It’s funny, I’ve never technically fucked a whore. Here’s why I avoid that whole scene:

It’s funny, I’ve never technically fucked a whore. Here’s why I avoid that whole scene:

a) It seems dangerous to me – if not from the gay AIDS then surely from herpes or hep C or some terrifying shit like that. Imagine the condom breaks?

b) It’s expensive

c) What if you’re the one in a million guy that gets busted? You wouldn’t get the elliot spitzer treatment, instead you’d get the ZAXXON from Riker’s Island treatment, and get real AIDS in prison, while your wife moved the kids far away from you and nobody could blame her. On their 18th birthday your wife would go “I have something to tell you children…Daddy isn’t really dead.”

But those are really the only three reasons I haven’t fucked a whore. I have a nonstop aching in my loins to spread my demon seed over the faces and backs-of-legs of every girl I see. Jesus christ I just thought of my kids and whether I should still really be saying shit like that. I hate when that happens. It’s such a horrible conflict. Now I just keep thinking about them. I’m going to literally kill ANYONE that touches my kids. They’re never having sex with anyone ever. Over my fucking DEAD BODY.

Ok, I just took a break and had an energy drink so that I could clear my head and get back to writing about WHORES.

So I’ve never fucked one.

However, I have, as you may know, gotten dozens and dozens of handjobs (maybe over 50, literally) from asian massage parlors, russian massage parlors, and college-girl handjob joints whose URLs I can’t reveal to you as I don’t want the waiting rooms cluttered up by SAUSAGE.

Here’s a story about the time I hit rock bottom while chasing after a 10 second orgasm:

I was at work at my old job which was just a bit east of union square. I got started with the itch that afternoon just like I usually do – by seeing a bit of a hot chick’s leg, or a little neck skin under an earring, or a bra strap, and having it build a seed inside me that grew until I couldn’t concentrate on my fucking work.

There was no time to go to any of my usual standbys during the workday, so I started to search craigslist for a tug job near union square. I searched for handjobs using my work computer without using a proxy server during work hours, which is something I recommend everyone do as it is IMPOSSIBLE to get caught.

I found a little place with a grand opening special – paradise spa, or some shit, with a bunch of palm trees – grand opening! 60$ an hour, 30 for half hour.

30 bucks – jesus that’s cheap. To give you some sense of scale, the white college chicks charge 100$ for 15 minutes.

Yeah blognigger, but how did you know whether it was a legit massage place and not a so-called ‘rub and tug?’ Quiet down dumbcock, remember it was in the fucking erotic services section of craigslist. Plus, I don’t think there’s a such thing as an asian massage parlor that’s legit. They’ll pull ya off for a few bucks – all of em. Fuck it, kick the chinese delivery guy an extra 20 and he’ll pump you off right in your brownstone foyer – if you don’t mind the General Tao’s gettin cold while he knocks around your cock n’ nuts.

Anyway, I grabbed my friend – my ‘mongering’ buddy – a true addict who is always down, and we head off for the Paradise Spa. Turns out it’s a broke down little nail salon on the 2nd floor of some shithole on 2nd avenue. Little green neon palm trees in the window. Shocking, I know.

We walk in, and the place smells like nail polish and that chinese laundromat smell. don’t front. All of the manicure tables are empty, which I know is shocking as well. Imagine there were chicks in there getting their nails done? yeah fuckin right. Oh don’t mind us, we’ll wait here – she’s gonna rub oil on our manrods as soon as she’s done putting the cotton balls between your toes.

Anyway, the cashier woman – never the same as the jackoff girls in any operation no matter what budget – was broke down. Her face was revolting – kind of looked like that abstract Sunday Funnies Jewjoke. My boy and I kind of looked at each other like damn, but thank god she’s not the one doing the jackoffs.

Those “girls” were all in the back room- they started peeking out into the main room to see if we were cops or something, since we couldn’t actually be their first customers ever. We checked them out, and it was horrendous. They were all ugly of course, but in addition, all three of them had at least one severe bonus deficiency that was unique to her own special self. One had like, chemical burn skin – not like a burn victim – you know what chemical burn skin is, right? Like her skin is all shiny and red like she’s had reconstructive surgery? One was like, just extra-ugly, that was her bonus trait, and one was really big and fat with a tiny bleached chinese mustache and OLD. They were all pretty old – 35 or above – but this mustached girl – who my friend and I called “chewy” – she was at least 40. And Big!

