skill have brought to your open arms. Take freely and openly of the pleasures the earth offers. In short, get your rocks off while you can. Accepting anything less than excellent service is a kind of self-deprivation.
A brief recap of my experiences at Red 21 so far will illustrate nicely.
My first visit was with Mina, who appeared in the door in lingerie and heels and asked me if I'd like a shower. Damned right I wanted a shower. She got me nice and soapy and paid particular attention to vital parts before bringing me back to the massage table.
She oiled me up and gave a nice soft rub and before long I realized. Those weren't hands on my back. They were. Oh yeah, nice hard nipples. She had stripped down to her panties. I wasn't staying on my back anymore. I licked those nice hard nipples and we got her out of those inconvenient panties in a hurry. She returned the favor and teased my chest with her tongue and her teeth before getting to work with her soft hands on my cock while I explored her exceptionally wet pussy. Her hand got faster and her pussy wetter and finally Vesuvius erupted. I lay back and sighed. I really had picked a good way to end my year.
I didn't think it could get any better. And then I came back two days later to see Anna. True to form, she met me in hot lingerie and gave a fun table shower followed by a very solid massage. Then off came the clothes, revealing a body that would make mere mortals weep. Nice solid B cups with amazing, long nipples. I took those nipples into my mouth and it was damned near religious. I absolutely had to taste her. And I did. And brothers, it was awesome. I was practically ready to burst already and she grabbed my cock and stroked like mad while I dined voraciously and finally just exploded. Honestly and truly, this was about as great as a handjob could ever possibly aspire to be.
Guiding principle the fifth: Nurture your perfect hand. Treat it well and it will repay you in dividends for weeks, months, maybe even for years.
Arrive at Red Spa 21 with a positive outlook and enough cash to pay a $70 house fee and a $60 tip for a nice nude handjob. Beyond that, I can only say treat your provider well and she will treat you well in kind. Always be good and decent to these ladies and the next time you appear in that doorway they will smile at the memory of your last visit.
I present all of this to you, brothers, for your pleasure, but also to give good counsel and guidance.
We've been dealt a nice hand in Red Spa 21. It is my pleasure to share this recommendation with you, gentlemen. A happy new year to you, indeed.
212-229-2090.
21st and 6th.
