Unhappily Ended


Most of you appreciate me for my snarky wit, my ability to manifest alltheswears in a single sentence and my flagrant lack of fucks.

Well, today I almost gave a teeny one.

With that glorious intro, I bring to you, “That One Time I Accidentally Ended Up In a Happy Endings Massage Parlor.”

I’d just finished having my hair cut and colored. And just a few doors down from my salon, I noticed a brand spanking new massage center.

My shoulder is a hot assed mess and I’m staring down the barrel of a 12 hour drive next weekend. I can’t seem to get an appointment with my chiropractor so I thought perhaps I could get in with the new massage place.

I entered and immediately noticed a fat asian kid sprawled in a chair in the lobby. I was able to shrug that one off. I mean, lots of places feature hefty minorities scratching their privates the moment you walk in the door. I turned to the receptionist and said “Could you please show me a list of the different types of massages you offer?”


I nodded.

She pulled up some kind of weird looking website and showed me the various charges. But not massages.

“Come! Come see!” she invited me.

I was starting to feel like a wobbly coed who just got roofied at a frat party. But hell, I’m an adult. I can handle that shit. I followed her right down the damn rabbit hole.

She led me into a room where an Amazonian Chinese woman stood smiling next to a table. She was, like, happy as fuck.

“You massagey?” she asked, obviously excited to perform her first massagey in this new parlor.

Remember the Great Snatch Wax of 2015? When I went to get a pedicure and ended up in a closet that had an open ceiling so everyone could hear my screams? And then, after removing every goddamn hair in my nethers she SHOWED ME my naked vagina with a huge hand mirror and seriously…my scars have scars. Anyway…this was marginally better in that the drywall went all the way to the top. But everything else was eerily similar.

“You take off here, here, here, here and here,” the receptionist demanded, pointing to my shirt, bra, pants, shoes, socks and underwear? What the actual fuck?

“I have to pee,” I announced.

“Ok.” She guided me through a darkened hallway to a bathroom that had recently been visited by whom I can only imagine was the chubby bastard in the lobby who had just taken a truck stop shit. It smelled like rotten lo mein.

“I really should just…leave,” I said to myself.

“But this could be an AWESOME story,” myself argued. Convincingly, it turned out.

I took a piss and marched back to the elegant, stork like woman who was standing near the Table of Doom with her hands folded delicately.

“What the fuck am I doing?” I asked myself again.

“Shhhhhh,” I answered. “Just go with it.”

The Stork excused herself with a slight bow and I started stripping. I was getting ready to take my bra off (no way in hell I was taking off my panties) when she returned to the room.

“Need help?” she inquired hopefully.

“I’ve been removing my own bra for fucking 27 years, thanks. I’m good!” I smiled widely.

Which she took to mean I needed help removing my bra. Oh my sweet Jesus.

She held up a blanket thing and semi shielded my wide ass while I tossed my boulder holder with the rest of my things. Then I laid face down on the table and thought “It’s only an hour.”

Myself: “An hour is a fucking eternity.”

Me: <with conviction> “Shhh. It’s fine.”

As I settled in for my massagey, she draped the blanket across my back. And started rubbing the holy hell out of it.

I was just kind of intrigued with this new methodology until I started sweating. It was steamy as a fat kid’s fart under all that thick blanket. The Stork was furiously groping my back fat and really digging into my ass.

Myself: “This can’t be normal.”

Me: “I’m going to pass out from the fucking heat.”

Myself: “I told you this was a fucking terrible idea.”

Me: <wondering how Disney’s Fantasia soundtrack on repeat was supposed to be soothing> “Shhhh. Concentrate on the music.”

Suddenly, the groping ceased and the blanket was removed from the top half of my body and I gasped in relief as air gently wafted across the areas where the moisture had begun to pool. But then she took the blanket and tucked. the. damn. thing. into. my. damn. panties. Like seriously. My ass crack was all the way out and…damp.

Thus began the oiling portion of my massage adventure. It wasn’t so bad. I mean, I was acutely aware that I was naked and some strange woman was pressing her elbows into my shoulders, but it wasn’t horrible.

Until she climbed up on the table and straddled the back of my head. I’m gonna give you a minute to let that sink in.

