Nameless Midtown Rub Joint

[Marilyn]

All across the island of Manhattan I have left vulgar little souvenirs of myself. From the East Side to the West, from Chinatown to Brooklyn, from Flushing to Koreatown and north from there, I have left my DNA, one teaspoon at a time, in an ocean of bodily fluids as deep as it is wide. I may try to sample every massage parlor on this island but for every one that I visit, two more seem to open. They appear like litters of kittens. Advertisements pop up on Backpage featuring pictures of Japanese movie stars, calling to me, beckoning, taunting me to come, come now, come early, come often.

Four hands, six hands, can we have more? Add some feet, some elbows, turn the lights down and use your tits. Make that rub harder, faster, bigger, better, get it over with so you can jack me off. What I want is proximity, connection, touch, humanity, the feeling that I am someone.

My vision blurs like my memories of some of these places. The names are the same. The hands are identical. The pictures in the ads are bit-for-bit copies. And yet…how can I stay away? The next one might be the jackpot motherlode pussy explosion I’ve been waiting for…and so I go.

Lunchtime on a sunny day. I have two numbers in my pocket. One turns out to be 20 blocks away. I set that one aside. The other? Right nearby. A new place. The ads give no name, they just say “New Spa.” New Spa it is and shall be.

Elevator up, 10th floor. Big space. No shower, a few private rooms. I am ushered into a big room with a massage table and, fuck me, an exercise bike in the corner. For a moment I think that bodes poorly but fuck it, I’ve already committed. I undress and hand the 60 dollar house fee to the mamasan. I lay face down and soon enough, a middle-aged Chinese woman with a decent body and a kind face walks in. She’s not physically attractive in any way, but she has nice eyes and she gives me a happy smile. She asks me what kind of massage and the usual middle of the road sort of rub ensues.

The room is cool and quiet. The windows are covered by curtains but as clouds pass in front of the sun, the light changes. Through the glass I can hear horns and sirens. I close my eyes and try to shut everything out. She rubs my ass with her strong hands, and I am surprised to find that my cock is getting hard, something that never happens until I turn over. She has good strong hands.

40 minutes tick by and I raise my head and she says “now soft” and I nod and she starts the usual light fingertip rub from head to toe. She leans over and kisses my ear before running her tongue down my back and I realize I’m getting hard. She runs the tongue back up and breathes heavily in my ear and asks me to turn over.

My cock is standing straight out from my body as I turn and I am conscious of my hard on, but she is looking into my eyes and I ask her name. “Annie” she says, and she adds “You face, I look you face and see you nice person.” I smile and thank her and she turns to get some oil.

She oils up my cock as I run my hands over her nice big ass and then under her shirt. Into the bra, as I always do, touch the hard nipples. Usually it takes a solid 15 minutes to make me come but it seems Annie knows how to use her hands in ways you don’t encounter every day, and about ten minutes in, I just start coming out of nowhere, and we are both surprised.

I lay back smiling and she brings hot towels to clean me up. She wants me to stay there, she keeps massaging my head, my shoulders, my legs. I look at the clock and it’s been over an hour and I need to get back to work. Annie keeps touching me and smiling, but I finally sit up.

She helps me get dressed and when we’re done she steps back and says I look like a gentleman. I smile and thank her and hand her a tip, but I know looks have deceived her. Am I a gentleman? No. I’m a degenerate who gets handjobs from ladies who barely speak English. I’m an asshole, an addict, a prick who buys sex from women who simply need the money. Am I a gentleman? No.

In a little wastepaper basket in that tenth floor office with the exercise bike, there is a little piece of me. A sample, a souvenir, something I left behind. And with each footstep a little more of me gets left behind. Every turn of phrase, every sideways glance, every moment of silence, every hour I lose a little of myself.

When the winds blow just right and the sirens wail and the horns honk and the crowds hum all through the city I gain something bigger than everything I have lost. I am nobody, I am alone even when I am with a thousand others. But in my city, on my time, in my place, I am connected to everyone and everything and this is where belong.

The places I go and the things I do may never bring me closer to anyone, but for an hour I have a connection to someone, to something. For an hour I'm not alone. For an hour I belong.

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