Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Confesions of an Erotic Undercover Detective (Part 1)
My little confessions over my vacation were not the only uncomfortable moments that week. In fact, the whole massage parlor, masseuse thing became kind of a running joke. Let me explain.
In Atlantic City, the boardwalk is chock full of cheesy souvenir shops, greasy diners, amusements, and (... drum roll please... ) massage parlors. But these aren't the kind that I work in, or even the AMPs that I deplore. On the boardwalk there are actual massage parlors filled with rows of massage tables and chairs for all the world to see. They are not happy ending places, but more of a walmart of massage services.
They rely on the tourists and make their money with low prices and high volume. And by coincidence, they just happen to all be run by asians. I can't claim that they're all sex slaves trapped by the mob - particularly since there's no sex going on and half the staff are guys.
So there we are... Derek and I walking down the boardwalk and passing these places every day. It started off with little jokes like "Hey CJ, is that what you do?" or "You wanna try it?" At first I would just laugh it off, but then it became "how about a couples massage?" or "I bet you could show them a thing or two."
Oh you have NO idea.
But it just got old after a while. I mean he just kept bugging me about it until I had to tell him to knock it off. However, I felt guilty for snapping at him and eventually it was me who brought the subject back up. As a peace offering I actually offered to buy him a massage. Heck, I should have thought of it before - for just $30, he shuts up and I get 45 minutes of uninterrupted shopping.
Unfortunately it backfired. When we got inside one of these boardwalk places, they did the hard sell and tried to get us both in. Now let me take a step back and describe what these places look like. They're basically an entire shop space that's nothing but massage tables and chairs. There's no store front, so you can see inside the entire thing from the boardwalk. People just walk in and get a table or chair massage while hundreds of people walk past and gawk at you.
Needless to say I was horrified at the thought of lying down on one of these nasty ass tables while teenage boys point and giggle. You may think I'm in no position to criticize another parlor, but let me tell ya, in my room at The Business, you could eat off those floors (just in my room - Audrey's room was a biohazard).
There was NO way I was gonna touch those tables, but I did agree to a 30 minute foot massage by a rather fatherly looking Chinese gentleman in a dress shirt and tuxedo vest. Meanwhile Derek arranged for a 45 minute full body massage with a short, round Chinese woman wearing a T-shirt with Justin Bieber. Derek double checked to make sure I was OK with him getting a massage by another woman, and I was like "knock yourself out."
Now let me add one more piece to the puzzle here. This place was basically a line of 6 massage tables and massage chairs, then there's a privacy divider in the back. Apparently there's one more table behind the divider that can't be seen by the public. And behind that is the business office and restroom for the staff.
It was behind this divider that a short, busty Chinese girl suddenly appeared. And when I say "busty" I mean artificially busty. I think both my eyes and Derek's popped out of our heads. He gave me this sort of "I'm sorry" kinda look as she led him back BEHIND that divider. I figured there wasn't much trouble he could get into in a place like this, BUT I wasn't going to touch him until after he thoroughly scrubbed himself off back in the room. All I cared about at this point was getting my foot-on.
Let me tell ya something... I've never had a professional foot massage before. I mean, I've done the pedicure thing where they might rub your feet for a minute or 2, but that is NOTHING compared to 30 minutes with a professional. Holy Shit. I swear to Gawd, if this old guy was a sex slave owned by the mob, I might have to reconsider my stand on AMPs. It was soooooo good that HE made a foot rub feel like a blowjob. It was THAT good.
I completely forgot all about Derek and his petite top heavy masseuse behind the divider. She could have been blowing him for all I care, as long as it didn't bump me from the cloud I was floating on. But alas, all good things must come to an end. I didn't need a happy ending to my foot rub because 25 of those 30 minutes were pretty much happy ending enough for me.
I wrapped up before he did, so I got to sit in the massage chair and just relax for a few minutes. I asked if I could smoke a cigarette, but Tuxedo said I'd have to go outside first. Damn men are all alike - they thrill you then leave you.
Derek walked up a few minutes later and we walked out together. I asked him how it was, and he said not bad considering he had all his clothes on (you don't disrobe in these places - they just do you in your shorts and T-shirts). I asked him jokingly if she offered him a "happy ending" and he said no, but she did offer him something else.
He motioned for us to keep walking while he fished in his pocket for something. A few store fronts down, he pulls me around a corner and shows me a piece of paper. "She gave this card and told me to call this number if I wanted anything else."
Why that little motherfucker. That full service skank propositioned my man right in front of me! I wanted to storm back there and tear that little slut a new one, but Derek calmed me down and convinced me to just laugh it off. Ha ha.
Now the business part of me actually wanted to call that number and see what the deal was. Is this how parlors advertise in Jersey? I have to admit I was curious.
But this wraps up part 1 of my expose on Atlantic City massage parlors. Time for me to get my ass to work!