Typical procratstination, I’m listening to the hum of the sheets in the dryer now…anticipating E’s arrival in just 40 minutes or so.  I gave myself a face mask and lovingly cleaned the sex toys, including E’s beloved purple cock.  It has been a while since she’s taken it to me so I have high hopes.

Once my husband gets out of the shower I am going to give myself a nice clean shave and make sure my pussy is ripe for the singing. 

Steve Perry is okay but she actually gets much more turned on my some Alice Cooper.  Bad rocker chick to the core…”Your web, I’m caught, Your skin, so wet,  Black lace on sweat….I want to kiss you but your lips are venomous. Poison…”  Anyone remember the Bulletboys?!  They were all about sex, “Smooth up in ya!”  What does that even mean?!  Who really cares!?  Sorry I’ve gotten off on quite the tangent…the effect of rock music on my tender adolescent sexuality is another post entirely.

So better late than never I’m wondering what I should wear?!  I guess we’ve established that I need to find some fishnets she can rip…geez, where are they?  Black lace dress again?  Do I really need anything at all to go with the fishnets?  Well my husband is asking me to do something for him before he leaves so I need to sign off…details later, of course!

During my career as a massage therapist, I had a number of humorous run-ins with male clients who were wanting more than my standard deep tissue session.  My favorite story was when an Orthodox Jewish man tried to bargain with a respected spa for my time.  I was freelancing out of a chic West Side day spa that was owned and operated by a gorgeous German woman…ex-model, in fact.  The spa bordered Union Square Park at the time, so I generally hung out in the park some before going to work.  On this particular day, I was wearing a cute Asian print red sundress that had a slit up my right leg.

As I crossed the park to my building, I noticed the Rabbi following me.   (Actually, I’m not certain he was a rabbi, but he looked like one.  Not your usual brand of stalker to say the least!)  He followed me into the old elevator, all the while checking out my ass and my exposed right leg.  Rather than feeling threatened, I was mildly amused.  He stood all of about 5 foot tall, so his Orthodox robes hung to the ground.  He said nothing as he “examined” me from head to toe, which, in an old Manhattan elevator moving toward the 10th floor, he had plenty of time to do.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I’m thinking to myself.  “All my other therapist friends get hit on by good-looking business men, while I’m stuck in an elevator with a horny rabbi.  How unfair!”

We arrive at the 10th floor.  I march out of the elevator and into the spa, glancing at the receptionist on the way in with a “Get rid of him!” look.  I proceed to round the corner and station myself where I can see the reception desk without being seen.  The receptionist was watching the elevator behind me, probably expecting a giant businessman to waltz into the room.  She had difficulty controlling her laughter when Rabbi walked in.

“Can I help you?”  she asked.

“Yes,” he said, pointing in the direction that I had gone, “what does she do?”

“Nails,”  replied the receptionist.  “She removes corns and bunions…very painful work.”  That was a marvelous lie if ever I heard one!

“Oh,” he relied, looking visibly dejected.  “So she doesn’t do massage?”

“No, I’m afraid not.  If you have dead skin on your feet, though, she be happy to cut it off for you.”

“Uhhh…no thanks.”

At this moment, the statuesque German spa owner came out of the elevator.  Brigette was her name…she stood about 6 foot 3, with nearly five feet of her height being pure leg.  She barely noticed the Rabbi from that far up.

He points toward her now, and asks the receptionist, “What about her?  How much does she cost?”

Needless to say, as soon as Brigette comprehended his meaning, she sent him packing, but not before letting loose a torrent of German swear words.

In a footnote here, I should mention that I’ve also caught the eye of two Hindus and a Buddhist.  Something about me just calls out to men of faith…I’ve never understood why.  I’ve always turned them down gently, though…it just seemed like the Christian thing to do.

A dear reader found us by searching on the question: “Do Asian massage parlours masturbate you?”  Well, semantically speaking, only YOU can “masturbate you”, but I understand the intent of the question and I’d like to throw in my two cents based on experience.

I have worked in two Asian massage parlors in the U.S., and although they would never openly admit it due to legalities, it was common for male clients to receive “release” of some kind as part of the service.  As far as I knew, this almost always came in the form of a hand job and big monetary tips were expected in exchange.  At the parlor in New York City (and this was several years ago), it was customary to tip $50-75 over the regular massage charge for anything “special”.  Frankly, it would be cheaper to just whack yourself off!

Most states have massage laws preventing this kind of thing, but it’s hard to enforce something that goes on in a closed room between two individuals.  I was more idealistic right out of massage school, and was appalled when I found myself to be the only “legitimate” therapist on staff at the parlor in New York City.   The poor men who got me were offered deeper, more painful trigger point work when they asked for something “special”.  The Korean ladies made more money than me for less strenuous work, so in retrospect, I probably would have been wiser to whack off dicks for $50 a pop. 

So dear reader, my advice, if you are truly seeking such a place, is to ask around first.  It’s generally not hard to find out in any given city where the shady parlors are.  And when you go in, let them proposition you, because if you make the mistake of propositioning a legitimate therapist then you could be thrown out of a place…or suffer bone-crunching consequences at the hands of a petite roughian like myself

“HA!  I smell puddy on naughty round eye!” she shrieked, as a new customer entered the massage parlor.  Her eyes narrowed into tiny slits and her beak-like nose continued to sniff the air.  “Who are you?” she asked.

