One of the many advantages of living in New York City is the copious amounts of Chinese women who are eager to rub you at rock bottom prices. I visited one of these women recently and boy oh boy, did she rub! When I went into my little curtained off cubicle, I called out, “should I take everything off?” I thought I heard, “yes.” So I proceeded to pull my underwear down, revealing my sexytimes in all of their ungroomed glory. Just as I was doing that, the curtain opened and the Chinese woman screamed and said, “No! Not underwear!” I muttered a pathetic, “sorry,” pulled my drawers up and jumped onto the table. And that is how my massage began.
I like to pay people to touch me. When you pay someone, they are thorough. My husband, Paytaire, is a great man. Probably the best man. Certainly, top shelf. There is no finer husband out there. His character is sound, his humor strong, and his body odor controlled. But when I need to be rubbed he does what they all do, a quick once over that lasts 45 seconds followed by 3 minutes of talk about how his joints hurt. F that. Listen, I don’t like to rub people for an hour either. I get it. It sucks and it does make your joints hurt. I don’t know how the Chinese women do it. I choose to believe that it is ancient Chinese wisdom at work, that they are somehow transferring into my muscles a sacred qi that has been passed along for multiple generations. Why mess with an amateur, like your partner, when you can pay $50 for the best (who, by the way, are on the second floor of a dirty building that smells like potty cabbage and green beans.) So for all of my FLSAL (Friends Living the Single Angry Life), even when you’ve got a man, you still need a Chinese lady.