outerpeace
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- Nov 26, 2013
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Maybe it's holiday anxiety, but I couldn't face going home last night without some satisfaction, and I paid for it. Twice.
I don't frequent the Yonge & Wellesley area because the places look pretty dismal on the outside. But in my desperation I ducked into Tranquility Spa at 574 Yonge. Unfortunately a client got there seconds before me and the rather cute Russian attendant asked if I could come back later. My time is always so tight that I figured I was done for the night. Back on the street I realized I was surrounded by at least four second-story spas and thought, what the hell. I tried the one at 580 Yonge, but my first impression of the sad, worn out attendant was such a downer that I wanted to forsake women and join a monastery. I pretended to get an emergency call from work and got the hell out of there. I could tell neither of us believed me.
On the way to my car I passed U Spa at 568 Yonge and rang the bell against my will. An Asian lady with a pleasant face and decent figure answered. I'll call her Cherry because I could not understand her name even after she told me three times. I try not to be racist, but I am acutely aware of my shitty biases. Like, when I was a young man, before the internet was invented for the sole purpose of putting porn on my phone, I only felt comfortable buying dirty magazines from Asians. Because they were so...other. Think about that. I didn't care what they thought about me. And yes, that is indefensibly, appallingly racist. And you know what? I'm nearly 50 now, and I still don't give a shit whether an Asian thinks I'm a pervert. I'm not happy about it, but at least it gives me some insight into how one group of people can commit atrocities against another group. I think we can all agree that a nude hand job isn't an atrocity. But this one was close.
Cherry called me honey 30 or 40 times, trying to raise the tip each time. Nude? Honey...$40....BJ? Honey...$80. Then she suggested other things over a hundred. Things I couldn't tell if I wanted because of the language barrier. All the while shaking her head and pursing her lips as if to say she'd like to help me out, but only after she was sure I'd completely run out of cash.
Have you ever seen an angry senior citizen with terrible arthritis trying to use a pair of plastic salad tongs to polish a beanbag? Neither have I, but that is exactly what it felt like she was doing to me while we were endlessly negotiating.
Finally I said, I'm sorry, but I'm not enjoying any of this, and left. Cherry seemed surprised.
Don't get me wrong - I've had some great Asian attendants in the past, mostly at Blu Spa on Yorkville, which recently closed. But this was this saddest hand job in the history of Canada.
Defeated, I hit the street. Now I'm so frustrated I'm afraid to go home. Can I even drive in this condition? I don't know. I go back to 574 Yonge.
The cute attendant is free now, she just needs to scrape the previous client off her. Yay!
In a thick Russian accent she tells me her name is Jane. OK.
Jane is a pleasure to talk to, with a nice sense of humor. No one would mistake her for a model but I really like her body, and her breasts are really fantastic: large, natural, big aureolae. She is very kind and dutiful with her hands, and after the flip the way she manipulated my favourite part was best described as respectful. You know what I mean? Her attitude seemed to be, ok, I've got a job to do here, the customer must be satisfied, so I'm going to pay attention to what I'm doing and do my best to get it right. Solid work ethic. I loved it. It was an incredible turn on for this tired working stiff. 40 + 60 tip.
Thank you Jane. I walked in all fucked up with anger and frustration, and you sent me back into the world a better man.
Except for my thing about Asians.
I don't frequent the Yonge & Wellesley area because the places look pretty dismal on the outside. But in my desperation I ducked into Tranquility Spa at 574 Yonge. Unfortunately a client got there seconds before me and the rather cute Russian attendant asked if I could come back later. My time is always so tight that I figured I was done for the night. Back on the street I realized I was surrounded by at least four second-story spas and thought, what the hell. I tried the one at 580 Yonge, but my first impression of the sad, worn out attendant was such a downer that I wanted to forsake women and join a monastery. I pretended to get an emergency call from work and got the hell out of there. I could tell neither of us believed me.
On the way to my car I passed U Spa at 568 Yonge and rang the bell against my will. An Asian lady with a pleasant face and decent figure answered. I'll call her Cherry because I could not understand her name even after she told me three times. I try not to be racist, but I am acutely aware of my shitty biases. Like, when I was a young man, before the internet was invented for the sole purpose of putting porn on my phone, I only felt comfortable buying dirty magazines from Asians. Because they were so...other. Think about that. I didn't care what they thought about me. And yes, that is indefensibly, appallingly racist. And you know what? I'm nearly 50 now, and I still don't give a shit whether an Asian thinks I'm a pervert. I'm not happy about it, but at least it gives me some insight into how one group of people can commit atrocities against another group. I think we can all agree that a nude hand job isn't an atrocity. But this one was close.
Cherry called me honey 30 or 40 times, trying to raise the tip each time. Nude? Honey...$40....BJ? Honey...$80. Then she suggested other things over a hundred. Things I couldn't tell if I wanted because of the language barrier. All the while shaking her head and pursing her lips as if to say she'd like to help me out, but only after she was sure I'd completely run out of cash.
Have you ever seen an angry senior citizen with terrible arthritis trying to use a pair of plastic salad tongs to polish a beanbag? Neither have I, but that is exactly what it felt like she was doing to me while we were endlessly negotiating.
Finally I said, I'm sorry, but I'm not enjoying any of this, and left. Cherry seemed surprised.
Don't get me wrong - I've had some great Asian attendants in the past, mostly at Blu Spa on Yorkville, which recently closed. But this was this saddest hand job in the history of Canada.
Defeated, I hit the street. Now I'm so frustrated I'm afraid to go home. Can I even drive in this condition? I don't know. I go back to 574 Yonge.
The cute attendant is free now, she just needs to scrape the previous client off her. Yay!
In a thick Russian accent she tells me her name is Jane. OK.
Jane is a pleasure to talk to, with a nice sense of humor. No one would mistake her for a model but I really like her body, and her breasts are really fantastic: large, natural, big aureolae. She is very kind and dutiful with her hands, and after the flip the way she manipulated my favourite part was best described as respectful. You know what I mean? Her attitude seemed to be, ok, I've got a job to do here, the customer must be satisfied, so I'm going to pay attention to what I'm doing and do my best to get it right. Solid work ethic. I loved it. It was an incredible turn on for this tired working stiff. 40 + 60 tip.
Thank you Jane. I walked in all fucked up with anger and frustration, and you sent me back into the world a better man.
Except for my thing about Asians.