View Full Version : Happy Endings part 2 (adult; language; 9200 words)

August 3rd, 2015, 01:48 AM
Posted the first part of this on here a while ago, and finally have pt. 2 ready for deployment. Enjoy, I guess? First part is still up on my website.



Those headlines, though catchy, didn’t actually make newspapers in the wake of my night with Olga. And although pulling my cock out on her must have violated at least several California laws, I wasn’t seriously worried about police involvement, either.
But you’d think that, in the weeks after, I’d have at least been spooked. Tried to have been a little less of a bastard in matters involving the opposite sex. Tried to have exercised some caution in situations that might be considered “sexually cavalier.”
Instead, I just sort of continued to do my Danny Mullen thing. To crawl and grunt across this earth: still taking whatever hole would have me, and still scuttling after whatever life choices I believed would lead me to more and better holes.
And plus it was fall.
Fall is, I guess you could say, a dangerous time for me. Some people may view the orange leaves and the thinning sunlight and the pumpkins as basically innocent seasonal motifs, but I’ve come to see them as direct threats to my self-control.
Every year it’s the same. Around mid-October, I’ll look at my texts, my social media in and outboxes, and the sheer number of mouths and vaginas my penis has managed to visit since the end of summer, and think, somewhat mystified: how the fuck did all this happen?
I’ll begin sizing up middle-aged grocery store employees, fat bank tellers, the tiny Mexican women who sweep up trash at baseball games, and think: not bad. On my lowest days, I’ll see an old soccer ball bouncing across the street, go tense, and look down to find a full-blown erection pressed against my inner thigh.
This is what fall has become for me, people: a Pussy Campaign that is almost Napoleonic in scale, and that at times stretches to the borders of something like mild insanity.
And a good many of my friends report similar findings. Why fall? We still don’t know. In college, it’s easy to just throw blame at the new crop of freshmen girls, the ubiquitous urge to party after a summer spent quartered at home. But the trend is strong before and after those four years, too.
Birthrates support it: in the US they spike conspicuously in mid-to-late summer–nine months after the fuck fest that is fall. There’s Squirrel Theory too, which dictates that if squirrels and chipmunks have to go out and gather nuts before a long winter, why shouldn’t humans feel similarly compelled to go collect some last minute, nice weather ass? I don’t know. Maybe look back at your own hot streaks, the beginning of your romances–stuff like that–and see if they too tend to land in one of those four months ending with the letters B-E-R.
But whatever. Here’s the point:
In the spirit of the season, I am once again shotgun in Jacobin’s Porsche. It’s late afternoon, and it’s Halloween–aka about as fallish as it gets.
And despite the total disaster with Olga, despite pretty much swearing off the happy ending quest forever, I’ve agreed, very hesitantly, to come along to a new massage parlor–one called simply “Paradise”–in front of which we are now parked.
We would have no way of knowing its name if it weren’t for our proximity to the building. There is no real sign, no electric lettering. The only thing there is is a sheet of printer paper taped up to the inside of the glass, on which the business name is handwritten in pencil.
“No. Absolutely not,” I say, the piece of shit sign bringing back memories from Massage et Russia. “Restart the car, drive away slowly, and let’s go back to the party.”
The “party” is a little Halloween get-together some friends of ours are hosting–the same party Jacobin talked me into leaving in order to come get jerked off. Also notable here is the fact that I’m pretty fucking high. We’ll come back to this later.
“Don’t you at least want to go check it out?” says Jacobin.
“Um, no–I don’t, actually,” crossing my arms. “In fact, I refuse to leave this car.”
Jacobin ignores this, steps out onto the pavement. “C’mon, let’s just look inside.”
Getting incredulous: “Dude, is it that unreasonable that I don’t want to enter this building?” I look through the windshield and point. “This building that, for monetary or legal reasons, can’t afford to have proper sign?”
Jacobin too looks at the window before admitting, “They could have at least used Microsoft Word…”
“Yes! And after Olga, first impressions are a little important to me.” I re-buckle my seat belt. “C’mon. Get back in the car, and let’s get the fuck out of here before something bad happens.”
(Approximately half a minute later, Jacobin, like a broom-wielding homeowner clearing a nested possum from beneath a deck, has jostled me out of the front seat, and has even managed to talk me in to entering the building.)
Paradise ends up being completely deserted inside.
And somehow, the place even manages to surpass Massage et Russian in terms of internal filthiness. There are wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor stacks of cardboard boxes, leading me to believe the business is either permanently closing its doors, or just settling in. I would bet significant amounts of money on the former.
“Hello?” Jacobin calls, searching the desk for a bell to ring.
Blazing on weed, I’ve begun wandering the perimeter. The boxes, I see, are all marked with an Idaho address, and belong to somebody with the first name “Gregory.” Something about this combination disagrees with me. A vague fear takes root in my head.
“Hello!” Jacobin calls again.
“Ok, I’ve seen enough here,” I say, doing a 180 for the door. But my first step has me kicking a plastic tub lying on the floor. “The fuck is…”
It’s a litter box. Filled with sand and cat shit. Right in the middle of the business.
I look up.
A big, fat orange cat is perched atop a stack of boxes.
“Woahh, hey there, little guy,” I say, startled.
The cat doesn’t respond. He just stares me down, not looking altogether friendly. And maybe I’m imagining things, but at this point something seems to pass from him to me…something along the lines of: I don’t want you here.
Jacobin is wandering toward the back hallway now, still searching for service.
“Jacobin, I’m serious dude. Let’s leave. There’s, like, a fucking cat over here.”
The cat, not amused by this last sentence, hops down to a lower stack of boxes and begins advancing on me slowly.

