I am a Massage Parlor Girl.

Hello to my Best GFE friends out there. GFE is a common term in the massage parlor world. it means “Girl Friend Experience“. If you pay for a GFE your provider will act like a girl friend. That means kissing, and sometimes additional acting.

Anyway I see a number of East Coast massage website fans coming to read my blog. I don’t know what they are saying about me over there because it is members only. Whatever. Maybe someone will add a comment and let me know?

I haven’t been to NY for a while. Maybe its time to visit again. But only if I have fans. I won’t bother to go where their hating. Are they putting on the hate, BGFE people? I heard about the problems in CT so that’s out. Is Philly still rockin? Are the sisters keeping busy in the city of brotherly love? I passed on an invitation to revisit a certain asian business well known around them parts from the old days. I wonder if it really re-opened and if it did, is it as busy as it was?

Sorry guys. My PA-NJ-NY-CT memories of you “gentle men” are not so great.

Out of the Arab world we see locks on the pants of massage parlor workers, to keep them chaste. Check out the picture:

Accoding to the report, the massage parlor girls are all wearing these new pants locks, in 20 or so massage parlors in Jakarta, Indonesia.

The daily said authorities in Batu in East Java had ordered masseuses to wear the padlocks to protect the resort town’s reputation. But the massage parlor owner who first introduced the locks told AFP he did so for the good of his workers. “You know well how naughty some clients can be,” said Frangki Setiawan, owner of the Dogado massage parlor in Batu. “It is a move taken purely in the interest of the working safety of my staff.” Most of the town’s 20 massage parlors have now adopted the practice after local police encouraged them to do so, Batu spokesman Hidayat told AFP. The Jakarta Post said the capital’s tourism authorities were considering introducing the practice to improve the reputation of massage parlors in the city, which has a large but technically illegal sex industry.

http://www.alarabiya.net/articles/2008/04/10/48105.html

Well, I haven’t written for a while because life has been boring. I had been working at a new massage parlor to get it going, and very busy with normal customers. I am sometimes asked to fly into a city and work a new massage parlor because I am hot and a pro. The owners know they can place me and I will be a pleaser: a hottie that customers will tell others about to bring more business, and a pro who can pick up on the nuances of unfamiliar customers. I’m also someone who will make herself scarce after the reputation is set, never to acknowledge having been there before. I command a steep price for my services, but it’s a one-time deal. Pay me up front, and I work to establish the place for the first month. In cities I know well (NY, LA, etc) it is boring.

Today, however, I have a story to tell. An amazing story. You won’t believe it, but I don’t care. Leave a comment please.

Yesterday I completed my contract at the new asian massage parlor in LA. I did a GREAT job as token blonde Amerasian beauty, to rave reviews. Today I visited a friend’s parlor outside (redacted cityname) which I now know is a bottom of the barrel Chinese hand job factory. Wow. I have been away from this filth for too long. I can barely stomach it.

Anyway the story comes in this not very young Chinese lady I met today, who is an “old pro” according to my friend, the owner. This lady has very young skin and a young-looking face, but she’s almost 50 years old. She’s very petite and her fast-moving, high-energy, tight body fools the American guys. As she buzzes around with her high-pitched voice and smarty pants broken Engrish, they come to believe she is young and hot. The owner was right - she is a pro. She can work a customer like few I have witnessed. They leave happy - thrilled even - despite the entire visit lasting but 20 minutes from initial payment to door closing “c-ya-honey”. This lady is a massage parlor queen and a hand job machine, but with a secret.

I was visitng to check things out for my friend, and because she wanted to show me this “lady” who was a profit machine. I wish we had not witnessed it before dinner.

This little Chinese lady wears one of those crew neck rash guard shirts, like competitive swimmers and river rafters wear. It’s like a compression shirt you might wear to the gym, dark polyester and and clings tight to her body. But it is also waterproof, or at least it doesn’t show moisture from sweat. The neckline is tight-fitting to her neck, like a low turtle neck would be. She runs around hard and under her clothes she gets all sweaty but that shirt stays smart and dry… at at least that is what she explained to me. She loves her shirt, and has three of them. “Bewwy exprensive!” she tells me, “but worf it”.

She is strictly a hand job massager, so the shirt never comes off, although the thinness of the polyester and her her tight torso probably make for some fun groping for the guys. She looks like half way to an A cup but her nipples were obviously large. I later learned that it is actually a one piece body suit she wears. The shirt we see continues down around the crotch, much like a dance leotard. I wish I could remove the mental images I now have from when she showed it to me…. but that part of the story is coming.

