I’m Here in Parking Lot… She’s Right In There

This story came from old friend, who is now sending me email. He says “Hi Missy. This is my short story. I’m writing it to you from my car, instead of going in to see an Asian massage girl“.

Here I am in my car. It’s raining. Noisy rain, late afternoon. It is getting dark and the rain helps everything hide. If I walk on the street no one will see me. No one sees anyone in this city when it is getting dark in late afternoon and it is raining hard. Everyone is going somewhere. On the dark street in the rain I am anonymous. Anonymous as I leave my car parked in this lot, and walk across to the massage parlor with the neon OPEN sign. Like I did last week. But I am not doing today.

It is so easy. Pussy awaits me 150 feet over there. Comfort and adventure waits for me. She sits and watches TV, talks on her cell phone, and waits. Dressed in a sun dress and panties, she waits all day. Will I show up? Will any one show up? Who will it be? Or will no one come in today?

In my real world, nakedness is managed one body part at a time. Behind layers of individual clothing pieces, skin hides from the air, the sun, any contact with others. What skin is exposed is covered with make up or hair. If I want to see skin, I have to beg or trade or plead or pull mind tricks. Even then, if I make progress, I have to get past buttons, zippers, hooks, and layers and layers. Half the time I regret having made whatever deal I made to get past the armor, and the regret distracts me from enjoying.

In my real world, there is no copping of a feel. A brush by produces nothing but pressure from “something” under the clothes, and usually demands an apology. Afterwards I wonder, was that a breast, or a knee? They feel the same when hidden behind numerous layers of cardboard, foam, and fabrics passed off as bras and “tops”.

But when I brush my hand across the breast of my massage girl, my fingers stumble across her erect nipple, fingertips no more than one thin polyester layer away from that soft skin. I can see her with my fingertips. I can feel her life. When I stand over her less than 5 foot frame, as she unbuttons my shirt, I see right down the front of her sun dress. I see her breasts, her nipples, and the soft skin of her belly. When I raise my hands up along her sides, my fingers drag her sun dress up to expose her thighs and buttocks. She doesn’t pull it back down. She doesn’t react. She simply allows. In that room, the natural order rules. In that room, I succeed.

But not today. Today, I stay in the car.

I remember the first time I visited a massage parlor. I was on a roll. I had just quit my job, standing up to my ass of a boss for the first time in almost 15 years. I told him off, and quit. It was a winning moment. I had struggled to work up to it for many years, and for some reason woke up that day ready to take back what was mine — my dignity and freedom. Everyone witnessed my effort, and everyone saw me win.

I drove away from work at high speed, damn the torpedoes. I had won. I was victorious! Yet if I drove home I would be shown I was a loser. A jobless loser. And reminded of what a shit I was now in, with no job and a mortgage to pay. Everyone from the wife to the neighbor would react the same way… what will you do now? they’d say, missing the point completely. I couldn’t go home.

I drove on the highway. I went fast and determined, right into the city center. I had a phone number scribbled on the back page of my mileage log for almost a year — a secret late night place for when a visiting client wanted to party. I had never been to such places, but heard all the stories. It was 3:30 in the afternoon. I parked and called. I was told I could “come up honey”. I went.

Inside I was out of my element, in a world run by warm women who knew how to calm a beast. I didn’t have to request, demand, direct, or ask for anything. They knew what to do. They smelled the testosterone. They senses the tension. They simply knew I needed attention, and they knew they had what I needed.

I remember handing her my money, not knowing exactly how much it was or what her price was. It didn’t matter to me, and apparently it was enough for her. She set me at ease immediately. They all handled me perfectly, from the older lady who escorted me in with a warm, positive “of course we have what you need” attitude to the little cutie who came into the room to help me remove my clothes. Professionals, focused entirely on solving my problem, whatever it was.

In that hour I remember I was touched softly, caressed lovingly, grabbed passionately, managed professionally and practically carried through a course of events that left me exhausted, completely satisfied, and feeling like a winner. I always remember that first experience as being like a hunt. Like a raw blood and guts hunt, cavemen chasing vicious wild animal. We chased caught and conquered the beast, drinking its blood and reveling in the warmth of its death. I guess it was she and I who conquered, but it was really just me being taken expertly through the stages of caring, to caress to tease, to titillation and then arousal, on to strenuous physical activity, and finally explosive release upon victory. I conquered while she encouraged. I remember I wept after, while gasping for breath, and she joked which made me laugh, and it was all good.

And that was the start of my addiction.

But today, I stay here. I’m okay today. Things are good. I finished work on time today, and I have a promising day to look forward to tomorrow. I’m on my way home now to relax with a drink and maybe watch some TV.

Right over there, waiting for me day after day, is that sweet little body all warm and ready to take care of me. No questions, no demands, no problems. Just ready. If I want it. If not, it will wait until tomorrow. Or the next day. For when I need it.

I appreciate that so much Missy. I really do.