Massage Parlor Reports

[QUOTE=SkyLuke;1330602]Thanks! Any spot to recommend in particular?[/QUOTE]Try miga spa on 84 / Amsterdam. I used to get FS at the old location, but it's certainly good for a decent HJ, maybe BJ if you're lucky.

This spa has been reviewed a few times.

Here's mine.

Called about 9am one night last week while in the city. They were still open, and they come down to meet you when you come in. Asked for Jenny as seen from a previous post. They take you up in the elevator, and into the room. As clean as I expected. No shower.

They do appear to be a two person show, and it's a dangerous place for me, as only Jenny is a looker. I'd hate to have to walk out if the other one was my only choice. And Jenny was only about a 6 or 6. 5. The other woman didn't interest me at all. They tried to sell me four hands, but that wasn't working for me.

Excellent massage, and it made the experience, as I never go in with high expectations.

Like I said, excellent massage. Like back crackingly excellent. She was hard to communicate with, but it was fine. On the flip, lot's of oil, and the end was fine as well. Once I was on the flip, we had a great time and laughed a bunch over stupid stuff, mostly because we couldn't understand each other. Worth the 60/40, but would likely keep looking, as there are two many other places to try. Like the 21, 000 restaurants in NYC. Why would you EVER eat in the same place twice.

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

Dear Proprietor / Proprietress of Yummi Spa:

Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of limited wealth and rather poor taste.

My name is Otis, but you may call me "King" if you are so inclined. I had occasion to visit your establishment recently and I would like to bring to your attention an infraction committed at your "spa" against a fundamental and basic aspect of the Marquis of Otisbury rules, which were established in 1765 to ensure that the massage and handjob game is played in manner that is safe, fair and, most importantly, pleasant for me and profitable for you. In particular, rule 14. 42 (see) , also known as the "Sudden death" rule.

Allow me to recount the events of my recent visit to aid in your understanding. I arrived at your place in the early evening after being briefly questioned by the doorman as to my destination. A minor nuisance. I was greeted by "Tina". A woman in, I will guess, her later thirties who knows how to use makeup to look hot and young. She was wearing a black slip with black leggings and a black bra and was very friendly. So far so good.

The location itself was adequate but, let's face it, more like an "indie" provider than a proper "spa". Two massage rooms with a tiny waiting area, no shower. The place was clean and quiet and Tina appeared to be working solo.

I paid 60 bucks for an hour and Tina gave an adequate rub. Nothing exceptional, but competent and professional.

Things were moving along as expected and the time came to flip. Tina massaged my legs and chest and, like a lot of Chinese women, told me how she wanted to lay her head on my big fat belly, which is always fine by me. Things progressed and she got my cock nice and hard and started jacking it good and slow. I felt her nice ass through the leggings and then her nice full breasts and hard nipples under that black slip.

She put a good effort into the hand action and I was about to deliver my payload of Otis-butter when suddenly she looked at the clock and stopped dead. She looked me in the eye and asked if I wanted another hour."Another hour?" I asked, incredulously."How about we just finish it up? I was almost done."

She declined and went to get paper towels. I politely but firmly requested that she please finish me off, but naturally by now the moment had passed and I was merely pissed off rather than turned on. She asked if I was "happy" and I said "of course I'm not happy." Sheesh.

Rule 14. 42 (see) of the Marquis of Otisbury rules (the aforementioned "Sudden death" rule) states as follows: "The massage provider and massagee shall provide a 5 minute grace period on either side of the precise conclusion of the agreed duration of the massage as a courtesy. The massagee will not complain of being 'shorted' 5 minutes for a 55 minute hour, and the massage provider shall not impose a 'dead stop' at the 60 minute mark if the happy ending has not been properly completed. Such a 'dead stop' gives rise to deliberate upsell and will not be tolerated. The provider will allow an additional 5 minutes and attempt to finish the job."