So anyways as I get to know this lady through the day she starts to feel confident and try to impress me with her methods… which are truly unique. She moves the guys into the room, holds their crotch through the pants while setting terms and taking money, and leaves them with explicit orders to “undress and get hard - don’t waste time, I give you fun. Don’t make me mad”. She says she returns to hard customers almost every time, and I didn’t ask what she does if they need more foreplay than her commands provide. She is so intent on speed and efficiency I would not be surprised if she had a vacuum cleaner attachment for those who need more than 10 seconds to rise to the occasion.

Once the stage is set, she goes to work with her allegedly legendary hand and mouth skills, to produce the edge of release within as few minutes as possible. It is here that we get wierd. By the end of my time in that massage parlor I learned that, at the time of release, this little Chinese massage firecracker pulls down on her crew neck and aims the customer’s weapon at the nape of her old-looking-now-that-I-pay-attention neck. The shape of her neck as she strains her head upwards (to protect the eyes, I suppose) creates a river gulley down her shirt, further exposed by her pulling the neckline away a bit while she aims his thang. A powerful release smacks against her neck, before flowing down under her shirt. A less-powerful ejaculation simply pulses onto the skin under her chin, again flowing down the valley under her shirt, disappearing to god knows where (and sadly, so do I now that she showed me). Since the shirt is waterproof and dark, nothing shows after her body has consumed the human waste. She is basically flat chested but her small mounds and nipples define a pathway for that goopy stuff, and the tight shirt keeps it all pressed against her skin and out of view. In short, her chest (and then..?) act as a sewer for her customer’s man juices. No need for towels or mess, she takes it all down her shirt and wipes the drops off on the inside of the neckline. When she showed me this part of her procedure, she snapped the neckline back into place against her body, and I imagined a splatter of white droplets flying around the room. No, she assures me, there is no mess. She patted her chest and I think I heard the tympany of a wet swimmer patting her swimsuited chest. Too slappy to be dry, although it looks dry from afar. No, I didn’t feel it.

“Ewww..” I said, and she looked at me sternly. “No ew. Very clean. Everything under control. Even today — busy day — everything okay“. She patted her pussy as she said “everything ok” and something clicked in my head.

Oh sure it shoots down her neck and under her shirt, but exactly where does it all end up? And what exactly is a busy day? EWWWWWW!

Yes, folks, she did proceed to show me just what a busy day means, and just what that soft bulge between her legs was that she had patted. This lady dropped her shorts and showed me a body suit bottom full of the juices of her day’s customers, held inside by the waterproof fit of her body suit. Her pussy was submerged in slime, and her underbelly was bloated like a pre-period 35 year old, even though her actual belly was tight as a washboard. She walked around the massage parlor all day in what was basically a dry suit designed to keep moisture inside. She had dumped what looked like over a pint of fluids in there, and swam around in it all day.

I continued with my insistance that this was way gross, as she moved to the shower and turned on the water, still yapping to my friend and I that she was very clean and everything was very controlled. I figured she’d step right in wearing what was bascially a reverse bathing suit, and start cleaning up in the running water but instead she turned around and pulled the suit  down around her waiste. Yes, she was basically flat and had probably raised a toddler or two based on her large, well-used nipples. Her skin was amazingly young looking, although it was obviously slimed. It looked as though she had coated herself with Aloe after a sunburn, sans the sunburn.

She then lowered the fabric down below her belly button (yes, she was human) and stopped to show me a pool of clear liquid. Her vagina was underwater in several inches of clear liquid, of the consistency of glycerine. I could see her pubic hairs soaked and clumpy, and the body suit had failed to contain this amount of fluid 100% because I saw a few moits spots on the outside but it was amazing it had held so much for so long, through so much activity, and had not leaked.

As she her body suit further the slow motion flow of slime over the edge and down to the floor was unmistakable… not that I held out this was not the up-to-12-hour-aged semen that it most certainly had to be, but the clearness of the liquid had thrown me off. What goes down her neck as clumpy white goop ends up as a pool of smooth thick clear slime in which her ass and vagina sit for the rest of the day. I had to see if she had some sort of rubber micro panties or a female condom or something protecting her uterus, so I looked closely and encouraged her to pull her pants all the way down. Nothing. An open, soaked pussy that would pop the cork for Bukkake and creampie fans the world over. Sitting in a pint or two of semen all day long, to be repeated day after day. Yes, indeed, this had been a busy day in the massage parlor. And yes, she had an amazingly youthful looking kitty, despite the almost unbearable smell of fermenting spunk and the unforgettable visual proof of unhealthy, repeated violation in a biological sense.