After fleeing the building, I spend the first few minutes back in the car delivering an incoherent and somewhat fearful rant about the cat.
“See, that was good though,” says Jacobin. “We went in there and checked the place out–did the research before just taking off.” He raises a finger here, and waves it around a little as if about to make some crucial point. “That is what we need to do more of. Until we find the Perfect Spot.”
Scratching my chin: “Hmmm…the Perfect Spot?”
The man vs. animal misunderstanding in Paradise had, to be sure, sobered me up. But too it had breathed a little life back into the operation. After exposing myself to an unsuspecting Olga, and after entering a business that, for all we knew, was owned and operated by a feline, the happy ending saga was quickly becoming The Happy Ending Saga. A certified fiasco…one that begged for resolution.
“But what about the front desk people?” I wonder aloud.
“What about them?”
“Well, Paradise was deserted,” I say. “It was easy for us just to turn around and leave…but if there’s attendants…”
“What, would that be like rude or something?” Jack-O’-bin.
“It communicates a pretty significant disapproval of their appearance, I think.”
After a few miles of driving and heavy brainstorming, we arrived at a solution.
Ice cream.
If, upon entering a Happy Ending Parlor, we deemed it unacceptable for one of the following reasons

(1): Hideous staff. And I mean hideous fucking staff. At this point, “really ugly” and “very old” were to be expected, and probably even preferable to “attractive,” which would be suspicious, and give us a bad case of…
(2): Police vibes. We had little desire to barrel cock-first into a sting. Also bad were the…
(3): Legitimacy vibes. We had equally little desire for a real, honest massage.

if any of those came up, we would simply declare–loud enough for the staff to hear–that we were hungry, couldn’t enjoy the massage in a such a famished state, and therefore needed to go retrieve some…ice cream. It was bulletproof.
But the next stop was a no-go for reasons that didn’t appear on our list.
After traveling a good way south on Auburn Blvd, Jacobin and I are standing before one Far East Massage. (Just as a side note: Auburn Blvd is basically the go-to street for sex and immorality in Sacramento. Yank parlors, strip clubs, bars, and prostitution must account for some 90% of the street’s annual revenues. Pawn shops the remaining 10%.)
Jacobin knocks on the locked front door, and I note that the windows are tinted a kind of frosted white. It looks high budget, and thus a little police vibey, though from the standpoint of aesthetics, it really is a nice upgrade over Paradise, which if I remember correctly just used old rugs.
The door opens a crack. The old, withered head of an ancient Asian woman slides out horizontally.
And unless all the weed I smoked earlier is making me hallucinate, she seems to be wearing a sailor’s cap. I guess this is supposed to be sexy or something.
“What?” is all she gives us.
“Um, we’re here for a massage,” says Jacobin.
The woman keeps staring, as if this response was somehow unsatisfactory.
“Or, massages, actually,” he corrects himself. “It’s two of us. So yeah, you know–two massages is, uh, what we’re here for, pretty much…”
Her face slowly contorts with anger.
Jacobin goes on, hesitantly. “Can we…or, sorry–can you do that?”
She looks Jacobin up and down, then shifts her beady death gaze to me.
“Three-hundred dollar.”
“Well, that’s a little expensive,” chuckles Jacobin, reaching for the door. “Can we just come inside and look around first?”
“TYA!” she screeches, thrusting the door outward into his knuckles.
“Ow!” Jacobin, shaking out his hand. “What the fuck was that for!?”
“ID! ID!” squawks the Asian.
“Is this, uh, how you guys normally conduct business?” I ask.
She withdraws her head even farther behind the door, so now we’re just working with two beady eyes and the sailor’s cap: “Three-hundred dollar!”
“No! Fuck you!” shouts Jacobin.
We hear a hissing sound before the door is slammed, concluding negotiations.

Once again in the Porsche. Cruising.
And in what was basically a “fuck it” moment, we decided to make one last stop before heading back to the BBQ.
For some, it may be hard to believe that there’s such an abundance of these places. That finding a new one really is just a matter of crossing a few intersections, flipping a U-ie, and then scanning the other side of the street.
On Auburn Blvd, that’s the literal reality–but even in otherwise decent areas…you’d be surprised. A pair of trained eyes will start spotting them everywhere–tucked into the crappy little business parks, next to the smoke shops and Goodwills, behind auto garages and gas stations…
The word “massage” tastelessly displayed? Good start.
Asian lettering somewhere on the building? Even better
Tinted/covered windows, and/or a vague Third Worldy-ness about the place? My friend, you’ve just located a massage parlor in the business of dealing Happy Endings. Congratulations.
But yeah. Our last stop: it didn’t pan out either.
The lady there was just pretty old and bland looking, and a little too nice in a completely non-sexual way. Nothing she did or said gave us any reason to believe she would violate her masseusian integrity and take our dicks in hand.
We deployed the Ice Cream Trick, but Jacobin was a hopelessly poor actor. He said it, like, three times, and always in a winkwinknudgenudge way while bouncing his eyebrows to the code words, which pretty much obliterated their purpose.

