I’ve never waited with someone else in a Hand Job waiting room.
There is always a waiting room at a Hand Job.
There never seems to be a queue.
I walk in.
Personally, I’d like a couple of minutes to look around some more—to touch the fake plant in the corner, to look at some of the furniture that someone in China in the 80’s wanted to make someone in America in the 80’s think represents “Asia". To watch the daughter of one of the Jobstresses as she watches cartoons in the “office” area, which is separated from the “waiting” area by the type of wooden screen I usually only ever see in gardens. In other words, I’d like to snoop around.
I won’t get to snoop around. I’m not saying there’s a lot to look at. To me, it’s similar to walking into a Chinese Buffet—it’s impossible for me to imagine that the Chinese Buffets I’ve patronized could have purchased their buffet items from different vendors. Are you Chinese, Chinese people? I think you are. I have only one way to check: “Ni hao.” I’d like to make it clear now that the Jobstresses who have provided there services to me have all been or, at least, have presented themselves as being Chinese. Other areas of Asia seem, to my perpetual disappointment, to be underrepresented. The areas of primary interest to me are Korea and Japan. Where are you, Korea and Japan? Never mind that for now: Someone has greeted me too soon for me to really snoop around. I’m about to infiltrate the Chinese Buffet’s sister enterprise. And on an empty stomach no less.
“Have you been here before?”
“No.” That was my tactic for a while. If you lie about your experience, you might be able to pay less—if you’ve been before, you ought to know about what to expect they’ll charge, right? The last two times, I’ve just left, though. The women are never beautiful (although one was close), usually aged, and always try to overcharge. By the way, a Hand Job can also be called an Asian Massage and yes, I am referring to the place and not the act. They give themselves the function-performing name. I contribute the somewhat more honest name.
So, how much is this vital service worth? Fifty dollars at most, I say. There are a few criteria the Jobstress needs to fulfill before she deserves all fifty, though: one, no scented oil—it gives me a break-out every time. Two, give me an actual massage—for Christ’s sake, I gave you forty dollars and you’ll probably try to overcharge when you offer your actual service. (I assume that really wealthy folk are able to find better prostitutes.) What do they want to receive? Between eighty and a hundred dollars. This fee, I feel, ought to be reserved for the outright hunchbacks. I consider myself a very pleasant and extremely fair fifty-dollar client. To date, though, I’ve never paid less than fifty-seven dollars for The Service.
It’s a rare instance where I have found myself in the company of a different woman than the one that greeted me in the “waiting” room. This Jobstress is unlike all others I’ve Entrusted With. In fact, this isn’t a woman. This is a young woman. She’s, at most, in her late twenties. This is fascinating and, as most things tend to be for me, somewhat arousing. There is more fascination than arousal in this case, though, because something is not right about her demeanor. I can’t ever tell if the geniality with which I’m usually greeted is sincere or not. There is a decided lack of true or even false geniality with this young woman, though. The Jobstress is clearly about to do a job.
Each time I visit a Hand Job I wonder whether or not I will actually be aroused when the time comes to turn genitals-up. To date, I’ve never been (or, perhaps, never felt so distinctly like) a job. This brings the question of arousal that much nearer the crest of my thoughts.
What the massage ends up lacking in passion and presence it more than makes up for in scented oil. It’s now genitals-up time and I’m more completely flaccid than I may ever have been before. I peer down to check. The hypothesis is proved. I’ve saved the seventeen dollars that I was planning to offer for The Service. Then, she starts lightly touching my inner thighs and hips. I can see the dispassion in her face and what is probably a sickly perspiration that has formed along her hairline. “How can I possibly still be getting aroused,” I wonder aloud. (No, I don’t.) Next, she has offered The Service and I’ve guiltily Jewed her down. (I really only have another seventeen dollars anyway. How could I give her more? Stop looking at me like that. Jesus.)
What commences is among the most somnolent hand-on-semi-flaccid-cock action to ever set fire to a Hand Job. When the ordeal is taking longer than we both know it should, she dutifully places my hand on her left buttock. It’s no good, though— more perspiration and more guilt. I decide then to concentrate on climaxing to end the poor young woman’s misery. In another minute, I succeed. She inspects the bitter fruit of our combined labor. Looking at me with a bit of perplexity she says, “That’s it?”
I nod apologetically.
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