The sudden death rule is designed to prevent crybaby bullshit on the part of consumers and upsell nonsense on the part of providers. It is fundamental to good customer service that if a little extra effort will send your customer home happy, you can and will make that effort.

Let's be clear here. I'm not terribly difficult to please. I have left a trail of DNA samples across Manhattan that puts those "George Washington Slept Here" signs to shame. In fact, the Otis Nixon Historical Society is presently raising funds to erect a series of "King Otis Jizzed Here" plaques in honor of my work in progress.

In point of fact, it should be noted that after leaving your establishment in a hasty manner and a dissatisfied state, I walked three blocks north to a familiar dank mess of a place on 33rd Street, where a significantly less attractive provider finished me off in minutes. At a lower "all in" cost than the massage alone at your place.

Last but not least, you ought to know that I am no complainer, whiner, pissant, moaning pathetic punk-ass *****. There was absolutely no other reason behind my dissatisfaction here. I didn't try to cajole, wheedle or otherwise manipulate Tina into any out of the ordinary services. I merely expected her to complete the basic, fundamental activities contemplated by your service.

Perhaps there was a language barrier here. Or perhaps Tina has not been adequately trained in the fundamentals of customer service. In either case, I respectfully request appropriate recompense in the form of one orgasm, delivered discreetly at an appropriate time and place, so that I may be adequately "made whole" for my end of this abruptly terminated misadventure.

I am hereby calling for a boycott of Yummi Spa by all members of the loosely organized society known as Team Otis. Unless and until I receive one appropriately packaged, undamaged orgasm, such boycott shall remain in place and effect.

I look forward to a satisfactory resolution of this situation.

Very truly yours,

Otis J. Nixon,

Chief Zealot and Promotional Figurehead.

Team Otis.

Yummi Spa: 646-287-6875

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

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.

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

KO, you are everywhere. Always appreciate your reviews over on other sites.

I tried a spa at 240 W38, 3rd floor. So so massuse, so so massage, so so ending, so so I will not repeat.

Got a quick trip to NYC upcoming, haven't been there in 5 years. Last time I went to an awesome Korean staffed Spa right near Times Sq, wonderful time with nice table shower, hot girl, BBBJ, asian, FS, etc all for $$. While I recognize the price probably has gone up. I hope some of you seniors can point me to the good Asian / Korean parlors, by PM if required.

Thanks

KO. Enjoy reading your feedback. Thanks for sharing.

[QUOTE=Frank Dallas; 1345767]Got a quick trip to NYC upcoming, haven't been there in 5 years. Last time I went to an awesome Korean staffed Spa right near Times Sq, wonderful time with nice table shower, hot girl, BBBJ, asian, FS, etc all for $$. While I recognize the price probably has gone up. I hope some of you seniors can point me to the good Asian / Korean parlors, by PM if required.

Thanks[/QUOTE]Me, too. My experience a few years ago was the same . TS, good massage from Asian girl, and FS for 2. But places come and go. Recent references seem to give HE as the maximum service. Reply to the postings or PM me if you know of something better

[QUOTE=Frank Dallas; 1345767]Got a quick trip to NYC upcoming, haven't been there in 5 years. Last time I went to an awesome Korean staffed Spa right near Times Sq, wonderful time with nice table shower, hot girl, BBBJ, asian, FS, etc all for $$. While I recognize the price probably has gone up. I hope some of you seniors can point me to the good Asian / Korean parlors, by PM if required.

Thanks[/QUOTE]This site has links to a lot of Asian places. See the drop down menu under "pages" This places all offer FS, some call it GFE (BBBJ, etc) and are 300, some are regular covered service and are 200. All have table shower. Most pictures are reasonaly accurate, just with a lot of touch up".

[url]www.simply-secret.com/[/url]

[QUOTE=ArthurDoyle; 1347562]King Otis is here too, wow.

He sure gets around. Glad to see a friendly face.[/QUOTE]I saw him on some other sites as well, lot of intersite travel going on these days. Good for traffic and info for sure.

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.