“You did! And you literally said ‘ice cream’ at half speed.” I take a big drag off the pipe that’s been handed to me, do a lot of coughing on the exhale.
We’re back at the Halloween BBQ. It’s nighttime now, and, quite spontaneously, a kind of Native American Storytelling Circle has formed around the fire pit out back. At the center of attention are me and Jacobin, of course–relating our latest adventure to the group.
“I said it normal,” says Jacobin, defensive. “And I only repeated it for clarity.”
After thinking this over, I raise a hand in protest. “Jacobin*, you were confessing to a middle-aged woman–a complete stranger–your blazing desire to go get dessert. At what point do you think “clarity” was an issue for me?”
This draws some chuckles from around fire.
“And I made up the code with you,” I add.
“Whatever,” says Jacobin. “Everything still worked out.”
The pipe is thrust at me again. I hesitate, though, and glance suspiciously around the circle before taking it.
While this may also be in line with the Native American theme–i.e., the Storyteller should hold the pipe–a lot of the people currently around the fire happen to be my stoner friends: guys amused by how Fucked Up I get when I smoke, and who therefore like to bully me into heavy consumption on the rare occasions that I do. Suspecting some kind of sleight of hand monkey business, I make a mental note to keep tabs on the pipe’s next rotation, to ensure it completes its full, intended orbit. This time, though: big toke.
“So what do these girls look like?” asks a curious listener, I think our friend Justin. “The ones who are supposed to jerk you off?”
Jacobin: “They’re pretty cute. The one’s today were a little older, but you’d for sure still fuck them.”
“No” I say, shaking my head emphatically, looking from Jacobin to Justin. “No. You would absolutely not still fuck them–the Asian was at least 70 years old.”
“What are you talking about? She was a bitch, yeah, but she had huge tits.”
“Justin, do not let this rat bastard poison your mind,” I tell him, pointing at Jacobin. “I’m being objective here when I say that this woman was elderly–two or three decades past the point of being a sexual option–and that we couldn’t even see her tits.
“Maybe,” Jacobin allows. “I would have fucked her though, and everyone here would have gotten a hand job.”
Again, I try to protest, but Jacobin’s fundamentally defective ability to appraise women has a way of leaving me speechless. I find myself watching him–firelight dancing across his face–and just shaking my head. Even as somebody else in the circle brings up a friend who I gather at some point in time succeeded in getting a Happy Ending, I’m unable to pry my thoughts from Jacobin–this bi-pedal sex beast, who was almost certainly deployed into God’s Good Kingdom by mistake.
Now, it’s no secret that my standards pretty much live in the dirt, and that I too commit War Crimes with dazzling regularity. But my madness only goes so far. If the girl is a complete and utter abomination, for instance, I’ll halt the proceedings at a blowjob. Or, if things do end in intercourse, it’s only because I’m fucking shitfaced, and even then I ensure the room we’re in is pitch dark.
But Jacobin…
Jacobin would slide his penis into virtually any woman on the planet, and he’d do so dead sober, at high noon, on a white linen bed in the middle of the Mojave Desert. Looks don’t matter. Personality doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. For him, the difference between a fitness model with a genius IQ and a diabetic monster who works at Burger King is just a shrug of the shoulders. Maybe a condom if he’s feeling especially judgmental.
How do we explain this? Does he see women differently? The same kind of distortion an anorexic experiences while looking in the mirror? Or is it, like, a conscious choice involving standards?
A glint of firelight on polished glass.
I look up and see that the pipe has already passed the circle’s midway point. Which seems premature…but I can’t be certain. Irritated I lost track of it, I begin scanning faces, looking for giggles, grins, darting eyes–any indicators of conspiracy.
Then it hits me that I could be being a little, you know, paranoid. I blink a few times, shake out my head.
So anyway. My theory on Jacobin for a while was this:
Most men are calibrated to a 1-10 bell curve. It’s a normal distribution, where 5 is average (µ) and sits at the top of the bell.
We all know what 5s are. If you walked around Cincinnati or Philadelphia or Dallas with a notebook for a few days, ranking women, 5 would be the most common score handed out. Not necessarily bad looking chicks, but definitely not good either. Any guy who says he wouldn’t have sex with a 5 is a liar, but then again doing so isn’t something to start making celebratory calls home to friends and family about.
And there lies the rub: when roping in a 5 or a 6, or anything below, there’ll be no pointing and smiling at oneself in the mirror afterwards. No bodily release of endorphins to celebrate a job well done. No fanfare from one’s peers. The Post Lay Plunders–both chemical and social–are reserved for those who manage to slide downwards and to the right on the curve: into the land of 7s and 8s and 9s and 10s…
And so for a while I assumed that Jacobin, fed up with this, had just changed his average. Through acts of self-brainwashing, simply grabbed the tent pole propping up his bell curve and moved it to the left.
Average became a 2. Women who, in reality, hardly deserved a second glance were suddenly transformed into the wood nymphs and goddesses of mythology. Of course, they didn’t appear this way to other people, and Jacobin’s social credibility was in almost total free fall as a result, but he didn’t care. In his own mind, Jacobin was some combination of Lord Byron, Caligula, and Louis the XIV. A sex god on a mountaintop, to whom women from all corners of the Earth were crawling…
(The danger in all this, as you might have guessed, lay over on the left side of the new curve. While, for you and me, drinking too much and participating in a questionable hook-up may mean a morning of self-reprimand, an extra go-round with the Listerine, for Jacobin it meant waking up next to something heretofore thought not to have existed in the Free World. A winged harpy that would be squawking and flying about the room come dawn. Something hunchbacked and blind that would leave behind a trail of slime as it crawled out of the house and back to the cave from whence it came…)
But then, some of the things he would say to me (e.g., “I would fuck ten 1s over one 10 any day of the week. For sure, dude. No questions asked,” or, my personal favorite, “Why do you even bother asking me whether or not I’d fuck certain girls? I would fuck fruit. My answer’s always going to be yes,”) led me to believe that the Tent Pole Theory didn’t go far enough. No. Any kind of 1-10 scale, no matter how skewed, is necessarily hierarchical, and the notion that any one girl is more desirable than another just doesn’t exist in Jacobin’s mind.
So here’s my new theory: probably due to head injuries sustained during his college wrestling career, Jacobin’s bell curve was, at some point, flipped upside down.
It’s just a bowl now. And tumbling around in that bowl, like pieces of trail mix, are all women currently breathing air on this earth. No tiers, no distinctions, no delineation whatsoever. And he reaches in and plucks from that bowl with all the indifference of a hungry drunk at a party…
“Danny!” Jacobin almost yells.
“Huh? Wha?” I say.
“Did you hear that? About the place John goes to?”
“Uh, no. Sorry. Repeat.” My eyes drop to the pipe, which has somehow found its way into my hands again. “This is some good shit, by the way,” I add, pointing.
“John has a place he goes to every week.” Justin now. “It’s cheap, and I guess they always jerk him off.”
I process this. “Can we go there?”
“I don’t see why not,” says Justin. “That’s why I was confused at first. I couldn’t figure out why you guys were having such a hard time finding a spot.”
I look over to Jacobin. “What do you think?”
Jacobin is already on the phone, calling John.
(John, by the way, is the handyman who tends to Jacobin’s house, and also to the homes of several other of my older, more financially stable friends. And this Happy Ending Parlor? We would later find out that he uses it as a substitute for real dating and/or hooking up. By that I mean, he goes to nightclubs by himself, gets staggering, cross-eyed drunk, and then drives across town at 2:00 a.m. for a massage. Once or twice, I guess he even passed out in the middle of a session, right there on the bed, and couldn’t be roused til morning. The staff now requires an additional $40 deposit whenever he shows up intoxicated, which is always.)
“Here’s the deal,” Jacobin, off the phone now and all business. “The place is downtown, and costs $70–$40 for the massage and $30 for the hand job.”
“Damn,” Justin says. “That’s not too bad…”
“Yeah,” says Jacobin.
Me: “What about the staff? Who runs this place?” All of a sudden I’m remembering both Olga and Sailor Cap Lady, and I’m thinking: please not Russians or Asians…please not Russians or Asians…
“Asians,” says Jacobin.
I cringe.
“But friendly Asians, according to John,” he adds.
“…how friendly?” I ask, suspicious.
“I don’t know…pretty friendly?” guesses Jacobin.
“Well, that’s good at least.”
Justin, with marked longing: “Fuck–being massaged and jerked off by an Asian woman sounds fantastic right now…”
Jacobin ignores this and looks over at me all serious. “You ready for this, dude?”
I don’t respond. Something’s caught my attention. And after a few seconds of silent observation I yell “HEY!”
A buddy of ours freezes where he stands on the outside of the circle. His eyes are guilty–a trashcan diving raccoon caught in the beam of a flashlight.
“What are you doing? What’s going on!? WHAT THE FUCK IS IN YOUR HAND?!?!”
It’s the pipe. Everything snaps into place.
For fuck knows how long now, and for the sole purpose of getting me extra lit, it’s been being ferried around three or four people, then re-inserted into the circle just a few links up from me in the chain. Pipe fraud. A total violation of the age-old tradition of Puff Puff Pass.
“You bastards! You mother fucking bastards!”
Most of the circle begins laughing at my expense.
“I don’t believe it. Sitting here, sharing my story, serving as entertainment, and…and this.” I move my hand in a big arc, indicting the whole circle.
More laughter.
“Whatever. Just give me that fucking thing.”
Never one to play the fool, I proceed to Show Them by taking an amateurish rip off the pipe, and then coughing harshly on the smoke for 5 to 8 seconds. The laughter reaches hyena-like volumes in response to this, and I have to raise my voice when I say, somewhat bitterly, “C’mon, Jacobin–let’s go get jerked off.”