We looked at each other and were all – you wanna stay? i dunno, do you? you wanna stay? So it was getting awkward with the girls starting to get offended – and you know, i don’t want to hurt anyone ever, but at the end of the day, I just can’t get it up for chewy no matter how cheap it is. (See, I’m still more black than jewy at heart.) So finally I just said, “ok thank you! we’ll come back” and we bailed fast with the cashier being like “….ah ok, see you?”

That’s really the moment where a good american businesswoman would have stepped in and said “Listen boys, you’re not gonna FIND a jackin for less than 75$ in this town. Now these girls may not be lookers, but I’ll tell ya what – old chewbacca over there can rub an airbubble out of an iphone cover – she a fuckin ninja – knows how to press the taint at the right instant and will absolutely have ya hittin the ceiling, guaranteed. Now get back over in there, open your wallets, and go have a good time.”

No such luck for the owner – Ross Perot’s wife wasn’t available to be a cashier, so all their asian madame could offer was “…ah ok, see you?” and then of course to go beat the 40 year olds with reeds for being so ugly and destroying the owner’s honor and his business.

So we bailed. We ran back to the office, laughing our asses off. Good times.

Couple days pass, and on one particular day I get that itch again – but 10x as strong. Writing about it now I feel stupid – just like the moment after ejaculation where you think “fuck that was dumb” – what can I say though – when that chemical builds up in your nuts, it just puts you under the influence. Makes you a different person – a cock golem.

So I’m at work, and I’m poor, but i’m jonesing: I know I have to go hit chewy.

I don’t tell my friend – I go solo like a real addict. Get back there, and fuck if the girls aren’t occupied! Got damn, men are pathetic. The cashier gives me this little look like “I tolll you! Now you hafta fucka CHEWY!”

Indeed Chewy was the only one left – and I was so high on the chemical, SO backed-up that I opened up my wallet, paid my 30$, and let Chewy take my hand in her furry paw and lead me back to the massage rooms.

This place is REAL low budget – it doesn’t even real massage rooms – no DOORS! It’s an open space with cheap walls between each “room” – curtains instead of doors, and no ceiling- the fake walls just stop about halfway up to the real ceiling of the building. Each massage “room” is about big enough to fit a massage table, and space for a chewy to walk around it. This was designed by god to allow me to realize what an addict I was, and make me feel like I was in an 80′s crackhouse going to get my hit.

Chewy speaks really really really no engrish, so she leads me into the room and motions for me to get undressed. They always leave while this portion is going on, and I’m not sure why. Honey, you’re about to rub my penis and balls extensively – you don’t want to see me take off a pair of pants? That’s where you draw the line?

Anyway, when she comes back in, she directs me onto the table face down, and starts to give me a wholly mediocre massage. While she’s doing that, I start getting another chemical reaction – for some reason my mind starts to ruminate on the fact that the place is new: In the next 10 minutes, instead of enjoying the pressure-point stylings of chewbacca, I begin to grow convinced that the place is too new to have paid their kickbacks to police or the mob, and that it’s about to get busted while I’m there. The paranoia chemicals are like the sex chemicals – they seem ridiculous when I’m reporting on them here in the morning hours of sobriety, but at the time, I was fully immersed in their visceral grasp.

It was as real as it gets – every sound I heard was startling, and I was just convinced that each one was the feds just about to bust down the curtains.

Fortunately, before I had a fully fledged panic attack, chewy did “the move” on me. If you haven’t been to rub n’ tugs and don’t know what “the move” is, I’ll explain: “the move” is that first brush of their knuckles on the back of your testicles. Is it was designed by wise chinamen in 6000 BC, and is the most powerful triggerpoint in the universe. It makes pre-cum instantly shoot out of your dick, even when your dick is still soft. Yes – it’s a logic defyer, and it was powerful enough to take my mind off the feds.

After a bit more of this, I was as hard as a subway pole, and chewy gave me the international hand-signal for “tuln-a-ova?”

I flipped onto my back and she started massaging my chest and calves, my gigantic floppy hard-on just splayed out all over the place. Finally, she pointed to it and gave me this raised-eyebrow look as if to say, “you lika I massage this big fuckin thing?”

I was like “you betcha, tlack!”

And then chewy gave me a look which I swear to christ I will never forget – she covered her ?nese mouth with a big furry paw, and faked this little mischievous up-n’-down chickle like a big 100 year old wookie schoolgirl.

