The small sign hanging in the window of the entryway was innocuous enough. "Oriental Massage" it read simply. If one wasn't paying attention as they drove by, they'd likely miss it, and mistake it for a plain, white house with an odd location. It's not every day that you see a house in the middle of an otherwise commercial/industrial area. But I was observant, and had seen the sign driving to and from work many times. It always piqued my curiosity.
I had a strong feeling about what kind of place it really was. If it was a legitimate massage office, why not advertise with a bigger sign, right? No, this was the kind of place that seemed to value its unassuming exterior, and didn't want to attract the attention of the straight and narrow. I was almost positive that it was the kind of place that frat boys joked about, and businessmen "stuck late at a meeting" didn't tell their wives about.
And yet I couldn't help but wonder what kind of reaction I'd get if I strolled in and asked for a massage. Would the turn me away outright because I was a girl? Would they just give me a massage and send me on my way? Or would I be offered anything "extra?" Not that I'd want anything extra, mind you. I have a rule about paying for sexual release; I don't do it.
Still, idle curiosity can only be contained for so long. Eventually it has to be satisfied.
Months of building my courage had passed before I walked into the entryway. Inside there was a little sitting room with a couple of couches that looked like they were stolen from a Salvation Army drop site. A pair of miss-matched end tables supporting dishes of hard candy and chipped lamps with threadbare shades filled out the entryway. Between the tables was a heavy-looking door with a doorbell. Above the door was a very visible camera. Taped to the door was a two-item price list; half hour session $XX, and hour session $XX. Simple enough.
I rang the bell and waited. I could hear movement inside, but it seemed like I was standing there waiting forever. No doubt, I was being checked out on the camera. Finally the door opened and a rather attractive Korean woman of about 35-40 years of age appeared before me.
She was short, with short black hair, and deep brown eyes. Her skin was the color of mocha, and looked soft to touch. Her breasts looked fairly large under her tiny blue print dress, and I could tell at a glance that she wasn't wearing a bra. I even doubted she was wearing panties, judging from the lack of telltale panty lines on her slender hips. She was barefoot, and wearing a confused look on her face.
"We're not hiring," she said, and started closing the door.
Before she could close the door I told her, "I don't want a job. I'd like a massage."
She opened the door back up and then looked me up and down, one hand on her hip. She had an "are-you-serious?" look on her face, and I almost felt like just shrinking away and forgetting about the whole idea. Maybe this wasn't one of my brighter plans.
Finally, she said, "You want a massage here? You sure?"
I nodded. She shrugged and opened the door, allowing me in. I'm not exactly sure what I was expecting when I crossed the threshold, but I was pleasantly surprised. The place was neat and tidy. Giant fans and prints with Korean writing lined the walls, and I could smell incense burning from somewhere nearby. It was fairly nice, more than outclassing anything I had been imagining.
"You want a long massage or a short massage," she asked, closing the door behind me.
"What's the difference?"
"The longer massage costs more," she said, laughing. I couldn't help myself, and laughed, too.
"No, really the short massage is okay," she said, "but the long massage gives me more time to work on stress areas and trouble spots. It's more relaxing than a short massage, too. For short massages, I don't use any oil, and no shower after."
"Then I'll take the longer massage." Maybe I had misjudged this place. It didn't seem seedy, and she seemed genuinely interested in her work. But then again, she wasn't wearing anything under her short dress that I could see.
"Okay, money first," she said, holding out her hand. I slipped her some bills and she smiled. Holding out her hand, she said, "Follow me."
Taking her hand, she led me towards the back of the 'house,' and into a bedroom-type area. The room was dimly lit, yet still had a cozy feel to it. Against the far wall was a generously padded massage bed with a small white towel draped across the middle, with another white towel folded on top of that one. Against the adjoining wall was a fully blocked out window, and a rack full of folded linens, towels, bottles of oils, lotions, well-worn magazines, and a small radio. Next to that there was a padded chair and an end table with a vanilla-scented candle burning on top.
Motioning towards the massage bed, she said, "Take off your clothes and lay down. I'll be right back."
"Should I totally undress," I asked.
"Unless you want oil on your clothes, yes."
I started taking off my shoes, and she left the room, closing the door behind her. I folded my clothes neatly and put them on the chair, with my socks tucked into my shoes underneath. I was down to my panties, and starting to feel a little vulnerable. I can't explain it now, but for some reason I felt that if I took my panties off and laid down on that table, that'd I'd be crossing some kind of taboo line.
And then I thought, fuck it. It's my life, it's my body, I'm a grown woman, and I don't answer to anyone but myself. There were probably thousands of people across the world who'd done that very thing every day. Granted, I'm sure an overwhelming majority of them were men, but where's the adventure in cow-towing to what society expects of you? It was time to let go and see where this all was taking me. I took my panties off, put them on the chair and lied down on the bed.
A couple of minutes passed as I lay there naked on the bed, trying to clear my head. Nothing's going to happen that you don't want, I told myself. The feeling I'd had getting undressed was passing, and I was ready to relax and enjoy myself. I needed a good massage.
A knock on the door almost made me jump. Looking over my shoulder towards the door, I saw the handle turn, and she entered. She walked over to linen rack, picked up a bottle of oil, and then walked towards me. She picked up the folded white towel I had moved over when I lay down, and used it to cover my butt. Then she asked what kind of a massage I wanted.
"What kinds do you offer," I inquired.
"Swedish, deep tissue, and pressure point," came the response.
