Hi there everyone,
Peter here. I'm of classical stock really.
A few years ago I decided to test my mettle in one of the former colonies in Asia. For various reasons, I won't specify which one. Regardless, I took to my new life quite well. Work was well paid, not too stressful. My apartment overlooked the park and I had my laundry dry-pressed for me weekly for a steal. I soon managed to situate myself against a respectable backdrop of moneyed associates. Among them, a one, what shall we call him? Charles; yes, let's settle on Charles. An old favourite, really, Charles. Old money, Cambridge in the 80s, financier since the early noughties. Slightly meaty, now, that same Charles. But alas! How we do age.
Months pass, I become bored at work, mergers, acquisitions, government-stabilized markets, etc.; but meanwhile I become engaged in a relationship with a local. Oh nothing too scandalous! The times have changed. Such things are common. She really was quite charming. Sleek black ponytail pinned back, that kind of international school English; a grammar inflected by one too many languages, perhaps; a sense of self failing to cohere from exposure to too many pop cultures. American, Korean, British, Singaporean. Her bloodline is an ode to globalization. Let's call her Cindy.
Everything is going well. I make subtle allusions to the view from my apartment. One indiscretion follows another and eventually she takes in the shape of the trees from the 10th floor view. Ah! to be young again.
I try my subtleties of seduction. Sincere, you would have to say. Perhaps a little too rashly, I loosen my belt buckle over a glass of wine. Too quick, too sudden. She has work appointments, emails; must be going anon, directly, etc.
I'm fairly distraught. Despair not Pete old boy!
Over a rather boozy brunch the next day, I tell Charles all about it. Oh they can be coy little devils out here, he says. But the devil is in the details, he continues.
Whether it is the Prosecco or my own agitated state of mind, I have no idea what he is talking about. Oh! Dear Charles. How you could be so indirect. So cryptic, so concealed.
I palm a strand of hair from my forehead. I express my vexation at the whole wretched state of affairs.
Charles studies my exasperation. I have just the thing for it, he says.
Such a malignant gleam I have not seen in the eyes of man since.
We split the bill. Take a taxi downtown.
A gentlemen's parlor he calls it. Those of you who've managed to take in the former colonies will know all about them. A delightful young woman leads me through a series of double doors and down a hallway with a view of the streets below. She hands me a robe, instructs me by way of sign language to undress. Finally she hands me a pair of disposable shorts. Blue, paper-thin. Her painted nails catch the fluorescent sheen of the lights overhead.
I disrobe as instructed, I lie face down on the table. And I wait.
Things go quite smoothly. I mean, she is a complete professional. Nothing beyond the boundaries of decent taste. Oil on the back, deep tissue along the legs. I ease myself into a world of pure sensation undisturbed by worries about next week's markets.
Then it happens, gradually, mind you. She pulls shorts an inch lower, then another inch. By Jove! I think. My buttocks must fairly well be completely exposed. I feel my pulse in my throat.
Is this, eh, normal procedure? I ask.
My voice fairly breaks.
She assures me that this is just a part of the massage. I manage to convince myself of our joint innocence. I ease into it.
I trust you'll understand my predicament. Let's say I begin to feel rather excited. Then the unimaginable happens. My dear innocent masseuse decides it wise to slip my under-garments off completely.
I lift my head from the table, turn drowsily to the side.
Really, now? I say.
I can barely form a full sentence. My dear, the shame! the shame!
She proceeds to slip the shorts until they are scrunched around my knees. She proceeds to massage my inner thighs.
Yes, she says. Stress is here.
I feel as though I am about to faint. I rehearse various excuses. I have a meeting! I have to see a friend of a friend of a ... then she decides it is time to turn me over. I comply. Wretched man that I am.
She positions herself between my legs, climbs aboard the table. Finally, she peels the crumpled shorts from my knees.
What follows is marvelous, really. But only in hindsight. For the next hour she rubs her palms into the meat around my hips. And I naked as the day I fell to earth! I am fairly bouncing off my own stomach! Good old captain Pete is rock hard! What a sight. With one hand she starts to scratch my belly button with her nails.
Then she stares at Captain Pete, tells me that I am quite a bad boy to let her proceed with all these indiscretions. -- But she never, no. Not quite, you see. Not quite.
Let's just say she understood the maintenance of one last boundary would save us both from disgrace.
She finishes with a head massage. Directs me towards a shower. I breathe, release myself. I expect her to leave me be by the shower. What happens instead is another verse to my ode to indiscretion. She watches me shower! For a full ten minutes. I rinse the oil from my hips. Then she says: no! Rinse there! She points at good old Captain Pete. I've tried to conceal him. Oh dear. Oh death!
Finally, she leaves me shower alone. I nearly faint again with the recollection of all that I've experienced in an afternoon.
My word.
I wait for Charles at reception. An hour passes. He never shows. I reach for my wallet, mildly annoyed that I'll presumably have to pick up his side of the bill as well. As I reach into my jacket pocket, the receptionist waves me off.
Your friend, she smiles. Pay already.
A week later, I'm back at my apartment with Cindy. We sit, overlooking the park. She leans into me so that I can smell her shampoo. Roses, perhaps. She places her hand on my thigh. All I can think about, however, is my time with Charles at the gentlemen's parlor.
A week later she breaks it off with me in a Sushi bar. Really, some people have no sense of occasion.
Anyhow, all of that was many years ago now. I've since left the colonies behind. And now I'm here, hoping to swap tales of indiscretions. My goodness! the joy, the fear.
-- Stillman.
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