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What It's Really Like To Get A Handjob At A Massage Parlor

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"You have to see if it says 'table shower' anywhere on the website."

This was the advice my friend offered after we smoked a blunt and decided the only logical next move was to get massages and happy endings.

As you can tell from my buddy's words of wisdom, I had never been to massage parlor that offered the full-service package, if you know what I mean.

Heck, I'd maybe only received one proper massage in my entire life.

But here we were, two single, stoned dudes kicking it on a Saturday night. Why not try something different, right? There seemed to be very little downside to the prospect of a good massage and a hand job.

Unwilling to risk the unknown of going to just any massage parlor that's advertising table-shower service, we ventured to midtown Manhattan, to a spot my friend had previously visited and could vouch for.

Great, I thought, the last thing I need is to get held up or something while trying to relax and get off.

As we ventured out, I couldn't help but be a little apprehensive about the whole thing.

First of all, my mind always races when I get high -- part of the reason I don't smoke anymore -- so naturally it was motoring at 10,000 miles a minute as we edged closer to our destination.

You start thinking you're a complete scumbag for going to a massage parlor and getting tugged off. I mean, who even does this? What's next, I'm going to be wearing long coats and pocket watches or some sh*t?

Soon enough, though, you start to care less about what other people might think and start wondering what'll happen if you finish too quickly.

I don't know why, but you just do. It's not like this masseuse is my girlfriend, but I think all men feel inferior when they orgasm too quickly, no matter who we're with.

But I digress.

I don't know if my friend could sense my trepidation or not, but he told me to relax. Several times.

As we crossed the street toward the massage parlor -- after hitting the ATM for cash -- I almost wanted to turn back and forget we'd even had the idea in the first place.

Too late for that.

We entered the spa, which seemed surprisingly quiet for a Saturday night. I mean, it's not like you can look on Yelp and see which times are more popular to get a quickie. I just assumed a weekend night might bring in more clientele.

We were greeted at the front desk and then shown to the locker room to put our things away and change into a robe. We left our underwear on underneath.

No, it wasn't like that scene in "Rush Hour 2" where Chris Tucker and Jackie Chan go to the "Heaven on Earth" massage parlor and get to pick from a lineup of 30 women.

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There were also no Triad gang members there, to the best of my knowledge.

We were each led to a separate massage room. I was face down on the table, waiting for this woman's hands to start working my back. I was stoned, and my masseuse spoke very little English.

There wasn't much conversation.

Soothing music played in the background as I experienced a pretty pedestrian massage. At times, I could barely feel her hands and fingers on my skin.

As time went on, my mind drifted to the "ending." My friend had failed to give me instructions on how this was supposed to go down, so I was praying to god it wouldn't be awkward, and she would just make a smooth transition.

I was wrong.

As the massage ended, and my masseuse tried to usher me into the next room for an actual shower, I just started saying "table shower" over and over again. Seriously.

As nervous as I was about the whole thing, there was no way I was leaving with just a half-assed regular massage.

She looked at me like I had three heads, but somehow I knew she understood exactly what I was saying.

She repeated the phrase -- "table shower" -- and suddenly I found myself back at the front desk of the spa to pony up another fee. I honestly don't remember what the figure was, but it was probably somewhere between $30-$50.

Talk about killing the mood.

Soon enough, I was back on the table, face up and ready for the long-awaited table shower.

My masseuse pulled down my underwear and started going at it. With her other hand, she lifted my hand and put it on her breast.

She kept saying, "You're getting very sleepy," which, while weird, wasn't too far from the truth. We had smoked weed like two and a half hours ago.

A few minutes later, it was all over.

Before I knew it, I was being rushed into a shower and sauna area, where I met my friend. It was weird how we both ended up there at the same time, but I guess that's just how things work sometimes.

The sauna lasted only a few minutes. We dressed in silence, and I couldn't help but feel a little cheap after the whole experience.

Was I satisfied? Not really. I was tired. I was cold. I was ready for bed.

So, if you still feel the need to fulfill some fantasy you have of getting a massage and a hand job, then all you need to do is find a spa that offers "table showers."

A little advice: Ask around and try and find some reviews so you don't blow your load -- and your cash -- on a sub-par performance.

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