Succumbing To Massage Parlors – Mad Chaos: February 12, 2001

Surviving Scorching Australian Summers

The day is here but there is nothing to it more than lemons to tongues or a bland summer breeze as this, nothing more than a late afternoon awakening or mere hours of preoccupied boredom, of an honor to the writer, or as another disgruntled stunt that lessens my worth today, so that there will be a tomorrow.  It isn’t hard, however, to surrender in balmy weather as this, where dwelling like bothered snakes in a state of limited activity, slithering from room to room and basking in my own oily stench of sweat was as cozy as it got, and that’s only indoors.

Summers are always scorchers.  Although today wasn’t as uncomfortably hot as most, it was a stuffy reminder of how constant (through fickle spurts) this summer has been.  Maybe sleeping on a warm waterbed and breathing sticky air from inside my bedroom had something to do with it, but you could hardly think it unreasonable for the writer to be blessed with another unsocial day, nor think him selfish when trying to ward off this impossible humidity.  His heroics may even seem honorable, like the battle of England, where we wait out the onslaught of air raids and sit in our underground bunkers, waiting for the dust to settle before we silence the sirens and charge for the battlefield.

Tonight, the writer waits out incessant warmth for this small brisk climactic break, like when a sudden winter snap praised the German machine with their lucky victory.  He sits and plots strategies in his cordial stained war room, drawing charts on an unforgiving terrain and wondering how well his troops would fare when crossing it.  

“Remember the armada,” he thinks as he punches his fist in the air.

  “Remember the boil in this cold war, the casualties, the motive, and grounds for defense.  Remember that nothing is worth having gained less than what you fought for, or that wars are not won with longevity before justice.  We wage war to accomplish duty, to serve our country, and as in our best interests, to crush potential threat, and now, in advancing victorious, penned justice lies.  Today may not be the armada, the cold war nor nothing more than a sweltered day of stoical weather, but remember it valiant, remember it brave, and remember it now, for this; remember this day.”

In layman’s terms now, you know, cobbler, man on the street; it was a quiet day of battlefield strategy, spent mostly in my bedroom with the occasional mad dash upstairs for food or drinks, and then mostly watching television whilst coping with the heat.  The bedroom is still where my memoirs currently breed but would there really be a need to alternate if the writer feels more comfortable here?  He still hasn’t managed to string together two successive nights, but if he does then wouldn’t this old atmosphere be worth considering?  He has a long way to go though, and all this muggy weather couldn’t possibly help his belated start.  

He can only hope to continue last night’s success (whose storytelling was a focal point for the month) with some pivoting tales his own.  So, with the meager mention of today minus the two showers that washed off the stench of sweat, we begin to round up these last few nights with one swift ephemeral swoop.

In a most formal “tail and front” approach, we begin with Wednesday last (February 7, 2001) where more it was an ugly turn for moral integrity.  Amazing the distance man travels for sex, especially when he has some money to play with.  The danger signs were always there.  When one considers the implications that hunting around hopelessly for sexual fulfillment would have, it almost seemed natural that come the following day, lust would play so swiftly on my urges.  Consider it then as self-tormenting human instinct, or the duress in urges that overrun sensible reason.

Centrelink Money Arrives In The Bank

There came, with the morning, a need to satisfy my sexual cravings, but the thought was as accepted as old codgers abusing gay rights activists.  I was awake for most of the night through to the morning however, lounging back and waiting for the moment that my money had come through to my savings account.  There is never any urgency about it though, as you can only do so much at five in the morning.  Needless to say, it was still tradition.  

Anyway, once the money was available, every drop of coin was transferred into my wailing credit card.  The large debit was an embarrassing blotch on my account’s history but my going on a bender done more to encourage these insolvency-wielding phenomena than to have it repressed.  Nonetheless, the splurge never happened straight away.  Actually, from then until the afternoon it was never even on my mind.  

An Unsurprising Surrender To Massage Parlors

I slept, woke up an hour into the afternoon and then carried on with things as normal, dabbling on my memoirs, surfing around on the internet, having showers, eating, watching television and battling with the heat.  There was however, a small agenda brewing for the day.  As they always do, it quickly built up inventory.  

“Oh, I have to go buy my book today,” clicked a thought into my mind, “and might as well get a repair kit for my waterbed.”  

I sweated trying to keep it at this but eventually, this lustful need to abandon morals and money for seedy pleasure took over.

