I have steered clear of the massage parlor
circuit for quite some time now. My experiences with online procurement have
been so splendid, that the thought of going through the usual torture that comes
with the MP experience once more seemed preposterous. The torment begins with a dose of
anxiety from the chance that someone might recognize you as you enter the
unholy doors. Then you are made to sit through an uncomfortable ceremony where
the models parade in front of you and you find yourself pressured to choose one
in haste. Finally, after making a half-baked decision, and when you are still
convincing yourself that you have made the right choice, you are forced to
contend with the time constraints set by the establishment. As if passion could be timed with the
ticking of the clock. Tick tock! 45 minutes into the session. Please climax
now! And after all the bullshit one has to put up with, the worst is yet
to come. Yes! I am referring to the event in the world of MPs that is so devastating,
it would be a constant fear gnawing at your back even as you are trying to
enjoy what supposedly should have been a pleasurable evening: The Raid.
So there, I have laid out my arguments on the
demerits of patronizing massage parlors. Now, hear me out as I sing a different
tune.
For me to even begin to fathom the thought of
subjecting myself through that arduous process again, I was going to need an
earth-shattering reason. Something that could convince me that all the hassles
and bustles would be worthwhile. Then, just as how unpredictable earthquakes
occur, a picture flashed on the screen, and the Richter scale started going off
the charts. Meet the earth-shaker: John