The next scene is us pulling away from the curb, aiming the Porsche in the general direction of downtown. But we’re not even halfway down the street when Jacobin notices Justin in the rearview mirror, desperately pursuing the car on foot.
“Wait! WAIT!” Justin shouts, his arms flailing.
Jacobin applies the brakes, and soon Justin’s panting head is inserted through the driver side window, saying “Wait, wait. I wanna go…please take me.”
“I don’t know, man. Do you have any money?” says Jacobin. “I’m already paying for Mullen here.”
I raise a hand for a high five, but Jacobin doesn’t see it. I withdraw, slowly.
“No…” Justin admits, scratching the side of his face. “No. I don’t. But I’ll be moral support…company! And plus I just really wanna get jerked off.”
Jacobin rubs the steering wheel and grimaces, thinking. Finally: “I’m sorry man, but I’m already dropping a lot of money on sex workers tonight. Some other time, maybe?”
Approximately two lines of dialogue later, Justin is squeezing into the tiny backseat, with the promise that all his expenses for the night will be paid.
Typical Jacobin, I think to myself. Though he became rich with the help of virtues like thrift and financial prudence, all this flies out the window the moment the prospect of getting himself or a friend laid arises. Though I don’t say anything, I begin speculating here that, if in ten years Jacobin is totally destitute and living under a bridge, it’ll be because of one thing: a Pussy Budget that’s roughly the size of your average Pacific blue whale.

