Okay folks. I want you to know right off the bat this is not a sports post. This a manstyle post. I want all of you thinking about getting a foot massage to be aware of the seedy side effects of metro-sexuality. Don’t be a gentle victim like I was.
The room was dark and intimate with beds lined symmetrically and neatly resembling that of a boot camp dorm. Oils, candles and lotions adorned the sides of the preparation table. In the air were the sultry, sexually hypnotic sounds of jazz that lightly echoed throughout the chamber containing an innovating mix of classic Kenny G-esque sounds that would surely accompany a tantric, no-holds-barred lovemaking session at any other time.
Soft brown fingers gently caressed first my back, neck and then feet sending me into a world of relaxation I had not known for quite some time. Was it pure bliss I thought? Was I in heaven I wondered? No, came the answer as instantaneously as when he told me to turn over so he could massage my front parts.
Immediately at that point I thought, you’re Gay!
Yes America, I think I am Gay. And it took a $30 foot massage from Jin De Foot Spa for me to figure it out.
Damn, I thought I was the All-American boy growing up.
I looked back on my life and thought of all the things that could have possibly led to this point and I could come up with absolutely nothing.
Naked chicken fights in the pool at the Catholic Church with Father Dooley? Nope. Washing a teammate’s back and taint in the shower after football practice? Everyone did that. Sharing the last Popsicle or banana with your buddy? That’s what friends are for. Tea-bagging a friend in the mouth and keeping it there until he admitting you finally got him and then enjoying some summer sausage in the kitchen and talking about Oprah? You’re gay if you haven’t done that.
No became full-gay the moment I got onto that table and noticed when the masseuse brought in the old-school kimchee bucket and wasn’t immediately leaving. I kept looking at the door as we sat alone in the room, waiting for some hot Asian broad in a kimono with little feet to enter. But my looks went in vain as Wand Doodle never had any intention in leaving my side.
I was hoping against hope as he had me place my feet in the bucket.
“Okay, he’s just getting me prepped,” I thought.
Then he asked me to lie down on the bed.
“Alright, someone else is coming in here at any minute,” I said bemused.
Then as quickly as a crouching tiger, he placed a blanket across me and lubed up his hands with some type of eucalyptus cream and began massaging my head. All the while I lay in denial thinking he was doing what he needed to do because the other women were tied up. But that would not be the case at all. It was me and him—he and I and we were alone.
Suddenly the room went from being an ideal place to discover your Chi to the day room in OZ. I could hear the cackles and foreign conversation in the hallway from the lady folk as if they knew I was waiting for them and they were not coming.
With every pulsating, pressure packed motion of his fingers against my scalp and temples, the sounds of Korean Celine Dion’s ‘My Heart Will Go On’ seemed to grow louder and louder. At first I thought it was the longest rendition ever but after thirty minutes, I discovered it was on repeat. He was Jack Dawson and reluctantly, I was his Rose Bukater, nervously lying on his table waiting for the moment when I was to undress so he could draw me nude, diamond in tow. I was afraid of what was to come.
Then he said turn over.
Now you might be asking yourself “why would I continue to stay in that awkward situation? Why didn’t I just get up and leave or ask for a female to finish the job or something along those lines? I consider myself a progressive thinker, comfortable in my skin and content with my sexuality. Yeah that would be a great answer but the truth is 1) it felt good, 2) my feet hurt which is why I went in there in the first place, and 3) it felt so awkwardly good that I freaking fell asleep.
Yes, for about 30 minutes of a 70 minute quasi-rape I was asleep. I caught myself snoring several times and kept jumping up removing the rape towel from my face to not only see exactly where he was, but to also make sure he still had his pants on.
But I digress.
As the session wound down, I found myself connected to my new friend. Not because he had his little yellow hand in mine, but because we were closer now. I mean literally is sack was right next to my forehead as he proceeded to punch my thighs with karate chops of fury. All the while I could hear the grumbling of his stomach as if he was longing for love…and a steaming bowl of rice. I imagine he felt we could share it like Asian Lady and the Tramp if only for a few minutes before the kitchen owners beat us to death and served us to other patrons. What a romantic evening.
When it was time to go, I gathered my belongings and headed for the door.
“Thank you,” I uttered still in stunned disbelief of what had just occurred. He giggled and followed me to the door. A man and a woman sitting on the couch in the lobby broke their conversation in order to give their undivided attention to me as I walked slowly as if deflowered to the counter to pay.
I sat in my car in silence reliving what had just happened. I wondered what I could have done differently, how I could have prevented discovering this part of myself. Absolutely nothing was the conclusion I came too.
So now I find myself wanting to shop for great abstract colors like mint, plum and mauve. I feel a need to wear bowties with long sleeve shirts and jeans. And I’m also craving sausages and pickles. Weird.
So to all my gay friends, I hope you welcome me into your big gay world with big gay drinks, big gay parties and help me adjust to my new super gay lifestyle.
Thank you Gay Foot Spa for all you’ve done for me?