It always takes my going to a massage parlor to remind myself that women like me and that there is some sexual attraction there.  Usually the urge comes after a day out in the big smoke, from walking around, looking at all the beautiful women and then coming home, alone and as single as ever.  From it, the lover doubts himself, which always escalates and falls into all kinds of repercussions, some being misery, acts of desperation, and other avenues of redress.

Hoping On A Reunion With Scarlett

However, after the usual letdown, the most common consequence (conjured somewhere through the night) would be an unsurprising surrender to massage parlors or the like, a typical breach from morality, and there is no escape.  Once the smidgen of self-conscious doubt taints your mind, you have to go out and prove wrong the propaganda, and being bolstered by the eve only made things worse.

It made me wonder whether my small ticker would remember all its tricks or whether we would last the “typical male” distance.  Our small reunion worried me and a whole day of sexual tension only added fuel to the fire.  

“I need a practice session,” I thought; well, not in those words but to that effect.  

I tried to put the thought out of my mind, but anything less would have left me like a rabbi in a fashion show, confused and horny.  There was a burning need to address my manliness on this day.  Like the rabbi whose loins would have stiffened come the lingerie special, the lover knew it, he just had to do it.

Succumbing To Temptations

The smallness of my day revolved around this nagging need to visit a massage parlor.  So, when leaving the house late afternoon, it wasn’t for the book, or for the repair kit or anything else for that matter.  Like a murder, they were accessories for what was about to take place, all as guilty as each other for playing active rolls in my luring out of the house.  They were my excuses, although my wallet wouldn’t agree.

There were so many women around when heading up the main street and to the train station in Campbelltown.  Mostly it made me a little depressed knowing that the lover was too timid to approach whilst so intent on a half hour of seedy pleasure.  

There were two Asian girls on the train.  They looked interested enough with their occasional snuck looks over shoulders but from me there was no movement.  As one of the girls on the three-seater took off her hooded jacket and tried a revealing top, and even when they started bragging about perving on guys at the basketball courts, the lover kept to himself.

Wondering About The Nonchalant Lover

He makes me wonder.  Could he just be frigid behind this cool façade of nonchalant calm or would it be a far stretch coining him with that term?  He never approaches women but once he has them, he knows exactly what to do.  Maybe then, when used lightly, he is frigid of openers and women he likes but may never get to know.

Lately he even muddles up situations where his fear of claustrophobic confrontation is taken away, like when alone with a girl at a bus stop, he would sweat, grow uncomfortable and box himself in without a word.  Funnily enough, it seems that the closer a woman is, both physically and in attraction, the more foolish the lover becomes.

Ah, you have to hate a curse like mine, where the lover has no backbone and reminds himself daily with the branded stigma of the self-conscious.  A curse like no other, and look what unneeded substance it hath me pursue, a license of self-guarantee, a bump of condoned gratification, and an encouraged life of needless assurance.

Imagining Constantine As A Sex Worker

What surprised me most about my trip was more my thoughts about Constantine than anything else, which seemed more likely in a dream than to be dreamt up on my way to Liverpool.  The thought just popped up suddenly in my mind but it seemed so surreal that it had me excitedly worried for a while.  

“What would happen if Constantine was one of the girls at the massage parlor,” came the curious thought.  

Of course, Constantine was a better friend of my ex, the badgering bane.  As strange as it seems to imagine her so lewdly after all these years, it seems reasonable.

I remember my ex once mentioning that Constantine had taken up waitressing in a seedy strip joint up in the cross.  Constantine joked about becoming a stripper.  Although she never did, fantasies would have flown.  She was attractive too.  So, when my mind put this and that together, it wasn’t hard to imagine her standing there in her lingerie looking as shocked as me to see her.

The idea of bumping into Constantine at the massage parlor was hardly likely but what harm was a little fantasy along the way?  Her eyes would have been transfixed, her jaw sunken and lips wry with composure at her surprise.  She wouldn’t have said anything though.  She would have just stood there, frozen like me, too shocked to be appalled.

“Okay sir, we have three girls here tonight,” the women lined up on the far left would have spoken out, “and there is one girl who will be out in half an hour.  So would you like to wait or pick a girl now?”

Constantine would have dreaded that moment.  You could see her standing there a little shaken and half a step back from the group of shameless smiles.  Hot flushes would have ran up her arms and chest, her back, a cold shiver, and her legs, as numb as if she had fallen knee deep through a blanket of ice.

I stood there embarrassed at first but snapped out of the sudden shock once the lady spoke.  Hers was a soothing voice and it seemed to calm Constantine down too.  She never looked nearly as ghostly standing there in her black-laced corset, satin panties and garter belt set with stockings, the sheer type that cling to subtle curves and follow up the leg until they eventually run out of space.