Hang on, lemme focus: yep, I can literally see it.

Then she asked me, in the one-of-two phrases she had learned from the jackoff-providers guidebook “how much you pay?”

I’m not accustomed to haggling while someone literally has me by the balls, but after some greystoke-style head-shaking and nodding and shit, we managed to settle on an extra 20 for her without me losing my erection. Shut up – I know it’s not much, but I’m part jew and man you shoulda seen this bitch. I don’t know what wookie wankoffs go for on endor, but I think 50 bucks total including tax and gratuity was more than fair.

So the next part is censored for your hetero-enjoyment: She hit fithy gear till I made a mess. That should be enough detail unless you’re literally gay.

Here’s when I reached rock bottom:

With whitesauce all over my chest, wheras most slanty providers will retrieve a hot towel for a wipedown that is arguably the 2nd climax encore of the session, chewy did no such thing. Instead, with a delicate little bow, she passed me a loose roll of charmin. Not even charmin – it was the scratchy budget shit that we’d still be using at home if my stay-at-home wife wasn’t bringin in a couple extra hundy a month by filling out tortuously boring online surveys.

Now here’s what you need to do: visualize someone handing you a roll of toilet paper, ok? You’re holding the roll, right? How do you get paper from it? Your right hand takes the paper and pulls it, right, while your left hand holds the roll itself. With me?

Where are the fingers of your left hand? Think about it – try it if you need to, I’ll wait. In order to let the roll rotate and dispense paper, your left palm will be balanced against the roll, and your first two fingers will be in the hole of the cardboard roll itself.

In the cardboard hole: That’s exactly where I was putting my first two fingers when they landed in a small glob of another man’s semen.

I gagged. I felt dizzy. I scratched them clean with more toilet paper. I gagged again – I made deathly sure not to sniff it, and almost started crying.

I’ve touched another man’s semen. That’s where addiction leads you, Sam.

I didn’t even begin to explain it to chewy, who was still diligently observing my clean-up process. I pushed the suffocating cancer-causing feelings of dread and fear into my stomach, where they have remained until this moment.

As I continued getting dressed, like a stifled broken zombie (hand not washed yet) – I remembered the police. I really hoped to jesus they weren’t out in the waiting room getting man manicures or some shit, waiting to bust me and my cumkissed two left fingers.

I was really dizzy. In a last-ditch attempt at calm, decided to start be extremely nice to chewy, not just for a little human companionship, but also because it seems to be a pattern I fall into during stressful situations – like anytime I’m dealing with cops or going through airport security. Like in case secretly they’ll think I’m a good guy and maybe cut me a break. I guess subliminally, I was hoping chewy would show me a secret batpole exit down to the street to let me avoid the fuzz.

I made eye-contact with her and said “Thank you so much!”

She looked around, I guess deciding me that that had done it – I deserved to be given the secret tip-off, and she said to me in a hushed sort of whisper: “No poppers.”

Another psychotic rush of fear went through my nervous system.

“What??”

“No Poppers!”

FUCK that’s what I thought she had said. She was obviously looking out for me – my strategy had paid off. Maybe there’re cops in the nail lobby and she’s telling me to dump any drugs I have so that I don’t get taken down on both charges.

I had to ask her – “No poppers?? Why – who’s outside??”

She pointed to me: “you a thank you”
She pointed to herself: “I a no poppers”

OH no PROBLEM, OH thank god, thank god! Thank you chewie, you’re a great friend.

The adrenaline of learning that everything is fine is the strongest rush of all – it flooded into my head and my tingling hands.

Everything’s fine.

Except that I was still addicted to the release and my hands we’re drenched in the aura of semen. I washed and scrubbed my fingers, scrubbed my soul, and finally admit to myself that I had a problem.

I went back to the office realizing that it had all gone to far. I had reached rock bottom and I had to change. It was a depressing and horrible feeling, so powerful that it made me stay away from those places for good.

Or rather, for about 6 months, until last week, when I caught a glimpse of a mom’s bra as she bent down to adjust a stroller wheel while riding a subway.

That was it – I had to go back for the release. This time at least, Chewy was gone. Or busy. This time my girl was younger. This time it was $60, but they used a hot towel. Worth it. They got it under control – and so do I. I can live like this- as long as I don’t have to touch another man’s semen again, I can hack it. Everything’s lookin up. no chewy; no scratchy paper; no poppers.

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