Better Luck Next Time
Today I worked a real brothel, for the first time in years. Not a massage parlor, although the sign outside said MASSAGE with big, red letters. Inside, it was pure brothel.
You enter through a door that leaves you in an enclosed alcove. It’s basically a very small enclosed porch. As soon as you enter we get buzzed, and can see you through several one-way windows as well as a peep hole. The way it works (I was a temp worker, invited to stay with a friend who was running it for a week), is we look at you and decide who gets you. If you look over 40, Mimi gets you (she’s close to 60, but says she’s 40). If you look twenty, the young girl gets you. She’s the hired help, a real pro, and in her late twenties. Twenty somethings don’t have much money and last forever, so we make her take them all. Better she get sore than me, right?
If you look crazy, the cleaning lady answers the inner door. She is almost toothless and wrinkly, but she likes to jerk a man and make an extra twenty. Her sales rate is about 40% meaning about 60% of the time she answers the door, the guy decides not to come in. No crazies.
If you are fat, we argue about who has to take you. If you are strong and fit, June gets you. She can smell a cop a mile away because she was married to one (and still is, technically, because there was no divorce). If you are normal looking I fight to get the chance. Actually, I’m happy to take just 3 per day because I’m not much of a brothel whore to begin with. I’m just here to keep my friend company, stay active, and cover my bills.
Today YOU came in and I got you. You saw right away it was set up as a massage place, but I was wearing a sun dress with nothing else underneath. You saw that the massage table was built of massive lumber, able to withstand just about anything a 200lb guy could be doing on it. But even though you saw these things, you stayed quiet and let me go through the full massage motions before you touched me to let me know you liked the way I was bare underneath my thin dress. Dumbass. You wasted 30 minutes.
You then failed to communicate to me what you actually wanted, so we wasted another fifteen minutes in playful conversation that bored the shit out of me and made me wonder how you think you will ever have time to enjoy anything with just 10 minutes left on the clock. You are lucky I didn’t leave you there to relax for that last 10 minutes.
By the time you were open to communicating clearly, my answer to almost everything was no. No BJ. No full service. No back door, and no, I would not lick you there nor put my finger there. So you overpaid and under delivered, honey. Not my fault, but yours.
You see, that first time I stood next to the massage table and put my bush right next to your face, while I held you hand and stroked your back, you should have moved my hand behind my butt so the two of us could have gently eased my mid section in towards your mouth, so you could kiss me through my thin yellow chiffon dress. I would have responded with the right sounds, and lifted my knee up onto the table. Had you then turned over and slid up on the table just a bit, to drop your head over the edge, I would have lowered myself onto your lips and enjoyed a warm up. Who knows, your fingers may have ended up somewhere interesting, coming from the back side like that. And, if things were going well, I would have probably dropped forward onto you, so we were chest on chest on the massage table, positioning my mouth convenient to your “privileges”.
For sure I could have been yours today, for at least 50 of the 60 minutes. Better luck next time.
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Today I visited what I think was a real brothel.
The sign over the entrance did clearly read “massage” in big, red letters, but the buzzer, one-way mirrors and peephole told me that the place was less than legit.
A pretty asian girl let me in and led me to a room. She couldn’t tell, but I was scanning the premises and noticed the room where the other girls hang out. The door was ajar and a couple of old and less than attractive asian females eating and watching TV (CCTV?) in there.
The smell of fish and kimchi, so early in the morning, made me gag, but this passed quickly as I forced myself to focus on my host’s smoking body ondulating under her little summer dress.
I asked whether a table shower was available and got a terse “no”. I don’t particularly enjoy those, but from experience, they’re a good way of getting acquainted and test the masseuse’s limits. There’s just nothing ambiguous about a naked man with his dick in the air getting all soaped up by an attractive girl. We both know what’s next. But for now I was still in the dark.
I quit counting the number of “bait and switch” massage places that put out ads featuring sexy girls in racy local rags, only to throw you out when you ask (politely) for extras…”Professional massage only! We call the cops!!”