I tried hard not to look at the thick black rim near the top of the stockings (where her garter belt was loosely clipped on) but it was hard not to resist the small bit of visible skin between there and the sides of her panties.  She had gorgeous skin but even when my eyes wandered down with errant admiration, you could tell she was, for lack of a better term, feeling naked in front of me.  I think, however, we needed something to break our own personal silence.  

As soon as my eyes roamed their innocent way up her waist, over her chest, along the side of her neck and then towards hers, our angst turned into smiles.

Choices At The Massage Parlor

The real thing was never like that though.  There were never four women standing there in the massage parlor or a familiar face fidgeting around in her corsetry, as was there never any timid humility or shock on my behalf.  As much as the thought stuck in my mind when walking up those parlor stairs and turning right into the waiting room, there was never a girl dressed in teeny trim black lingerie looking as shy, and then as curious as me.  There was only one lady.  

After fifteen minutes sitting on their comfy sofa reading a magazine and occasionally looking up towards the thirty-four inch television above the bar, there was a loud rumbling of footsteps, and then, she came out.

“Hello, there aren’t any other girls here at the moment except for me,” she uttered as she pulled open the smoky-paned door across the hall from my cozy seat.  

“The other girls don’t get here until four,” she mentioned, “would you like to come back then?”  

She seemed confident that a young buck like me wouldn’t be interested in someone like her, standing there half naked, her hand over one shoulder collecting her saggy breasts and her belly stuck out like a small bowl of jelly, or like a turtle’s back sticking out of water while a small ripple or two undulate around its sides.  She wasn’t fat or ugly, and she looked like she tried to keep things hygienic between half hours.  But considering her age, and the fact that she wasn’t much to look at, nor my type save for her sweetness, it would have been right of her to assume.

“What time is it now,” I wondered, looking around to see if there was a wall clock somewhere.  

“Hmm,” she looked at a small rimmed watch on her hand, “it’s three now.”  

“Would you like to come back,” she made me think, “or do you want to come in now?”  

I gave it a moment of thought.  “Damn it’s hot outside,” was one, as the impracticality of walking around outside in grim heat for an hour was another.

The wavy-haired Lebanese woman wasn’t too bad, however, and there was no one else sitting down beside me on the sofa, so it was awkward to feed her assured convictions and leave.  The milk may have curdled at the bottom of her breasts, which stretched like a thin layer of dough to sit inches away from mid-belly, but even so she was the only one there.  The inconvenience of an hour’s loitering waiting for some better hand was wasteful.

 “I think I’ll come in now,” I smirked confidently.  

You could almost sense her pussy growing moist with surprise.  But to be honest, when you have to make do with what you have, it becomes my intent.

Picking The Older Lady

Saying yes and walking towards her with a grin made her day, but it was no surprise to the lover whose only goal has always been to please.  She was a far cry from my vivid imagination, and it would have been nice to see what reaction Constantine would have had when pointed to her, but it was a small compromise for my neurotic needs, oh, and my need to shop.  

“Just come in here,” the lady said as she ushered me through to the same room she had just stepped out of.  

She walked over towards the towel rack concealing an obvious smitten smile.  

“Have you been here before,” she wondered, already knowing her answer.  

“Yeah, I’ve been here a couple of times now,” I replied.  

“Here,” she handed me a towel, still with a faint smirk on her face, “you can have a shower while I go prepare something else.”  

“Okay,” I thought as she smiled warmly one last time on her way out the door, around to her right and up the hallway.  

Massage Turns Into Free Sex

There was no air of nothing there for me when showering in the small room on the other side of the wall, no thrill or anticipation, or rubbing of my eager hands.  

The lady about to give me a full-bodied massage was probably looking forward to the highlight of the day, or month even.  Maybe then this was the weakness that spiraled her into a torrid fall of ethical lapse, an emphasis that made vulnerable her usual composure, and gave me a freebie in the process.  After all, who was she to pass up the opportunity?  We were all alone, naked, hot and horny, and although her peers would have expected her to be a good moral girl, to lust she sooner succumbed.

The lady at the massage parlor gave me a real workout, and for her, it only took a few seconds of tit sex to get horny.  She began as all women do, rubbing oil all over my back, down my legs and around the inside of my thighs.  Men are sensitive down there, especially when a finger runs lightly across the bottom of the balls, as hers did countless times, and then up, as her hand brushed briefly around my hardening cock.  

