In my iPod: Lotus Feet - Steve Vai
State of mind: Injured
Location: Bangalore, India
When you fucking say massage, all I can fucking picture is being in a sleazy room with a 3rd world lady dressed merely in bra and panties who can hardly speak any English but the longest English word that she knows and probably used the most is “Masturbate”. Condoms were kept in the most usual places inside the room from Jacob cracker tin boxes to Milo cans; just in case you get all heated up and want to take your dick for a ride and go the extra mile. But for those who rather not go all the way but still want to blow off some steam; for a little less than the fuck fee, you can always get a hand relief. But the price of the hand relief depends on whether you want her to be naked or not and for a little slightly higher price you can play with her breast while she service your shaft. What can I say, it is pretty standard everywhere.
I am sorry to you ladies with husbands who like going for massages; I just painted you a horrid reality of what really goes on inside a massage room. Now you fucking know, what it really means when your other half and his friends goes for a massage. I know it is not always like this but that was what happened to me when my friends brought me to a little health spa at Hotel Robin, Ipoh. But of course I didn’t do any of the above, not because I am some kind of saint or Boy Scout. If you fucking know me, I live for sex & porn and there is nothing bad that I wouldn’t do. But a man has got to have principles and mine is - I don’t believe in paying for sex. Sex should be free and should not be a fucking business transaction. So what I am trying to say is I will never pay for the service of a prostitute; unless it is free then I am cool about fucking a hooker.
I got the same old feeling of that little massage room in Robin Hotel when I stepped in one of the spa here in Bangalore. What if I succumb to the temptation of sex and went for the full package of fucking my massager’s brains out? Wouldn’t I be going against my non paying sex principle? A moment of anxiety was upon me as I lay naked with my ass facing skyward, waiting for somebody to attend to me; Fuck lord fuck, no super hot semi naked Bollywood like chic walking pass that door please.
But to my dismay, it was more than I anticipated when I slightly tilt my head upwards and saw a pair of hairy legs walking towards me. Spa motherfuckers sent a fucking guy to massage me. Man, this is so icky. Imagine being touched and rub all over by some hairy Indian dude. I know I ask not for a super hot chic but you don’t have to fucking give me a hairy Indian guy right? I would have been content if you gave me a middle aged Indian lady whose nipples were pointed southward or even maybe a butt ugly transgender, but not a hairy curry jockey.
My 45 minutes past like it was a one week’s ordeal and I couldn’t wait to put on my fucking robe, I just couldn’t stop imagining how that guy was drooling all over my bare ass. But I guess my day got better after that, because it was time for me long waited rose petal milk bath.
You know what after the 45 minutes of hell, the milk bath did miracles. I walk out that spa with a swagger and feeling energized, sanitized and virginized as if I was re-hymenated. I think I would definitely come back here again for the heavenly milk bath but not the hellish massage. My days in Bangalore are almost up and I am moving towards my last stop - Mumbai to see the world’s largest brothel.
No, it's not sperm from 1,000 Indian guys, it's milk (nectar of the breast)
Update: I guess I have to postpone my move to Mumbai because I hurt my fucking neck while doing bench pressing while checking out a slightly overweight chic working out in the hotel gym. I could hardly move my neck now, so I will be recuperating until I am able to move my fucking neck. For now, being addicted to the Milk N’ Roses bath, I bought myself a bottle of milk bath but didn’t trouble myself with the rose petal.
23/6 At the Hotel Gym
22/6 Curry Lobster
17/6 I got my wings