"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