“Would you like to turn over,” she eventually asked.

The mood had gotten a little quieter and relaxed by then.  Although my cock was hard by now, I had no hesitations to turn around and expose it to her, as seeing my cock throbbing in front of her was just what she wanted to see.  

“That’s a lot of oil,” I smiled raising my head for the first time as her moistened hands lowered to the base of my cock, pulling back my foreskin and coating my whole shaft with the generous amount of lubricant.  I hardly had my eyes opened though and it seems the same with everyone.

Sex to me, if not done in the dark, is like coming in and out of consciousness right after a huge operation, only without the head spins or grogginess that usually comes with a medical procedure.  I remember opening my eyes and gripping to the sides of the massage table when thrusting my hips deeper between her chest, and then minutes later when watching her hand grab behind so that she could plunge her pussy down on my cock.  The moments before these were like a dream of dancing smoke.  But when she sunk my cock deep into her pussy and moaned her wet cum all over its throbbing might, it seemed real enough.

“Women aren’t supposed to do things like this,” she mentioned later, when we had finished our shower and were getting dressed.  

“Men can’t help it,” she went on, “but women should know better.”  

Nevertheless, each time she tried to condone the fifteen minutes of fierce unprotected sex, she always grinned and stared at me with thankful admiration.  “That was amazing,” was the expression on her face, but you might just think it sugared bias on my behalf.  

“I couldn’t feel you inside me,” was something else she may have mumbled during the end.Considering her pussy walls were like a gorge of mountain waterfalls, it wouldn’t have surprised me.

Waterfalls Of Unprotected Sex

She sat on top of me with her legs bent in on either side for the whole time, panting and carrying on like she was on heat.  “Just don’t come cum inside me,” she said right before sitting up and rocking her hips on my rod.  That was about the only time my broad seven-inch meat felt something.  The rest, as postmen would say, was lost in transit.

She loved fingering herself and it drove her wild when my hand grabbed one of her flat tribal tits for a nibble.  

“Oh, don’t stop,” she would say when my cumming felt close, “I’m about to cum myself.”  

When she neared an orgasm, her finger ran wildly across her clit.  Her breasts swung under my chin confused with the rocking of her hips and frantic vibrations of her finger until eventually, she buckled, jerked her body forward and came with a deep roar of relief.  

That’s when I came in, grabbing her ass and pounding myself deep inside her hole.  She tried wringing some more drops of water from our cloth of sex but eventually; it was time to lift my hip off the floor and wriggle around like a wrestler avoiding a three count.

“Mm, I’m cumming,” I called out, as she was still heaving over the top of me.  She eventually stopped though and lifted herself off to stroke all that tension out of my cock.  Some of my semen did make its way into her pussy, but it was hardly anything to worry about.  

I was more worried about having contracted any sexually transmitted diseases through unprotected sex with someone that deals dozens of men on a daily basis.  It was hard to bring up the subject though.  How do you ask someone if they have herpes, crabs or one of the more common STDs?

You could tell that she was thinking to ask the same thing but she never did.  However, in cases like mine, I would assume that she visited a doctor shortly after to get a test done. If so, then she would have done the same thing when last she lured a customer into unprotected sex.  She never looked visually affected and she was old enough to know better.  So when leaving, it seemed best to assume she was as clean as me.

The time was nearing four when we were done but the only person out in the waiting room was some bald-headed guy looking down at the hands between his legs, which were his.  The woman gave me a wink and a smile on my way to the door.  Having been on the other side of the scenario, where people usually drop their smiles when another guy is around, it seemed more fun to keep grinning at this pervert sitting down on the sofa.  He knew what he was getting into and it was no shame of mine, so why not walk out with a spot of public humility.

Seeing Girls With A Fresh Perspective

Sex always brings out my merry confidence. It showed when walking back towards the main area of Liverpool.  There were girls walking around left, right and center but there was this one particular chick wearing a leather jacket and firm jeans that caught my eye.  She was a few inches taller than me and had that bland fresh sort of Gwyneth Paltrow look from sliding doors, the side of her that never dyed her hair nor found out about her cheating boyfriend until the very end.  This girl was more mysterious though, more estranged in her walk, more like me, and it seemed she remembered my face when seeing me cross the road at the top of the main street.  I remembered hers.

She was the girl that caught my eye earlier, glancing at me once or twice and then brushing past as she came closer, her faint-scented skin as sweetly smelt as her looks received.  There was something about the way she looked at me this time though.  Hers was more than a passing glance.  As we neared this second time, there was an airy sense that she was about to stop me to say something.  Sure enough, she did.