In the massage world, as in the asian world, nothing is quite what it seems. My regulars have asked me before why I’m not more pushier with new girls, but then, they always want to brag about kicking guys to the curb for crossing an invisible line – their logic escapes me.
So I’ll admit that when in uncharted territory, I’m just open to discovery and take it slow. I’ve never been the kinda guy to grab or force myself on women, anyway, pros or not.
My cutie left me to undress in the room. I’m always a little nervous in a new place: there’s just no way of knowing whether the joint hasn’t just been busted and taken over by vice for a few hours. I could spot no one looking remotely like a cop, but you know how that goes. And the room’s mirrors creeped me out. Was there someone watching behind them? Taping? Mafia goons standing guard in case things got out of hand with their “property”?
I reminded myself that I’m a guy and that guys get laid no matter what, cleared my head of those thoughts and of the unmarked car I was sure to have noticed behind the building, and lied face down on the table.
The girl came back without a word and proceeded to give me a half-hearted massage. She was obviously going through the motions and I felt no “love” in her touch: Korean, I thought. Probably waiting for the hint. All business. But my small talk got nowhere, and her English was so good that I started worrying again that she was a cop posing as a masseuse, or even legit.
At right around forty, she was no student paying for college with weekend tricks!
She did brush against me a few times, but I was face down and cramped up in that darkened room (why is it always so dark?!), and she kept moving away from me as though buying time. There was no clock in sight and I had little notion of time. Although I had paid for an hour, I sensed that one slipping away from me by the minute and my arousal was frankly gone by what must have been the half-hour mark. Meanwhile, my frustration was mounting. I started to fantasize about rushing to my usual and reliable place as soon as this charade was over.
When the girl finished and put her hand out (!), I gave her what she would have made if she had gone all the way. Her surprise was obvious and she warmed up while leading me to the door. “Next time”, she whispered. “Yeah, sure”, I went. Maybe.
Hey, that’s life. Ya just can’t win ‘em all.
well thanks for the flip-side of the story! If I had known that was YOU, Hobbyist, I would have dispensed with the need for words!
But seriously, you are right. You did the right thing warming her palm – we never forget a face. It’s still not a sure thing, but as you say, little in life is.
Sorry, I couldn’t help: there’s always a flip side… =)
That story actually kinda happened that way the day after the big L.A. ‘05 raids. I went to THREE places that day and all I could get was a miserable HJ. All the girls were scared and I had no idea why.
But… I remained a gentleman, including with that K-girl with too much make-up (no, that couldn’t have been you!
) who only gave me a nervous and rushed massage through towels…in what I KNEW to be a full-service house.
After reading the paper the next day, I understood where the vibes came from and went back to that one place right away. The mama-san recognized me and gave me a different girl (super-cute). I had a wonderful time.
This confirms that point you often make that the entrance fee is only the price of poker. You may or may not get lucky (the chances are MUCH better than in bars, of course!) and it depends on a lot of things.
Usually, cash and a smile will go a long way to turn things around on the next try, however. And everybody has bad days – that goes for providers, too. They may be pros, but they’re human first. Even when disappointed, I always give ‘em a break.
But please, Massage Girl, don’t judge us too quickly either: sometimes the guys who end up in your hands are not just horny and inept “dumbasses”… They can be a little scared and broken, too. That was my point.
Whenever I go to a massage parlor and great indicator of ectras is a skirt or dress. I won’t waste a minute and I will check for under garments.
Live Long and Monger
Lord Trident
The TridentMaster
Hmmm… Mike how do you “check for undergarments”? I’m curious… it sounds so direct!
I’ve told the story before, but a now closed FS AMP I used to patronize had its providers wear white lab coats and name tags. All the girls were duly licensed as per city ordinance. Once you had shown to be “trustworthy”, they dropped the charade and you got all you wanted…
So you can’t always judge a book by its cover.