The three of us arrive and tumble out of the Porsche soon afterwards.
And, for me, just catching sight of the building conjures an internal wave of comfort. The fact that it has no real name, only a neon sign reading “MASSAGE”; the cheap blinds* that are a nice balance between expensive tints (cops?) and shitty rugs (more cats?)–it’s all kind of endearing.
And the staff helps put me at ease too–for the most part.
There are three of them. They’re all buck-toothed, unattractive, middle-aged women. All three are plainly fresh off the boat from some or another jurisdiction in The Orient.
This is good. This is what I expected. The only thing making me a little uncomfortable is, they’re all smiling.
Like, genuine smiles. Beaming, really. The smiles of people who enjoy their lives and careers. Based on them, you’d assume this was a handmade jewelry boutique, a custom leather shop–pretty much anything other than a depot for professional semen extraction.
Which is why I find all the tooth-flashing suspicious. It’s as if they have a secret… know something we don’t…
Actually, there are two things making me uncomfortable. The second is the employee named Jin. (At least “Jin” is the name written on her heart-shaped nametag.)
Jin has, since pretty much the second my foot crossed the threshold, been casting me intense, almost predatory sexual glances. Also, she’s wearing this tangerine colored sweater, a garment that just about burns the retinas to behold.
Given all the weed I’ve smoked, I’m having trouble putting this into any kind of perspective. “Tripping out,” I guess you could call it. All I can think, over and over, is:
–Fortysomething Asian woman.
–Dressed like the sun.
–Smiling at me. Rape Eyes. Not blinking.
In a flash, I decide to try evading Jin. I do it by looking over Jacobin’s shoulder, involving myself with matters of finance.
This actually works pretty well for a while. Because of the language barrier, the simple act of paying takes a minor eon to get through. Between the three of them, the Asian women possess about ten words of English. And that’s being generous. Mostly they’re just saying things like “Ah!” and “Ok” and “Ya,” which I guess doesn’t even really count. All numeric values are represented by holding up fingers.
But yeah. To duck Jin, I throw myself into this, making an already near-hopeless situation even less coherent.
I point meaninglessly at various bills on the counter. I start agreeing with–or, in some cases, repeating verbatim–whatever Jacobin says the moment he finishes saying it. At one point, I go on this asinine tangent about how and why a group discount would improve the business, a rant so poorly worded and lacking in substance that nobody–least of all the Asian women–understands it. The whole time keeping my eyes low, away from Jin.
I could sense Jacobin getting annoyed with me about halfway through the Group Discount Speech, so it doesn’t come as a complete surprise when, at its conclusion, he finally just shoos me away. But whatever. I’d burned…what? Three minutes floundering around at the front the desk? Surely enough time to shake Jin, to send her attention drifting elsewhere.
But when I work up the nerve to take a peek–there she is.
Still staring. Mouth and eyes still molded into a grotesque smile. Hasn’t blinked even once yet, as far as I can tell.
A terror that is almost black in color seizes me.
On pure instinct, I drop my head, begin staring at the ground. The old Ostrich Defense, as it’s sometimes called.
And this, me trembling with my chin in my chest, standing in the middle of the room, goes on for some time. Long enough so that, while I’m doing it, Jacobin and Justin pair off with their respective Asian women, and then disappear into back hallways.
At least I think that’s what happens. My sense of sight is fairly limited from this position, so there’s only one thing I can really be certain of: a pair of feet have shuffled into the outskirts of my vision. And they’ve parked there, waiting patiently.
OhfuckOhfuckOhfuckOhfuck–is my basic line of thought.
Though I have my overwhelming suspicions here, I can’t bring myself to look up and confirm who it is. My body won’t let me do it.
Something of a standoff ensues. For maybe about 10 seconds, the shoes, motionless, hold their ground. And I, also motionless, try to ignore them, to use the power of my mind and spirit to send them negative qi. Anything to help encourage their retreat.
It doesn’t work. Around second 9 or 10, the shoes get bold and once again resume their forward march.
Here’s when all my insides constrict at once: it’s when, from my perspective, the color spectrum previously consisting of only shit brown (the carpet), black (the pair of shoes), and blue (the pair of jeans connected to the shoes) is suddenly injected with a blast of tangerine.
Jin’s sweater is in my airspace. Which, barring some miraculous wardrobe swap between employees, means Jin is in my airspace as well.
I close my eyes, sigh deeply.
It isn’t long, though, before I feel a tapping on my arm.
“Yes?” I get out, almost a whimper.
No response. Nothing.
“Can I…help you?” Me again, terrified.
Still silence. But another tap on my arm.
I open my eyes, look downward.
And there she is. Jin.
Shiteating grin: check.
Horrible teeth jutting out like fangs: yep.
There’s no divide between her pupil and irises, either. Just black, glossy, bottomless eyeballs that look like they could belong to a deer or a rabbit in some fucked up cartoon show.
“I, uh, I give you massage?” Jin says.
Looking at her, my vision goes in and out of focus a few times, but then I turn away and just stare off into space. For some reason, all I can think while doing this is: four words. That’s four confirmed words of English Jin knows.

Jin ushers me to a bathroom in the back of the building, begins pointing at it vehemently.
“Uh, I’m Ok, actually. I don’t really have to go.”
From her eyes, I can tell that some attempt is being made to comprehend my sentence, but it seems the mission is aborted fairly quickly. At a loss, she then defaults into pointing at the bathroom again, with twice the vigor.
“Ok, yeah, whatever. Bathroom. Fine.”
It’s actually pretty nice inside. Burning incense, delicate lighting. The floor’s covered in bamboo mats, and there’s this big mirror and sink area stocked with nice smelling hand soaps, folded towels.
The one major cultural oversight I spy is the tray of pastries laid out on a table in the middle of the floor. The assumption here, of course, is that Americans will tolerate complimentary, unwrapped food items from inside public bathrooms, which in my experience is false. I do appreciate the gesture though, and I go over and piss a little in the toilet just to feel like I used the place for something.
But when I pull back the door–
“Jesus! What the fuck!” almost stumbling backwards. “Why are you so close?!”
–Jin’s smiling head is basically floating in the doorframe. Like she’s been pressed up against the keyhole the whole time, listening or something. Add in some sharp violin squeaks, a smash cut, and the encounter could’ve been straight out of a horror movie.
“Seriously though, why were you, like, standing here?” trying to be stern, indicating the bathroom and door with my hand.
Jin looks confused at first, but quickly regains composure and starts smiling again. “I, um, I take…”
“Yes?” I say, blinking, very curious to see her explain her way out of this one.
“I, uh, take you for…for give massage now?” is all she says.
I stare, disbelieving.
“Ya. Give massage now?”

