“OK, I just have to let you know, don’t touch my feet.”

“You no dowan massj?” The older Asian lady said back to me, oiling up her hands.

“No, I do. But just don’t touch my feet; massage everything but my feet. OK?” I was being fair, and spoke clear perfect English. Unfortunately she didn’t, and she stared back at me with a blank look you get when you talk to foreigners about something that’s not currency, and how to order a beer in their language.

I lay on my stomach. I knew the foot issue had not been resolved, but I was too tired to explain it to her.

****

We were on our way back from the beach. My friends swore that the beach was the perfect cure for a hangover. I couldn’t disagree more.

Why would they think that getting tossed around in the water for 2 hours, laying under the red hot 100 degree sun, and brushing sand from out of my ass crack would be the perfect hangover remedy?

Nevertheless, we were on our way back and I felt worse than I did when I woke up from 2 hours of sleep that morning after the all night rum fest. I was dark red, covered in sand and my head felt like someone was dicing my brain up from the inside like a head of lettuce.

“Dude, turn the music down, I feel like shit still,” I groaned from the backseat.

“Still man? I feel great; the beach always cures a hangover,” Phil said.

“Fuck you.”

When I have an incredibly bad hangover, it’s hard for me to find beauty and enjoy anything in the world. Everything gets on my nerves, and I wish death upon every organism that makes a sound or emits a light.

“You know what else cures a hangover?” Phil said, over the music that was still incredibly loud.

He was probably going to say more alcohol or a rub and tug.

“A rub and tug.”

See.

“Dude, no. Just get me home so I can go to sleep, which is the only REAL way to cure a hangover, you stupid fuck.”

“I’m telling you, let’s go to WH Massage. You get a full hour long massage; they jerk you off, and then give you a bath afterwards. All for only $60!”

It was like he was doing an infomercial for Shiatsu Prostitution.

I yanked the sweater hood over my head. I was tiring of arguing; we were going to the massage parlor whether I liked it or not. I had $60 to spare, and no real plans for the rest of the day except lay on my bed, eating bananas and nursing Gatorade; I could always go for a hand job.

There it was, in between the Smoke Shop and a low rent video store, sat the small building, with the words WH MASSAGE lit up on the stucco above the door.

Chinese dressing dividers covered the windows and white blinds denied anyone from looking inside the door. The lobby was 4 chairs you would sit in to get a shoe shine, atop red classroom carpet. Another door was across the way; a small older Asian woman opened the door and bowed.

She bowed, mumbled a few sounds. Translation: Come inside.

We walked through the door, into the smaller lobby only big enough for a podium. Behind it was a hallway with 3 doors on each side; this was the entire layout of WH Massage.

“You guydo wan massj?” Translation: Would you gentlemen be interested in getting a massage this afternoon?

“Yeah, we’re all going to get massages,” Phil said, taking the lead of this operation, as he’d done this many times before.

“Sixty,” she said, in perfect English.

The second we handed over our money, 2 more Asian women scampered out of one of the rooms, snatched up Phil and Jake, and headed into two separate rooms. The older woman who greeted us mumbled again and lead me into the farthest room on the right, where I stripped off my board shorts and sandy white T and laid my burnt stomach down on the massage bench.

She was old; probably like 47 or 52, if I had to venture a guess. She looked like a normal old lady you would see out shopping for an ointment of some kind at Walgreens. This was in no way sexy to me; especially not with a blasting headache and sediment in my asshole.

“OK, I just have to let you know, don’t touch my feet.”

“You no dowan massj?”

Now that I’ve caught you up, let me explain the foot situation.

Ever since I can remember, I have HATED when people touch the bottom of my bare feet. Nothing that I can think of ever prompted this phobia, it’s just another thing that makes me the weird individual I am.

My mother tried every option when waking me up for school. She shouted in my ear, pounded on my door, turned all the lights in the room on, but these measures never succeeded in waking me up. She one day found out that if she put her hand within an inch of the bottom of my bare foot, I would flail and jump out of bed like she dumped a bucket of rats on me.

Somehow, word spread to my friends that touching my bare feet lead to the beginning stages of a seizure, and they all began trying to get their hands on them.

I can muster up the strength of 6 retards and go into attack mode any time someone tried tickling my heels.

Whether it was 1 or 5 guys, I could fend them off like the hero in a karate movie.

In short, no one ever touched my feet.

I lay on my stomach; I knew the foot issue had not been resolved but I was too tired to explain it to her.

The hour long massage began.

Shoulders, back, thighs.

The music and sensual rubbing, combined with the calming music, a day at the beach and a soft table to rest my hung over body on, managed to put me in a half coma-half day dream.

In my zonked out state, I imagined I was on a rollercoaster. The coaster dipped down sharply, sending my car deep into the ocean. I floated in the water for what felt like a couple hours, swimming amongst the jellyfish singing show tunes, and the colorful coral swaying on the ocean floor.