OTOH, on my first visit at another AMP, a japanese girl in a very tight and sexy sun dress showed up in the room w/o knowing me. When she bent over, I could clearly see that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. That sure got me going and cleared up any doubts, but what a tip-off to LE!
Sure enough, that place was shut down by the cops only a few months later.
I know it sounds lame to mongers everywhere, but I don’t go to MPs to act like an ass and disrespect the girls, so I avoid the typical advice: grab the girl’s hand and place it on your dick under the towel or put your hand up her skirt.
It IS the best way not to suffer a frustrating tease at a legit place though, as you’re sure to be shown the door in no time… =)
Most of the girls I talked to, legit masseuses or extras providers, hate being grabbed and treated like meat. You may not be getting all you can by being too forward.
I slide my hands up her legs.
Usually this approach is at a Massage Place, Full Service is at the
discretion of the attendant. I like paying first because I show my play money and they know I have what it takes for the their extras. I know the game so I don’t need to haggle. I usually get more than the average schlep that goes here, respect and technique gets you places.
As for the Full Service houses, come on, if you can get the ball rolling immediately it’s time for another hobby. Sometimes being direct relaxes the girls, I’ve gotten undressed and sported a nice boner just so they get the picture.
One mamasan at a strictly HJ only place (yea right) confided in me that she can’t believe hat I get F/S at her place. I played ignorant but she get on blowing smoke my ass.
Were my previous “under garment” techniques to hot to post?
Live Long and Monger
Lord Trident
Tridentmaster
no undies is a dead giveaway and if the massage parlor is open late is another indicator if open past 7pm not legit about 80% of the time!
I guess I am lucky that I have found a regular massage girl that has gotten to know me, knows what I like, and seems to genuinely care. There is no need for games – her clothes are off the second she walks in the door. We hug and kiss each other for several minutes, embracing each other as 2 people that care for each other would, then proceed right to the “extras”. After cleaning up, she lays me down on the table and gives me a wonderful massage, as I feel the loving energy come from her hands. She knows where my muscles are tight, and pays special attention to those spots. We talk about our families and our lives. Yes I am a still a customer, but we have become friends as well through the last year. I know it’s her “work”, but money is poor compensation for the love she has gives me.
Totally agree with mg.
As for MPs hours, a LOT of legit places are open until 10 pm in the Los Angeles area.
Giveaways for extras are two-way mirrors, CCTV, doors that lock, and pretty girls who dress sexy (no underwear is a sure shot as MP reviews said).
You’ll still get surprises either way as all rules can be broken.
I also got FS at a HJ factory (the other providers called the girl a “bad” one b/c she kept rubbers in her purse and was married!).
I also got to third base in a thai place with a girl who knew me well (would likely have gone further with locks on the door). That’s highly unusual as Thais don’t do extras (surprisingly, I know). A few girls used to operate at their own house and after hours, but that was another story entirely.
And like I said, I left a certified FS place once w/o so much as a HJ (recent raid).
If you remember to stay a gentleman (a word used loosely when it comes to us mongers…), results are usually very favorable on average, however.
When guys ask me for advice, I usually tell them to just keep going, be nice and bring cash. The rest will follow. =)
I read for the first time this story you linked over there on eroticmassages.blogs (back in ‘04!): http://www.salon.com/travel/wlust/1999/10/01/vietnam/index.html
Now talk about indecision! And she’s a lesbian, too! How do you call a female “dumbass”, I wonder…
Ah, the guilt trip: is she going to be the colonialist westerner by fucking the masseuse, or the disdainful one by ignoring her? Too funny.
You know, as much as some mongers like to sound all macho and stuff, I suspect that a lot of us are conflicted too, when learning the hobby anyway. It’s not exactly natural to overcome propriety or religious upbringing and proposition strangers with money. One gets over that pretty fast, of course…
Now I’m curious, Massage Girl, in your professional opinion, were extras available from that Vietnamese girl? I personally think they were, if only out of curiosity toward the White Woman.
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