Me: “That feels pretty good!”

Myself: “How is she reaching almost down to the bottom of your ass? What is that next to your head?”

Me: “Oh, I think those are just her knees.”


Me: “Shit. SHIT.”

Myself: “I fucking tried to tell you.”


Myself: “You really should have thought of that before you LET HER HELP YOU TAKE OFF YOUR BRA.”

Me: “Surely to God it’s been almost an hour.”

Finally, that part was over. I was half relieved and half terrified because if she asked me to roll over I was out of there. Literally planning on how to throw clothes on and run out at the same damn time.

She moved the blanket again. This time she tucked it into the bottom of my underwear. I couldn’t see what the hell was happening even if I wanted to. She aggressively kneaded my thighs and calves. I was probably fairly tense at that point. Ignoring the beads of sweat that dripped off her face and onto my leg. Go ahead. Kill me now.

Then…she left. Just crawled off the table and left the fucking room. I was completely confused.

Me: <warily> “Is it over?”

Myself: “It’s only been 35 minutes, Dumbass.”

Me: “No way. I’ve had more action in the last half hour than in the last 30 days.”

Myself: “Let’s get dressed.”

Me: “Okay.”

But it was too late. The door reopened and I quickly stuck my face back in the hole because I just wasn’t mentally prepared to visualize any of this fresh hell I was living.

Myself: “What now?”

Me: “I don’t knowwwwwwwwwwwwwwww” and then “HOLY FUCKING SHIT THAT’S GODDAMN HOT!”

And she slid what felt like a layer of scorching tar down the length of my back. It wasn’t warm, it wasn’t comfortable, it was literally rocks dipped in lava grazing my already abused skin.

For future reference, the “Hot Stone” portion of this particular treat is a “Hard no.”

Me: <gritting my teeth> “That’s going to blister!”

Myself: “You deserve it. Maybe you can get someone to put some of that damn Unicorn Oil on your wounds.”

Me: “Surely they’ll cool off soon.”

Myself: “We are literally on the surface of the sun, and she just poured sizzling asphalt all over your ass. She could cook a fajita on your back. Those fucking rocks are hot and they’ll stay hot.”

And they did.

After she was done spreading the liquid magma, she wiped it off with a towel she’d dipped in boiling water.

Me: <cringing> “Seriously, how much longer?”

Myself: “You’re going to die here. Dehydrated and burnt to a crisp. With Stork Twonk Juice on the back of your head.”

I was making my peace with this eventuality when she whispered in my ear, “You wan niney minnut?”

Me: “What?”



She nodded primly. “Roll over.”

Me: “No thanks.”

Myself: “She’s going to mount you again.”

Me: <resigned> “I just want to be done.”

Myself: “Then roll over and let her finish for fuck’s sake.”

So I rolled over. She gave me a delightful arm and foot massage. I wish we could have spent the whole hour doing that. Finally, it was over.

“You need help?” she offered again.

“NO,” I shouted. “I can do it. Thanks.”

“You welcome,” she smiled and held up the sheet again.

Well, goddammit. I got dressed in front of her while she kind of turned away but pretty much watched to make sure I did it correctly.

I gingerly followed her out of the Den of Torture and made my way to the counter to pay.

“You like massagey?” the receptionist chirped.

“It was…quite an adventure,” I smiled, wearily.

I gave her my credit card. And left her a tip. She was just so pleased with herself and aren’t you technically bonded to someone if their crotch has rested on the back of your head? I mean, that’s tip worthy, right?

Myself: “You’re a fucking idiot.”

Me: “I know. Now I have to tell Mr. Tip about this awesome new massagey place I found.”

Myself: “He’d shit his pants.”

Me: “While the blanket is tucked into them? So we shouldn’t tell him. We should just surprise him with a gift certificate?”

Myself: “I don’t think we should make any decisions whilst under the influence of the roofie you were slipped. Let’s go home.”

Me: “Where is your sense of adventure? Don’t you feel mildly invigorated having survived that whatever the hell that was?”

Myself: “I guess. I mean, I need to wash my hair and then we’ll discuss this further.”

In closing, if I make a massagey recommendation to you in casual passing, I either like you a lot or not at all.

All hail, dammit.


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