The following public service announcement is brought to you by the International Brotherhood of Rub Junkies (IBRJ) - a non-profit corporation organized and operated as a wholly owned tax dodge...err...pardon me...subsidiary of Team Otis.
Everyone has limits and standards, situations that they consider to be sufficiently unacceptable as to warrant putting their pants back on and walking out. Everyone, that is, except me.
Well, that's not entirely accurate. I suppose I have some such limits, but my standards, I have to confess, are so low as to be nearly non-existent. Principally this is the case because of a simple mathematical formula:
NEED > JUDGMENT
Or, to put it colloquially, need exceeds judgment. Time, for me, is a precious commodity. There just aren't enough hours in my average day to be walking into places, looking around, and leaving because the talent's not quite up to snuff. If I go somewhere its a fait accompli - a done deal - that I'm gonna take my pants off and blow a load before I walk out. This fundamental truth - I don't call it a rule; it's not a rule, it is not backed by a principle, it is merely a function of practicality - has resulted in my tolerating some comically awful situations (see, e.g. Hon Man Herbs, proof that even a halfway decent blowjob can scar a man for life) which, nevertheless, got the job done when required.
Yes, everything is relative, taste is taste and it's inevitably subjective, for sure. That's why absolutely any posted review that describes a provider as "old" will result in the appearance of at least three mongers who saw her, never reviewed her, but who will vehemently defend her honor and insist you've got the demographic profile all wrong. Similarly, using the word "cute" in reference to a provider whose facial features rank as a mere "5" in one man's eyes will draw a raised eyebrow sort of reply.
Once I've gotten in the door, I roll with things unless they simply enter some new realm of total unacceptability. After the fact, I make an effort to sort reality from what I may have had to close my eyes and imagine in order to get the job done, and while I may romanticize this shit, I do try to cast my descriptions in enough harsh daylight to allow my fellow mongers to glean useful consumer information from the report.
In that vein, I report as follows: should you elect to follow on the heels of the one I took for the team at River Spa, you may be fortunate enough to replicate the roughly average experience I had with Cici or one of the other fortyish ladies I ran into that day. Alternatively, you may wind up with something significantly less appealing.
I figured I'd hit this place again to see if I might stretch some additional mileage out of it, but my day was busy and I left a very short window of time in which I might entertain myself. I walked in and an older woman I assumed was the mamasan greeted me. I quickly realized there were no other women about and asked if Cici was working. She was busy...I didn't have time to wait...I looked her up and down in the dim red light...slim...maybe too slim...damn, kinda skeletal actually.
Between the lighting and the makeup I couldn't really gauge her age effectively. I went with it. She said her name was "Katie." I gave her 40 for a 40 minute massage and she got to work. Face down, the mediocre massage was...mediocre.
Then came time to flip. I flipped and she started rubbing by balls and then stopped and did that weird "is it ok?" bit, asking permission to jack me off. Ok? Jesus christ why do you think I'm here? For the shitty Chinese candy? For the tiny Poland Spring bottle?
She oiled up my cock and got to work. Slow, even strokes up and down my cock. I looked up at her and made eye contact. I could see cracks in her thick makeup that made it look like her face itself was in danger of crumbling off. She had to be at least 60.
I am not proud. I was getting hard and I wasn't leaving without closure. I closed my eyes - she kept it simple, kept her hands on my cock and nowhere else. She used a kind of twisting motion that felt really good. I was fully erect. My mind was drifting. I had to get back for a meeting at...what time? Wait, what day is it? Right ok. Focus...
This went on for a while. A man does what he has to do to get the job done. No, I am not proud. I may have no pride at all, but I also have no shame and I am not above any manner of desperate measure. I closed my eyes again and put my hand on her ass. It was...an asian woman's ass, which is to say it was nice and tight. It felt good. I felt like I was making progress.
I reached up and felt her breasts. They were...an asian woman's breasts, which is to say they were nice and small and tucked away inside a padded bra. She was pumping away nicely down below. It felt damned good. Whatever that twisting thing was it was working. I arched my back a little and let it fly...
She cleaned me up and I started getting dressed. Then something bad happened. As I was putting on my socks on, she turned the lights on and peeked in on me. I turned and saw her in all her glory, under harsh fluorescent lights. Her gaunt figure...the heavy makeup...nothing could conceal it anymore...she looked like...Skeletor.
I gave her 40 as a tip and high tailed it down the stairs, the image of Skeletor nipping at my heels as I did. I couldn't shake it. Skeletor haunted me, laughing at me.
I wondered if I ought to adjust my priorities and pursue quality over quantity for a change. Maybe go half as often but to places that are twice as nice...
Nahhhh. I'll just have to find another way to get Skeletor out of my head.