Why I keep letting Jin get away with all this creepy shit escapes even me. I figure at some point I’ll be capable of drawing a line, of getting up and marching out the door once that line is crossed, but at the moment it’s hard to imagine what such a foul would consist of. By all reasonable estimates I should already be in a cab right now, halfway home. And maybe I would be: if I weren’t a man, aka a boy, aka one big walking, talking, bag of sperm. Yeah. Think about if you switched the genders here. When was the last time a man–a strange man–spent five minutes leering at a woman across the room, followed her to a bathroom, got caught red handed listening to her piss, and nevertheless wrapped up the night by fingering-banging her brains out on a table?
Impossible. And yet the male/female inverse of this is about to become my reality. Donkey-like, I let Jin lead me down the hall, to the one room with its door still open.
Before going in, I glance at the other two rooms–doors conspicuously closed–and wonder what’s going on in there, if Jacobin and Justin are already being pumped away at, or how long that takes or whatever.
Once inside my massage room, I’m urged up onto the bed, and given the official instruction to “off clothes” before Jin pops back out the door.
A horrible tornado of déjà vu is kicked up. Flying in circles around my head suddenly is the image of Olga–mouth wide open, screaming her head off back at Massage et Russia.
Off clothes?
Like, all my clothes?
In light of recent events, I am very sensitive on the topic of underwear removal.
Yes, I work the shirt and jeans, but I notice I’m unzipping and pulling things off at a slug’s pace, trying to delay the Big Decision that I know sooner or later will have to be made.
Sooner, as it turns out. Jin begins knocking on the door no more than 15 seconds after leaving, and while I’m still slipping my jeans off my ankles.
“Yeah yeah, hold on.”
Still in a pair of boxer briefs, panicking, I flatten out, sit up, lie back again, resolve to keep them on, but then, on sudden impulse, roll over and shuck the things off. My anxiety is still such that I regret the move instantly–even after giving Jin the Okay to reenter.
But what does Jin do?
Jin bounces over, gazes at my fully exposed cock for a good block of time, and then just throws a towel over it. Jesus. A fucking veteran.
Ok. So considering all the evidence now, a few things have become relatively clear. First, that this business, MASSAGE, is a bonafied handjob dealership. Second, that its star employee, Jin, will be clasping my penis at some point on this Halloween night. Though it ends up taking quite a while.
I can’t really say how long, exactly. My phone is in my pants down on the floor, out of reach. A dim nightlight is the only source of illumination in here, and if there are any clocks mounted, I definitely can’t see them. The only solid object I can make out is Jin’s shiteating grin, which, as she lathers up her hands and begins rubbing my shoulders, still refuses to vanish.
Music plays, but if anything it further distorts my sense of time. An endless loop of finger picked acoustic guitar tunes, all sounding pretty much the same.
I occasionally hear Justin or Jacobin cough through the thin walls in the beginning, but soon even this, my last tie to the outside world, dies out as well. Not a peep after minute 20 or 30, I’d say.
And it’s at this point that I kind of drift into my own universe. Judging by my brain activity, the content of my thoughts, it’s clear to me that I’m still High As Cunt from the smoking done at the BBQ. And the music, the darkness, the absence of time–they only help to stimulate this high.
So does the massage. It’s been pretty standard up til now*–certainly not Happy yet–and as a result it too has lulled me into something like a trance. My fear of Jin and her status as a potential sex predator has fallen away. Her hands become a given: just another part of the darkness, as if no longer belonging to a human body.
But then eventually this happens:
Jin instructs me to roll over from my stomach to my back. When I do so, she places a hand just below my navel, and begins circling counter-clockwise around my cock, hitting mostly hip and thigh. This circle is maybe a foot in diameter at first, but begins shrinking quickly.
My eyes narrow. I had my suspicions that this wasn’t a legitimate massage technique, all of which are confirmed when, on every third pass, her hand begins brushing against my balls. I look up, and note that not only is her shiteating grin still there–it seems to have expanded, shifted into a higher gear.
In my head I’m thinking: here we go.
Jin is quite the tease, though. Just when I think she’s about to drop the charade and grab ahold, she starts panning away, or switching her rotation to clockwise. The old sneak even steps away from the table for a second, gets more oil, comes back and starts rubbing my shins.
But soon the inevitable happens: Jin abandons her circling and shin rubbing, does a cartoonish two-finger walk up my thigh, and then, with her left hand, pounces on my now semi-hard dick. A cat ambushing a wounded sparrow.
“30 dollar, 30 dollar!” she hisses, smile reaching immense proportions, face just inches from mine. Plus she’s waving around three fingers, I guess for the sake of clarity.
I nod, say Yes, and give a thumbs up–also for the sake of clarity.
Jin’s demeanor changes instantly.
For the first time in maybe an hour, her smile fades. Her breathing becomes deep and focused. She shakes out both hands, rubs them together.
I’m watching this all nervously, wondering exactly what kind of moves she plans to unleash.
Answer: nothing too crazy. At first.
She keeps it simple–just pumping away left handed, gradually increasing in speed.
“Is Okay? Is good?” asks Jin, after this has been going on for a little bit.
“Yeah. Good.” I say, more amused than sexually gratified.
Then, as if to make sure we’re alone, Jin begins scanning the room. I hear her snicker in the dark.
“You likey, uh, more?” she asks.
“More?” I repeat, confused. “What do you mean by–”
Holy shit–is this lady going to fucking blow you?
“Yeah!” I say. “Yeah, more!” Thinking: wait’ll Jacobin hears about this shit.
Jin’s mighty smile returns: a crescent moon floating around the blackness.
I brace myself, mind racing with possibilities.
Though a blowjob is what I’m expecting/hoping for, I can’t be certain that it’ll even end there. Jin is, after all, a real-life, hardened sex worker. And better yet, one straight out of The Orient. I mean, fuck, the tricks she knows would probably violate both criminal and Christian law. The Breath of the Dragon…The Grip of Baboon. Is she going to summon her ancestors into the room to help out? A kind of group-sex séance? I’m just speculating here, but we have no idea where the fuck Jin came from, or what kind of Eastern Secrets she’s picked up during her journey to the West. And judging by the waiting room stare-down, I think it’s safe to say the woman is attracted to me. All things considered, I expect something revelatory, a pleasure heretofore unknown in my 20 years of life.
Jin’s eyes scan the room once more–just in case–before she starts making a simple twisting motion with her wrist. I watch expectantly for a minute or so, but the technique doesn’t progress or evolve.
A handjob…with a twisting motion…is Jin’s secret weapon.
“Uh, you like?” she manages to get out between giggles, clearly pleased with herself.
Sighing, I drop my head back on the bed. “Oh yeah, Jin. Very nice.”
I look on with disappointment for another minute or so as Jin continues her signature wrist twist. Any hope that she may possess mystical powers is now dead.
“I-a…” begins Jin. “I-a do more?”
In the dark, I glare at her.
What do you have for me this time, Jin?
Are you going to go extra fast?
Are you going to combine the twisting and the pumping with a pot stirring motion?
Are you going to–God forgive me for even saying it–rub my balls?
“You like more?” Jin repeats.
I grunt and wave my hand. “Do whatever you want.”
After a brief hesitation, Jin nods, takes a step back, and yanks her tangerine sweater up to her collarbone.
Two saggy, middle-aged, Asian tits are now dangling in my face.
I recoil. “Holy shit.”
“You like?”
“W-well, um,” I stutter. “I guess?”
Jin starts pointing to them.
I squint, confused.
Now she’s indicating my hand, and then grabbing her own breasts.
Ohhh. I get it.
Hesitantly, and pretty much entirely out of obligation, I extend my left arm and clamp on to the nearest tit.
And so go the next few minutes: Jin giggling like a morphine patient, giving me the best Wrist Twist she knows how, and me…I don’t know. Maybe imagine a jaded insurance salesman from New York City, hanging on to the subway safety rail during his commute home. That’s about my level of engagement with Jin’s breast.
The subway thing’s a pretty good representation of my mental state in general, actually; uncomfortable with the setting and people I’m around, but still eager to get home, as it were. To be finished off.
Lukewarm emotions, you could say. Which is strange, given that, within about 60 seconds, I’ll come the closest I’ve been in my life to being raped.
To be fair here, there are two sides to the story. A person belonging to the pro-Jin camp, defending her upcoming actions as legitimate, may reference a single sentence that escaped my mouth as vindicating our Asian masseuse. Allow me to rewind and grab that frame:
“You like more?” Jin repeats.
I grunt and wave my hand. “Do whatever you want.”
Yes, I said it. But that was before she threw me that mean curve ball by whipping out her tits. Up til then, I’d taken her to be more or less harmless. The unblinking, ear-against-bathroom-keyhole version of Jin, I’d decided, must’ve been a fluke; a poor representation of her actual character, or something my weed-seared brain had partially imagined. I mean, the woman had just made such a huge fucking deal over a simple axis change on a hand job. What was I supposed to be expecting? Something advanced? Something that was actually probably pretty dangerous?
No. Jin giggled like an 8th grader throughout the most pedestrian of all sex acts. When I said, “Do whatever you want,” I estimated the depth of her sexual arsenal to be pre-highschool as well.
But now, without warning, Jin switches her jerk hand from left to right, freeing up the one down closest to my legs. She then raises this free hand, and begins waving it around. “You ready?” asks Jin.
I hesitate before answering: “Ready for what?”
Jin doesn’t respond.
She just extends her index finger, sticks out her tongue in concentration, and then thrusts that finger up into my ass.
I scream, begin convulsing.
Jin, the demon, starts giggling.
I’m trying to shrimp away from her on the table, but she’s all over me–using her hand and that finger to keep me pinned.
“Ahh–you like,” says Jin.
“Jin,” I beg, grabbing at her face. “Jin–please.”
She nods her head like she understands. “No?”
“Yes! No!” I shout.
“More?” asks Jin.
“NO! Jin!” A few deep breaths. “No more!
She lets loose another giggle, though for the first time I swear I detect a note of cruelty in it. Then Jin the Deceiver loosens her hold on me, and even seems to shrugs apologetically. But just as I’m thinking that everything will be okay, that the invading finger will depart my body for good, Jin rams it in even deeper, and with double the force.


