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Sunday, April 29, 2012

Seismic John



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