This was the advice my friend offered after we smoked a blunt and decided the only logical next move was to get massages and happy endings. As you can tell from my buddy's words of wisdom, I had never been to massage parlor that offered the full-service package, if you know what I mean. But here we were, two single, stoned dudes kicking it on a Saturday night. Why not try something different, right?
There seemed to be very little downside to the prospect of a good massage and a hand job. Unwilling to risk the unknown of going to just any massage parlor that's advertising table-shower service, we ventured to midtown Manhattan, to a spot my friend had previously visited and could vouch for.
(mh\u003d21Y7jrJ99spJiLje)15.jpg "Whores hand")
First of all, my mind always races when I get high -- part of the reason I don't smoke anymore -- so naturally it was motoring at 10, miles a minute as we edged closer to our destination.
You start thinking you're a complete scumbag for going to a massage parlor and getting tugged off. I mean, who even does this? Soon enough, though, you start to care less about what other people might think and start wondering what'll happen if you finish too quickly. I don't know why, but you just do. It's not like this masseuse is my girlfriend, but I think all men feel inferior when they orgasm too quickly, no matter who we're with.
I don't know if my friend could sense my trepidation or not, but he told me to relax. Several times. We entered the spa, which seemed surprisingly quiet for a Saturday night. I mean, it's not like you can look on Yelp and see which times are more popular to get a quickie.