Funny to think this lady insists she is “hand job only”.

So boys and girls there you have my story for today. I’m still sick of the image of her pulling down the fabric to show me her daily productivity tally, with her wirey hairs glued to her belly and her little clit pointing proudly at me, and that river of slime flowing forward out of her pants to the shower floor in front of me.
Never before.. never saw anything so strange, and hopefully never will again.

Guys, you simply can’t make this stuff up.

All these years somehow I avoided getting “reviewed” by my customers. Maybe I’ve always been simply “that good” they wanted to keep me a secret. Anyway, finally there is a review posted at The Erotic Review. You can get in as a “free” member and see some of the details, but the juicy bits are reserved for “member’s only”. I’m not sure I like how some guy is making money off of gossip, so I here’s a link that gives a share of the profits to charity if you sign up.

YOU are a customer of my massage parlor, and every other massage parlor within 50 miles of here. You go to all the places, looking for thrills. You like asian girls, and especially dirty ones. You yourself are not so clean, but you think you are cleaner than the average and that the girls are filthy, so no harm done. You, my friend, are an ass.

And that doesn’t bother you either, because you feel that it doesn’t matter if you’re fat, ugly, dirty or an asshole.. you’re still better than some whore and so no matter, you’re winning and that’s funny to you. You’ve got the cash, and you can choose the girl, so you rule and she’s a stinkin’ whore.

But one day you will wake up and realize what a pathetic piece of shit you are, and nothing will make you feel better. You will go to the downest, dirtiest crack whore and she’ll still say no to your sorry ass. And you’ll rebuff that dumb bitchc and try another, and they’ll all show you by their faces that you, sir are a filthy pathetic piece of shit unworthy of even a down and diseased crack whore.

But you’ll just move along, to find one even further down and dirty and filthy and then you’ll fuck that and feel good again. You’ve got to get over someone; that’s what keeps you afloat.

And then one day, while you are kneeling in cat shit on the broken wood floor of an asian crack whore’s apartment in the worst part of town, trying to slip your too-soft manhood into her too-hard pussy with your too-fat belly in the way and her too foul ass too close to your nose, you’ll look sideways to belch and see the rat on the ledge. And when you look back you’ll see her rotting teeth grinning at you, as she tells you “hurry up honey, me horny”. And you’ll smell her putrid rank like someone opened the sewer, and she’ll squeeze your dick and you’ll feel scabs and pull back with a new awareness that this time, you may have gone too far. As your knee slides on the cat shit you stumble to gain balance, bang your chin against her backside and press your hand to the floor where it knocks an empty bottle and your elbow gives way as your fat self falls to the side, and there you are. Oversized underwear around your ankles, bare ass on the filthy floor, limp dick skimming the dust and slight itchies tingling your hairy asshole, as she stands up and pulls up her own filthy stained panties. “Fuckyou honey” she says, with derision.

You’re nothing but a worthless piece of shit, only you don’t know it yet. Everyone else does, honey. But we tolerate you because yes, we want your cash, but more so because this shitty world is bad enough without us turning down your sorry ass just because you’re scum. Someone wanted to pay me to fuck me when I was at my worst, and that helped me dig out and save myself. I’ll never forget those guys, because their money saved me, and they could have had better for the same price but they picked me. And now I pick you to help save your sorry ass from another shitty day of meaninglessness.

Ever wonder why she took your low-ball offer last time you cheated a whore out of fair wages? Think it was because you are all-powerful and she, the filthy low-life crack whore needs the cash? No, honey. It’s because any asshole that needs to low-ball a filthy whore and then still fucks her when she accepts such a small amount for sex, is more worthless and needy than she is. He needs the fuck more than she needs the cash, and her knowing she’s better than you helped save her day. She takes the potential karma, honey, and tolerates your foul breath and weak dick through all 4 minutes of your pathetic attempt to get off. no harm done, eh?

So go fuck yourself, honey. See you on the other side. We can laugh at each other till eternity.

This came from a lady who works in massage parlors I thought it was worth publishing… Missy

Step up and place your bets. Are you a winner? Not if you take this bet, regardless of the outcome. And it’s a bet I take too often.

High risk behavior subsequent to depression. Been there? I have never sought professional counseling. The few times I knew professional counselors, they were playing mind games on me in a massage parlor, trying to get into my panties for free, or in the case I recall most vividly, trying to get me to do very high risk things with them, usually for free. I lost all respect for counselors back then. I met over a dozen of them during two years in New York. I played with them, yes, but they played with me much more. You can always try to hind behind circuitous logic, but the truth is if you play, you’re guilty. Any claim that said play was simply reciprocal play is bogus. They know better, and that makes them more responsible.