THE RATIONAL MIND bursts panting, totally breathless into the dark room where THE GROIN sits behind his mahogany desk.

The Rational Mind
(Plants both hands across desk while yelling this)

The Groin
“…I’d really appreciate it if ya took your hands off my desk.”

The Rational Mind
“What?! T-that’s not important right now! We have a finger up our ass, Groin! A strange finger! The nails may be unclipped! They may be doing internal damage! Transmitting disease, Groin! For the love of God!”

The Groin
(Blows out a cloud of green smoke) “I’m only gonna ask ya one more time about the desk.”

The Rational Mind
“You know, I’m getting s-sick of this. You sitting here in your office, sending us on all these crazy hunts for ass all the time, making us neglect school and work…encouraging betrayals of the women who really care about us, j-just for a few drunken hours with some–”

(The Groin digs his massive cigar ash into the back of The Rational Mind’s hand)


The Groin
“I kept telling ya about the desk…”

(The Groin then sighs, gets up, walks over to where The Rational Mind is now writhing on the floor, and grabs him by the lapels)

“Listen to me now, ya piece of shit. We’ve waited too long, come too far, not to see this thing through to the end. ‘Ooh, the lady put her little finger up my ass! Boo-hoo!’…You know how much of a fucking fairy you sound like?

The Rational Mind
(Sniffling) “I’m not gay.”

The Groin
“Shiiit. Don’t know if I buy that. Sometimes I think that, if it weren’t for me, you’d be off in art school or some shit right now, tubing faggots up the ass.”

The Rational Mind
“I…I wouldn’t be doing that.”

The Groin

(The Groin picks up a paperweight* off the desk–nice one; hand-carved chalcedony mineral; could fetch upwards of 6k on eBay–and hurls it at the wall for effect. It breaks.)

