A friend of mine just lost a case in federal court. His client: a 5o-something-year-old Korean woman accused of running a brothel/massage therapy business with Korean employees in their 60s.
When I entered massage therapy school, I had just moved to a new building down the street from where I live now. My roommate came in one evening and said, "The news is outside with a van and a reporter." Really? Let's take out the garbage. So we grabbed a couple of bags and ran down the stairs nearly falling over each other and almost breaking our necks (This is a huge fear of mine; that I will fall down the stairs and somehow get my head stuck between the rungs on the railing and snap my head off). We usually just opened the balcony door and tossed the garbage bags into the dumpster from our second floor balcony, so we were inexperienced in carrying the bags down the stairs. We also didn't realize that the news girl would have moved right in front of our main door so imagine her surprise when we busted through like two crazed bag ladies.
"Would you mind answering a few questions for us about your building? Have you seen a lot of men coming and going?"
Uh...no. We just moved in.
And we took off running around the corner and then even faster past her and back up the stairs. What the hell was she talking about? Damn! We have to wait until 11 p.m. to find out!! (This is something else that pisses me off --it's a long list: "Is what you're eating for dinner killing you? Story at eleven." Um...how about story now? I'm about to sit down to dinner, bitches. This is why I majored in print journalism. I couldn't see myself going up to someone and saying, "Hi. I see that a tornado just origamied your trailer into a box of toothpicks, your family is somewhere over Oz, you lost your dog and your neighbors and from what I gather...most of your teeth. I'm sure you've got a lot going on, but if it's no trouble...I'd love to get your comment for tonight's news and if you don't mind...this guy is going to film the whole thing." Yeah...not my style.)
So...eleven o'clock rolled around and evidently there was a brothel in our building. It's a very nice building...right across the street from the jail. (I live among a city of dumbasses.) I immediately called my mother and said, "You're going to see my building on the news and they will be talking about massage therapist hookers. I'm not one of them."
And so, my state which didn't require a license when I got mine, started requiring one six years later. Wow. Way to really make a change. Those kinds of stories would show up on the news more often than not. When I got my license, I worked at a spa. Men would come in and say things like "Wow. This place is a lot nicer than where I usually go," to which I wanted to say, "Yes. I'm not wearing a bikini and my name isn't on a kiosk out front on the sidewalk." One guy sat down on the edge of the table, in his robe, and said, "It really hurts right here," and proceeded to lift his leg up incredibly high for a hamstring that supposedly really hurt and of course, he wasn't wearing any underwear. I said, "Well, I could massage that area, but the technique I would have to use is four times more painful than what I'm sure you're experiencing. I just want to warn you." He said, "That's okay. Maybe I'll just take some Tylenol." Good idea. Of course there were the men who would throw all the covers on the floor so they would be laying on the table stark naked when I walked in or the ones who would ask me out four minutes into the massage. All freaks, I assumed. And all of them ready for whatever oral pleasure I was handing out that day. But for crap sake, why on Earth are you going to come into a place like this, make an ass out of yourself and then pay sixty-five dollars. For the love! Really!! Not to mention that we will all be talking about you even before you're dressed and back out into the lobby.
I remember one week in particular. A coworker of mine quit and I had to work pretty much a double five days that week massaging his clients as well as mine. One day, I did eight one hour massages. That, if you don't know, is a lot. At the end of the week, I sat in the spa lobby and cried. I stopped at the Korean restaurant down the street on my way home, which was my normal routine about three nights a week. Korean food is my favorite! I couldn't even hold the chop sticks. I couldn't get my hands to open up. My fingers were all curled and cramped. It was awful. So, what I'm wondering is...how do these women eat? I couldn't even hold a fork, there's no way I could give a hand job.
Well, I asked my friend, who claims he isn't having much luck in federal court lately, "Did you try the argument that those women were dating all those men? I mean...seriously. What's the difference? They pay for dinner and get sex. They pay for a massage and get sex. Sounds like a date to me. Of course, I never massage my boyfriends, and if I was dating a valet, I wouldn't make him come out and park my car every time I went to his house. Just sayin'."
And honestly, when you're a 35-year-old man is a blow job from a woman who demands the senior citizen's discount really a happy ending?