Back in the spring, my then current-girlfriend and I visited some of my friends living in London. Their flat was pretty central to everything that tourists would want to see, so we spent a considerable amount of travel time on foot. I had been to London before so I wasn't really down for the touristy stuff, but she had not. And not to toot my own horn, but because I was an awesome boyfriend I let her dictate most of our destinations.
It turns out that days of non-stop walking around the city takes a toll on your legs and feet after shutting them down for the winter and not waking them up for spring. And for me, fashion comes before function, so I paid a few extra pence to the collector (my sneakers did a better job looking good than cushioning my feet). So one evening after scouring the Soho district we came across a massage parlour and I decided a massage was in order. She didn't really want to spend the money, but with how my lower extremities were feeling, I wouldn't accept no as an answer.
We enter the office (I'm calling it an office because there was a tall Asian man in a doctor's coat, so I will assume that he's had some medical training, right? And I'm going to call him Doctor C. because I'm pretty sure he was also Chinese. Assumptions abound!) and I inquire as to the cost of a massage. We spend a few minutes working out the details and are asked to sit down. As we are sitting there two women start to fill pans of water with what looks like an office water cooler without the bottle on top. They are there for a couple minutes and seem to be having difficulties, so they give up and head downstairs. After a minute or two Doctor C. tells us we can head downstairs. After passing a still-boxed LCD TV in the tight hallway -- I've noticed that there always seems to be boxed electronics out in the open in Asian businesses, just saying -- we descend down a metal spiral staircase to a questionable basement.
The women direct us to separate rooms. While discussing treatment upstairs, I was under the assumption that we would be in the same room, but these rooms did not have the capacity to allow it. That and I didn't really understand half the stuff Doctor C. was saying, so I could have made that up in my mind. We go into our separate rooms and now this turns into a singular narrative. I remove my socks and shoes and hang out for the masseuse to enter the room. She enters with a pan of water with some flowers in it. She asks me to place my feet in the pan and I oblige. As I plunge my feet into the pan she apologizes for the water not being warm. I guess the water cooler thing upstairs was the only means of heating water in the office because the sink they got this water from clearly did not have hot as an option. She leaves the room.
So now I'm sitting in a dark room with my feet in a pan of cold water for a couple minutes. She returns and has me lie down on the table. She places a towel over my lap and grabs a jar of Vaseline. What? The? Fuck? So as the reader you must be thinking something sketchy is about to go down, right?
Nope. She goes to town massaging the shit out of my feet. It was one of the most amazing massages I've ever received in my life. The days of abuse just melt away with each stroke and clutch of her hands. Thirty or so minutes later the massage is over -- now this is where is gets sketchy. I lie there for a few minutes beyond relaxed and she just hangs out at the end of the table just sort of staring at me. She doesn't put anything away. She doesn't turn up the lights. She doesn't open the door. She doesn't say anything. She just stands there but makes sure I'm aware of her presence.
I could hear that the girlfriend was done and had already headed upstairs. Now I'm at a crossroads. Do I get my things together and join her upstairs, or have the masseuse make sex acts on me? I do have a thing for Asians and she was smoking hot; and not in that 3 Fast 3 Furious race-scenester-sort-of-look, but more of a classic beauty. But as I mentioned earlier, I was an awesome boyfriend, and not a cheater so I gather my things and head upstairs after giving her a tip -- just not that tip.
It turns out that days of non-stop walking around the city takes a toll on your legs and feet after shutting them down for the winter and not waking them up for spring. And for me, fashion comes before function, so I paid a few extra pence to the collector (my sneakers did a better job looking good than cushioning my feet). So one evening after scouring the Soho district we came across a massage parlour and I decided a massage was in order. She didn't really want to spend the money, but with how my lower extremities were feeling, I wouldn't accept no as an answer.
We enter the office (I'm calling it an office because there was a tall Asian man in a doctor's coat, so I will assume that he's had some medical training, right? And I'm going to call him Doctor C. because I'm pretty sure he was also Chinese. Assumptions abound!) and I inquire as to the cost of a massage. We spend a few minutes working out the details and are asked to sit down. As we are sitting there two women start to fill pans of water with what looks like an office water cooler without the bottle on top. They are there for a couple minutes and seem to be having difficulties, so they give up and head downstairs. After a minute or two Doctor C. tells us we can head downstairs. After passing a still-boxed LCD TV in the tight hallway -- I've noticed that there always seems to be boxed electronics out in the open in Asian businesses, just saying -- we descend down a metal spiral staircase to a questionable basement.
The women direct us to separate rooms. While discussing treatment upstairs, I was under the assumption that we would be in the same room, but these rooms did not have the capacity to allow it. That and I didn't really understand half the stuff Doctor C. was saying, so I could have made that up in my mind. We go into our separate rooms and now this turns into a singular narrative. I remove my socks and shoes and hang out for the masseuse to enter the room. She enters with a pan of water with some flowers in it. She asks me to place my feet in the pan and I oblige. As I plunge my feet into the pan she apologizes for the water not being warm. I guess the water cooler thing upstairs was the only means of heating water in the office because the sink they got this water from clearly did not have hot as an option. She leaves the room.
So now I'm sitting in a dark room with my feet in a pan of cold water for a couple minutes. She returns and has me lie down on the table. She places a towel over my lap and grabs a jar of Vaseline. What? The? Fuck? So as the reader you must be thinking something sketchy is about to go down, right?
Nope. She goes to town massaging the shit out of my feet. It was one of the most amazing massages I've ever received in my life. The days of abuse just melt away with each stroke and clutch of her hands. Thirty or so minutes later the massage is over -- now this is where is gets sketchy. I lie there for a few minutes beyond relaxed and she just hangs out at the end of the table just sort of staring at me. She doesn't put anything away. She doesn't turn up the lights. She doesn't open the door. She doesn't say anything. She just stands there but makes sure I'm aware of her presence.
I could hear that the girlfriend was done and had already headed upstairs. Now I'm at a crossroads. Do I get my things together and join her upstairs, or have the masseuse make sex acts on me? I do have a thing for Asians and she was smoking hot; and not in that 3 Fast 3 Furious race-scenester-sort-of-look, but more of a classic beauty. But as I mentioned earlier, I was an awesome boyfriend, and not a cheater so I gather my things and head upstairs after giving her a tip -- just not that tip.
Now I know by now you're saying that Asians are smart and knew that were were together, so there's no way she would be in contact with my special area, but I discussed some of the quirks of the experience with the girlfriend to which she informed me of a vastly different experience for her. Plus they gave her the ugly one. Check and mate.