Anyway when you are depressed, you don’t always know it. Sometimes you don’t know because you don’t know what depression is or how it manifests. But often I find depressed people (like me) don’t know it because the depression keeps them from having adequate awareness of their situation. I engage in high-risk behavior for many reasons, but when I am truly depressed, I engage in high risk behavior because I have nothing left to lose. Or do I?

That’s the loser’s bet. If you truly have nothing to lose, then you can “bet it all” and never lose, because you never had it anyway. But if your depression made you blind to what you did have (but couldn’t see), then betting it all on high risk behavior is akin to throwing away any future. Everyone has a future even if you don’t see it, because no matter what you do, tomorrow will always come to you. Just about every future has some positive aspects, even if you can’t see them. So the “I’m depressed so I don’t care, so I engage in high-risk behavior” bet is stupid. And I do it all the time. I will do it until I lose. And when I lose, I usually don’t lose my future completely. The only time I will lose my future is when I actually die. Otherwise, anything short of death is a worse situation than I have now (which seems worthless).  Instead, I simply lose more of those hidden positive bits that were in that future, make my life worse with no one to blame but myself, which contributes to deeper depression. See what I mean?

But can you cheat Lady Luck? Yes. I am living proof. I had nothing, and took a big risk and survived, and now I have something. That’s how it works, every time you manage to beat the odds. But if you are like me, you just pause until the depression grabs you again, and tosses you back into the ring. Once in the ring, you have nothing to lose… so you go for it. If you come out clean, you cheated Lady Luck once again. Otherwise, you come out worse than when you went it. If that happens, you face the ultimate challenge … or should I say your depression faces the ultimate challenge. If you are truly at the end of your rope, and you lose and come out worse off than you went in… then you must acknowledge that yes, indeed, you have nothing to live for. Otherwise you lied to yourself, cheated yourself, took on undue risk, and got fucked, and with no one to blame but yourself. And, finally, only you know it, and only you feel the pain and the shame, and guess what else? Only you can make it right. By killing yourself, you make yourself right. By living on with your new found ugliness (the result of having tried and lost.. coming out worse than before) you must accept defeat in the worst, most personal way. You fucked up, and now you suffer more because you’re such a fuck up, and you’re stuck with it. Nah. Better to prove that you were right. You end it all, and it magically becomes true that you were in deep depression, with nothing left to live for, and the risks you took (which didn’t work out this time) were actually worthwhile “last chance” risks. See what I mean? Depression wins the war every time, even if it loses a battle or two along the way.

The next time you come into my massage parlor and look me in the eye, realize that I am looking at you because I know you are engaging in high risk behavior for a reason. I don’t know what the reason is, but I know there is a reason. If it’s the right kind of massage parlor, your mere presence makes you guilty of loitering for purposes, which will get you in trouble. So there is a risk to simply being here. And then when you get undressed, you take on more risk. If there is a raid or something, you’re naked in a massage parlor. More risk. And when you speak to me, everything you say carries risk. What you ask for, what you suggest, what you offer… all take on responsibility and thus risk. What would your boss do if the newspaper said you were in a massage parlor that got busted? What would your girlfriend do? Wife? Then there is the obvious high-risk behavior of sexual contact. Even hand jobs carry risk… let alone blow jobs or intercourse. Will you come out worse off than you went in? Or will you cheat Lady Luck, and enjoy having beaten the odds? For how long? Whatever drove you into the high risk behavior is pulling the strings, not your conscious mind.

And once day when you come out of there worse off… you got busted in a sting, or you caught an STD, or some private detective followed you on behalf of your wife, what will happen? Was your initial perspective, that the risk was worth taking, legitimate? Was it right? Or will you be fucked? Were you just stupid, and now fucked because of it?

I don’t want to scare you away from my massage parlor, and actually I want you to order the full service menu and let me indulge you, but let me tell you why. Because I am in this for the long haul. I’m taking on the risk, and I’ve got nothing to lose. I don’t give a shit about what happens, beyond today. I need the money, and I need to see you enjoy me, and I need to service you and deliver, and I need to leave here tonight with a pocket full of cash and warm fuzzies from my intimate memories of your fingers and touch, and perhaps the taste and smell of your ejaculate etched in my memory. It is what brings me back tomorrow for more, and enables me to keep going. Otherwise, why did I take the risk? To go home alone, poor, and empty inside, worse off than I was today when I arrived at work hopeful to improve my situation?