“I’mmm SteammmmyWordGuy,” he stammered, unsure how to deal with the Asian women’s scrutiny.  She grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him closer to her busy nose.  Sniff, sniff, sniff.  She covered his face, neck, and upper body with a series of quick whiffs.

“You stink like black puddy!”  she barked.  “And what dis…” she pulled a flake of skin off his forehead.  “Puddy chip, huh?  You been eating puddy lips!  You lap it up, huh, round eye…make black hoe squeal and beg for white tongue, huh?”  She let go of his shirt and pushed him toward the door.  “What your wife say?”

“Mmmmmy wifffffe?” he stammered again.  “How did you know I was married?”

“I know.”  She pointed a wicked thin index finger in his face.  “Get out of parlor!  Scrub!  You only come back when you don’t stink like nasty puddy!”

This one’s even better:

A warm, chewy, gooey vanilla center surrounded by fried lima beans on a bed of warm llama piss

Does anyone dare me to see how many puddy words I can use in one story?

I was just doing a little research for my next Asian massage story (she needs a new customer, you know), when I decided to do an Urban Dictionary search for “puddy”.  It’s hysterical what all this word can mean!

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=puddy

Better yet is the related entry for “puddy chips”.  This one I’ll quote:

The thick, gelatinized mass of vaginal fluid one finds on one’s face after a long night of oral sex with a woman. A thick sticky residue variously composed of natural vaginal lubricants, foreign lubricants, saliva, sweat, urine, etc. that, once properly set over a 6-8 hour period of sleep, can be peeled off of one’s face much like rubbery chips attached by dried pudding.

“Ahhhhh, round eye come back!”

“Ok, I’m not hiring you for anything, you crazy woman, but this has been bugging me all week…what the hell is puddy?”

The Asian woman’s stern face cracked a small smile.  “Puddy in poontang,” she reponded.

“Puddy in poontang?  What’s that mean?  Oh wait…poontang is pussy, right?  You’re saying I need pussy?”

“Pussy!?!  Cats no help you!  Cats for eating!  You NEED ta puddy.  Puddy make poontang all sweet…nice place for wing wong.  You pay, I show.”

“Pay for what?  I’m completely confused!  I should not have even come back in here…you’re fucking insane!  Exactly how many cats have you eaten?”

“SILENCE!!!” she shrieked, whipping a ruler out from behind her back and quickly smacking the crotch of his pants.  The sting and the surprise sent him reeling back up against the wall.

“Jesus Christ!” he squealed.  He thought of running out of the massage parlor again, but to his extreme surprise, his dick was hard.  She noted his hesitation, and delivered another unexpected whack with the ruler.

“Ouch!  That fucking hurts, you bitch!”

“You watch mouth, or I hurt wing wong real bad!  Stop waste my time!  You pay or you go now!”

He stared into her stern face for a minute, realizing his defeat, and then slowly, silently reached for his wallet.  “I’ve got $10.00,” he said in a low voice, handing her the money.

“Ruler on wing wong?” she asked in an equally low voice.

“Ruler on wing wong, ” he affirmed softly.

“Good…follow me.”  She lead him into a massage room.  “Ah, but you must beg for puddy or I stop smack!”

The age old negotiation begins:

A man walks into an Asian massage parlor.  A pleasant but serious looking Chinese woman beckons him into a bamboo lined room with a shiatsu mat on the floor.  He’s thinking he would have picked a younger, cuter masseuse, had one been available.  “This one probably has a lot of experience, though,” he muses.  She closes the door.

“What you want, huh?”  Her voice is shrill and authoritarian.  She taps her foot impatiently.

“Ahhhh, well…I was hoping for a “massage,” he does the quote signs with his fingers.

“What dis?”  She mimics his quote signs.  “You got problem?”

“No…mam…no problem at all.  I was just thinking a massage…you know, with a SPECIAL ending.”  He winks.

“You twitch too!  You got problem!”

“No, really I’m fine.  OK….maybe I should just go.  We don’t seem to be communicating too well.”

“Ohhhh, you go no where, white boy!  You pick from menu.”

“Menu?”

“One dollar, I touch your dick with pinky finger.  Add more dollar, I add more fingers.  Six dollar, I spit on hand for lube.  Ten dollar, I use lotion and yank hard.”

“So $10.00 for a hand job?  Is that what you’re saying?”

“Hand job?  You no listen!  You want hand job?  Fitteen dollar, I take hand and smack round eye boy ass real hard.  Make sting!”

“Wait!  How much to just jerk me off?  I don’t need smacked!”

“Ahhh, you need smack!  Twenty dollar I whack balls with ruler, make you say “More momma, more please!”

“Jesus Christ!  You’re not whacking anything on me with a ruler!”

“No ruler, huh?  You momma no make you be good boy?  Huh?  You sissy!  Nilly little round eye!  You need smack and den the puddy!  Fiddy dollar and I fix you good!”

“Puddy?  What the hell is a puddy?  I’m out of here!  You’re insane, lady!”  He makes for the door.

She grabs his arm.  Her grip is cold and piercing.  “You leave for now, but you NEED puddy.  When you ready to pay, you be back!  Maybe I only charge hundred dollar next time.”  Looking befuddled, he shakes loose from her grip, and runs out.

“Stupid round eye…he be back!”