The Poor Girl From Glebe

The girl seemed sincere when she stopped me to say some words, but it was a little disappointing when hearing her polite pleas for a few dollars.  “My boyfriend ran off with my bag and it had my purse in it,” she explained, “and it had my train and bus tickets in it.”  The girl gave me her sob story about living in Glebe and how the people around town weren’t very sympathetic to girls in dire straits.  Although feeling a little suckered when she targeted me with some show of leg, it was hard not to give her something.  

Sly me always has some backup plan anyway, so it seemed almost natural when bobbing up from my forage through to ask, “Which way are you going?”  

“That way,” she pointed back up and towards the left of the lights.  

“Okay,” I said before walking with an unzipped wallet towards where she pointed.  

She followed my lead, but when she was after a few dollars, what else could she do?

“Here, there’s only two dollars change in here,” I handed the single golden coin to her as we walked down towards the train station.  

Seeming that we were together now, there was an excuse to start up some dialogue with this belle.  Her life wasn’t pretty though, but neither was my bummed attempt at trying to make something other than polite conversation happen.  As it turns out, her boyfriend was a scrawny junkie, an abuser of drugs, an occasional dealer, and on this particular day, he wasn’t a very patient man.  

He asked to lend some money so that he could feed his addiction, but she wouldn’t give him her purse, so he stole it, along with her bag and the rest of her things.  She put up a struggle but in the end he whacked her across the face with the back of his hand.  She showed me the bruise, fresh and plum-colored from the bottom of her left socket to the middle of her cheek.  I should have done better than gasping with sympathy though.  The good guy routine never works.  

“Why are you going out with a junkie when you could be going out with someone like me,” would have worked better than false compassion.  But the lover never overstepped the safety mark.

Cheekiness would have gone down a lot better than my reserved display.  At least if she wasn’t interested she would have laughed at my zany one-liners.  

“You’re only picking on me cause I was checking you out,” should have been my reply when she asked for money.  But no part of my day was ever as lighthearted as that, not even when being treated to a couple of oily hands in the massage parlor.

Anyway, before too long, we were at the end of our path.  She was turning left to head back towards the main area of town.  I was heading straight across the road and walking towards the right hand side of Campbelltown train station.  She looked to shuffle her feet and pause when we came to the end of the buildings, but if she done it to guess my direction then she chose the wrong way.  

“Okay, see you,” I said smiling as she done the same.  

I guess luck wasn’t on our side.  But if we play the same scene over in my mind and make me that sly, mischievous guy that should have been, then without a doubt, the lover would have confidently won her over.  Instead, he walked away empty-handed and with oiled pleasure as the only fruits of his labor, or may it be, as in your eyes, the stain of his day.

Reviewing The Dice Man Novel

The rest of my late afternoon was a minor rush back home with two errands along the way.  The first had me stopping off at Ingleburn to finally buy a repair kit for my waterbed.  

The second was a brisk stop into the bookstore on the way down our main street.  They rang me some nights back mentioning that my requested book had finally come in.  “You can come down to get it whenever you want,” the lady on the phone was nice enough to say.

The book was “The Dice Man”.  Since seeing the cult following in a television special, it seemed a destined pick for my very first novel.  Since bringing it home, however, and being so critical of literature in general, its tawdry words and weak direction quickly turned my high regard into a disappointed read.  I may be wrong being only six chapters into it now but the story seems to take forever to develop.  If you would believe it, it is skimp when it comes to detail.  

The author likes to include a lot of psychoanalytical terms in there.  It is all well and proper when the main character is a psychiatrist, but when combined with underdeveloped sentences and a weak storyline, you tend to lose interest quick.

The author certainly sucks at metaphor, his comparisons being as drippy and nonsensical as a retard on stilts that walks around dribbling something about Lewis while his cock flops about.  You feel sorry for him, but you can’t help but laugh.  

His use of metaphors only acts to confuse and detract the reader from detail by using irrelevant, silly and sometimes uneventful comparison, like the time he used the word “ambiguous” to describe the feel of a house.  While most of his terms literally made me sick, they always made me gag with distress.  Nevertheless, even if the book is a throwaway (so far), at least its condemnation fueled the writer to kick harder.  

The book by Harold Bloom on Shakespeare now seems a million times better than this sham of words any pauper could have written.  Shame on you Luke the unidentifiable, shame.