It was a peaceful sleep. A mermaid swam up to me and began petting my neck, which sent shivers down my spine. I wasn’t sure if you could make love to a mermaid, because of their lack of a lower body, so we made out for a while and stroked each other’s skin.

She looked in my eyes, her hand sliding down my stomach, down towards my crotch region; a hand job from a mermaid, this could be OK.

Her hand grazed over my package and continued down.

Down… down… she was going towards my feet.

“Garb garblch mlug fleeeb.” Translation: Don’t touch my feet.

My warnings were going unannounced, she was dangerously close to my feet; I was going to have to hit her.

“Garb gloo glit.” Translation: Don’t do it.

Her fingers ran over my Achilles tendon, alarms went off in my head as anxiety was engulfing me more than the water I was in.

“FLUUUCCKK. GLABBITTT GILLLKINSSS AHHH.” I wish I could translate that.

I was suddenly jarred out of my slumber, the anxiety was still taking a hold of me; someone’s fingers were dangerously close to my foot. My reflexes took over:

“Yeeeughh.” The small Asian women shouted/groaned.

I looked back; she was keeled over, clutching her breasts. I had kicked her right square in the chest.

“Sorry, I was sleeping! I don’t like my feet touched.”

“You fineesh massj!” She said back angrily.

“No. It’s good, I just don’t want my feet touched. Just keep going, I’ll rollover.” Translation: I am tired of this, just jerk me off already.

I rolled over on my back; the washcloth she placed over me was now off, leaving my junk out in the public eye. This was good, because it meant I was one step closer to the only reason I came to WH Massage.

She awkwardly rubbed the top of my thighs, my member began to grow, until it achieved half mast and fell over towards my right thigh. She moved it out up and over to the other side and continued massaging my right thigh.
Repeat same scenario: pick up boner, move it to other side, massage leg.

The suspense and vicarious touching sent rushes of blood into my member. Soon my penis was in full rager mode and lying up on my stomach, staring at me as if asking: “Can we do something about this? I’m harder than Sudoku right now!”

Finally she broke the silence:

“You wan massj?” I deduced that if she wasn’t talking about getting paid, she could only ask whether I wanted massj.

“Huh?”

“You wan massj?” This time she pointed to our new guest in the room.

No, I was just going to try and put my board shorts on with this marlin spike coming out of my body. That should be as fun as putting on a wetsuit filled with wasps, you dunce.

“Yeah, of course I wan massj. Look at this,” I said,exasperated. Between the translating, the lack of blood in my head, and this hangover, which was still very much present, I was ready to get this over with and go home.

She disappeared behind me, and returned with a glob of baby oil in her petite, old lady hands. Rubbing her hands over my member like a cub scout starting a fire, she lubricated me and began double hand stroking it like she was getting paid to do it – oh wait.

Within a couple minutes I could feel the orgasm coming on. Usually I try to hold it back allowing it to last longer, but this was not intercourse, and I was extremely tired, so I just let it fly.

The orgasm was prodigious; I exploded all over her hands, and the table below.

She continued until I was completely limp and trembling from sensitivity; not my proudest moment.

I breathed deeply, my head slowly spun as my eyes rolled into the back of my head.

“You likeh massj?”

“Uhhhh? Shut, you ever, done.” I couldn’t even put sentences together. The orgasm, the sun burn and the hang over that would put a hippo out of commission, had destroyed my body.

The next thing I knew I was sitting in a shallow bathtub with tepid, lukewarm water running over me. The lady was slowly scrubbing my body, while having a conversation with one the woman who had massaged Phil.

“Done. No, leave you both.”

My words were falling on deaf ears, she kept scrubbing away while conversing with the other lady; they both were examining my naked body.

Anxiety once again wrapped around me like a blanket, I became functional again to see her about to scrub my feet.

“NO!” I kicked around in the water like a toddler.

“No feet!” I yelled.

I hopped out of the tub, dried myself off and excused the women so I could put my clothes back on and get the fuck out of this awful foot touching place.

I walked down the hallway as fast as I could, which was as fast as frozen peanut butter runs down the side of the jar, I had to get out.

The women stopped me.

“Mumble Mumble massj.” She held her hand out.

This fucking con artist wanted more money.

“What? For what?”

“Massj.”

“I gave you money already.”

“30 more,” she said in perfect English.

I handed her all the money in my wallet, which was about 24 dollars, and staggered out into the front lobby with the shoe shine chairs. Phil and Jake were sitting there, huge smiles draped across their faces.

The drive back home was always the same, every time, for some sort of sexual act: Tons of depression and self loathing.

“You feel any better?” Phil said, “A rub and tug always cures a hangover!”

I didn’t say anything, I still hated everybody. I learned a valuable lesson that day:

If you kick masseuses in the chest… they charge you more.

• The Telly