A bit startled and confused I glanced at Red. She stomped right past me and down a flight of stairs. The first clinical and imperious, the second purring and kittenish. Her demeanor and her voice were completely at odds. Without looking me in the eye she said, “Come with me for massage, darlink.” She marched in, shooting Red a curt nod, then turned to me. I thought it was a little rude that she’d make a personal call with a customer present, but it became apparent Red had called an outside contractor when, a few seconds later, the front door burst open to reveal - A 4′ 10″ Asian woman in a black duffle coat and black knee-high boots bearing the brisk, efficient manner of a drill sergeant. Red said yes, then picked up her cell phone and called someone. I asked the receptionist, who I’ll call Red, if it would be possible to get a 45-minute massage right then. The place reminded me a little of the no-frills acupuncture school I sometimes visit in Venice at home in California. Inside, there appeared to be rows of Chinese herbs in boxes behind the front desk where a slightly spacey, matronly redhead in a white doctor’s smock presided. Let’s take care of these throbbing feet and knotted calves.įinishing off my 300th hot-cross bun, washed down with Guinness, I entered a sort of nondescript parlor beneath a sign with the words MASSAGE illuminated in neon red lights. Look at that! Ten massage parlors all within a four-block radius. So one afternoon, with a few hours on my own, I thought: “I wonder if there are massage parlors in London? Specifically in Chinatown?” where I happened to find myself. I’d walked hundreds of miles through subway undergrounds, and climbed thousands of steps in these pursuits and my feet and back were killing me. The one out of only two Boden clothing stores in existence.(Since they won’t let me be an affiliate, due to my inappropriate site.) But there would be a price to pay. A trip I wanted her to take so I could go to London and see five West End shows and make the trek to the Mothership. I was chaperoning my daughter Bridget on a theater/drama trip in London last week. 80 for tip for such a great job.(I can massage my own breasts, thank you!) It began with sore feet. What a feeling that was to feel her mouth and the hot tea. She reaches over and grabs the cop o hot tea and takes a healthy swallow and dives back down and engulfs me. Yohimbebrother does not do the kissing thing. She slowly licks me from my crotch to my lips which I turned away. She proceeds to give me a BBBJ, then she says oopps I forgot something. Go and have fun and don't forget to report your experience. 6, but I told her that was all that I had. I carried in that amount, she asked for more 1.
You'll find this more helpful for men than, with all due respect, the Center for Sex & Culture or a lecture series from postmodern sex workers who haven't seen a drop of semen or felt penile insertion from a "John" in eons.Ī few choice reviews: - Thats correct.
Many of the reviews offer straightforward information on services, recent raids, price jacking, locations, prostitutes' aesthetics, and more-a helpful and honest online venue where can talk about sex. Much of the lingo, though, might be foreign to many readers, so here's a nifty glossary of terms that they provide.
The site is free to the public and doesn't require any cumbersome registration. To visit SF reviews of local massage parlors, follow the link. (To check out DCist's breakdown of all the joyous happy endings, go here.) Much to our delight, there's a San Francisco thread, which is a must-read. Our sister site, DCist, brought to our attention the nationwide USASexGuide's massage parlor online guide, which allows men to freely discuss their experiences at local massage parlors while giving helpful reviews.