No, honey, I brought you into the room to make you happy, nd I’ll take your money in exchange for making you feel a little bit better for the rest of your day.

So come in honey and come come come and enjoy. No money no honey, so bring some cash. Ask for whatever you want, and if I say no try again tomorrow because chances are good I will say yes one of those times. Will you be my lucky guy? Will you make the difference in my life? Will you take away my future, or provide the pay off for my loser’s bet this time? Or will you and I just be two ships passing in the night, still shy of enlightenment? You on your way to wherever you are running away from (because of course you will go back) and me on my way to wherever I am going (if anyone actually knows). Fuck me honey, literally and figuratively. I need it, and you need it. Just be sure that when you ask for it, you really want it, ok? No bullshit. We’re both here in this dark room for good reasons, and we’re both capable of getting the job done. If you want it ask for it, and pay the proper price, and don’t be afraid to enjoy it. And when all’s done and you got yours and I got mine, remember you got what you asked for.. nobody is responsible for your depression but you.

I will be adding new images to the masthead of this blog, from massage parlor pictures I have collected over the years. Let me know if you see something you like…

The concept of “dirty” lives well in a massage parlor.

Under your fingernails, is it clean? Under your arms, is it clean? Swipe the counter top in your local diner - is it clean? The bottom of yours shoes, which you wear on the public streets and then into your own bedroom… is any of it clean?

Germs everywhere, but what is “dirty”? I once waited for a friend in a brothel apartment in Toronto. She was working there just for a few days, because she was in a very tight squeeze and needed money. The owner was renting the place out for outcall, and a spanish girl was organizing the activities.  The spanish girl put an ad in the paper that said “Yes, Greek” with a phone number. The craziest dudes showed up there, all thinking they were going to enjoy anal sex with a prostitute. And they did. That place was filthy. The few minutes I was there, I saw used condoms on the floor under the sink, and slimy bottles of lotion that I can only imagine were covered with unspeakable germ colonies. My friend said it was a clean place - they insisted on double condoms for everything. I noticed there was no shower, and the bathroom towels were cloth towels that obviously needed to be exchanged a few days ago. My friend said that was the problem with spanish girls… they didn’t do anything that wasn’t specifically for themselves… like care about the common towel laundry. What does “clean” mean?

In any massage parlor I have ever worked, there was a focus on cleanliness. Hot towels from a steamer,  sink in the room or very close by, use-once towels and sheets. I could never ask a customer to lay down on a bed with hairs from a prior customer, or oil stains or worse. In a massage parlor, dirt is evidence of a prior customer. And that concept continues for the attendant (me). There is to be no evidence on me of any prior customer, invisible germ or otherwise.  It’s just the way I do things.

I’m involved in the opening of a new massage parlor in Los Angeles. It is under the radar for now, because the owner doesn’t have a CO (certificate of occupancy) but it will be legit one day soon. Funny thing is, since it is not legit, it is really not legit. Understand?

Massage girls think like this: if you’re breaking the law, you might as well get paid. So if merely being in a no-CO business makes you liable for prosecution, why not whore for money? A lesser perspective has been prevalent for many years in the Chinese massage parlors, compared to Korean massage parlors. The koreans will give hand jobs and nothing else, almost out of principle. But the chinese massage girls say that why give a hand job for $40 or $60 when the law says it is prostitution? As long as you’re going to get dirty, you might as well get $120 so do full service. It’s a cultural thing, I think.

Anyway so we’re finishing construction, and the guys who put in the plumbing are raising the costs every hour because they think they’re going to get paid in pussy. Maybe they are, I’m not sure, but it is funny to watch them as they think no one is watching. They waste so much time, hide parts they say we need, and basically steal from the owner. I’ll make sure she knows everything I know before she pays the bills.

The press and the media portray the  girls selling their bodies as the whores, but often it is the customer or “john” that is the real whore. They sometimes give up so much just for that half hour of sexual excitement, one needs to investigate why it has so much value to them — and the flip side of that, which is what value they get for themselves. If what they get is worth more than a few hundred dollars of currency, aren’t they the whores?

This email came in from a reader. He is a long time customer of sensual massage, but now he finds himself whoring himself out to women in exchange for stuff.  Sometimes he  pawns the stuff he gets for cash, and sometimes he just destroys it or uses it until he the thrill is gone. The core similarity is he is addicted to selling his attention and his body to women, who buy it with gifts and cash. Those women probably don’t think they are soliciting prostitution. He didn’t think he was whoring, until recently when he read some of my erotic massage bog and recognized himself.

His story is being edited and will be published next, right here. Let me know your thoughts in a comment.