“Lie the fuck back down on that bed, keep the finger up your ass, and sit there quietly while the nice woman finishes doing her job.”

* * *

I walk down the hallway to the lobby a defeated man. The two other employee ladies are already behind the front desk, and as I pass I do everything in my power to avoid making eye contact with either one of them. Not sure what comes next, I take a seat in one of the cheap plastic chairs, and wait.
Jin prances out a few minutes later.
She’s greeted–and I’m not exaggerating here–as if she just successfully paddled around the globe in an open canoe, or visited the moon in a rocket ship built entirely from parts found lying around the parlor. It’s an electrical storm of cheering and hugging and rapid fire Asian language, and in the moment I wish more than anything I were someplace else.
If the other two employees are out here celebrating and whooping it up with Jin…where the fuck are Jacobin and Justin?
I look out the window. Jacobin’s Porsche is no longer in the parking lot.
Total panic. I’m up and on my feet and crossing the room. “Hey hey! Excuse me,” I say. “Where did my friends go? Do any of you know?”
The three women fall silent. Then I’m met with Jin’s trademark smile, plus two near clones of it from the other staff members. I suspect both have already been informed about the digital penetration that just took place in the back.
“My friends! WHERE?” I point hysterically to where the car used to be parked.
“They-a,” attempts one of the women, “they go.”
“Ya. Go come back.”
In seconds I’m on the phone with Jacobin, breathing heavily. “You evil. fucking. bastard.”
“What’s up man?” He sounds like he’s chewing something. “You done in there yet?”
“Yes! I’m out! But where the fuck are you guys?”
“Hey, relax,” says Jacobin. “We’re on our way back right now.” I hear multiple voices in the background.
“But where did you guys go?” I ask. “And why!?”
“Hold on,” says Jacobin. “Did you really just get out of your massage?”
“Yes!” I hiss. “And I have a thing or two to say about the experience.”
“Dude, ours ended, like, 40 minutes ago.”
Very slowly, my eyes creep up from the floor and fall upon Jin.
“40 minutes ago?” I repeat.
“Yeah,” says Jacobin. “That’s why we left, but–”
“40 fucking minutes ago!?!”
“Yes,” Jacobin sounding impatient now. “Dude, just sit the fuck down–we’re almost back.”
Maybe a full minute after hanging up, I’m still standing in the same spot. My left eye is twitching, as it has a tendency to do in times of duress, and I’m squeezing my phone in a way that probably isn’t great for the frame or internal machinery.
40 fucking minutes ago.
What now?
Do I call the police, tell them I’ve been detained and sexually assaulted by an unusually happy-looking Asian woman?
Do I do what I should have done long ago? Flag down a cab and go home? Take a long shower, have a drink to steady my nerves, then book an ASAP doctor’s appointment regarding potential rectal bleeding?
…As you can probably guess, I just sit there and wait. If vast expenditures on the sex industry will be Jacobin’s undoing, then general inertia in situations like these will be mine.
And of course this, the brief waiting room interlude, ends up being its own little nightmare.
The layout is such that the three customer chairs face right into the front desk. And behind that front desk, perched on stools, is our most wonderful and compassionate MASSAGE staff. So basically the three women and I are forced to look directly at each other, until whenever it is that the traitor Jacobin decides to show up.
None of them will stop snickering or smiling, either. And Jin has reverted back to her original pastime of staring at me for long periods of time while refusing to blink. There have been more uncomfortable moments in my life* (the time when I, at age 13, beat off into a condom and flushed it down the toilet, only to have my dad fish it out of the septic system and return it to me the following week; the time my 15-year-old second-cousin came on to me in a bathroom at a family wedding), but not many. I want to dissolve, turn to plastic and become part of the chair.
A black Chevy Tahoe pulls into the parking lot.
My first thought here is: cops? Which startles me, but at the same time there’s something deeply satisfying about the image of Jin in a jail cell.
It isn’t the police, though. Before the SUV even stops rolling, its side doors open, and out pops four, five guys from the Halloween BBQ.
I recognize the car now. It belongs to another friend of ours–a guy also among the moneyed class–but Jacobin, the scoundrel, is driving.
Both his feet hit the pavement at about the same moment the engine dies, and, after a brief congregation, the whole squad turns and begins marching on the door.
I beat them to it. “What the fuck is this!?” I’m yelling into the parking lot, outraged, hysterical.
Jacobin raises his head, then says simply, dramatically, like out of a movie: “Back up.”
To this I have no response. I just stand there dumbfounded, basically holding the door open for the assholes as they shuffle past one-by-one: raising eye-brows at me, flashing thumbs-up, some making snide little comments about the pipe and the BBQ and my sobriety, or lack thereof.
And when Jacobin walks over to the counter and produces his wallet, pulling out sufficient cash to pay for everybody, it all hits me:
–Because he brought along five more people, apparently forgetting that there are only three masseuses on hand, I’m going to have to spend at least another hour in MASSAGE while these hyenas rotate in and out of the back rooms.
–Consequently, not only is Jin going to get away with the totally unauthorized penetration of my ass–she’s going to be generously rewarded for it, to the tune of about $500 for her business.
It’s not even anger I feel here, though. More like emptiness as all hope for escaping MASSAGE in a timely fashion withers up and dies violently on the floor. And in place of any anger or hope–or any real emotion at all, for that matter–a single thought, an odd thought, though probably appropriate, slithers into my head: five years. Not ten. Jacobin will be destitute and living beneath a bridge in five years.


Some time later, with just me in the waiting room (everybody not currently being massaged is waiting their turn at a nearby bar), a random guy who looks about 35 wanders through the door. Alone.
He glances around dumbly, then catches sight of me.
“Hey, man,” he says. “Is this place any good?”