ZOOMDOGGLE

TRUTH OR DARE: Parlor Tricks

It’s Wednesday. The day Zoom lets you play Truth or Dare with Drew. Think of him as your very own lab monkey. One with a very sordid past and very little shame. Got a question or dare? Send ‘em in and make him doggle for your delight…

TRUTH: Do ALL Asian massage parlors “go the distance” to satisfy their clients? There’s one on my block that doesn’t look up to code, but it doesn’t look entirely sketchy either; think they’re choking chickens in there? – sentinbyfriendofdoggle@wherevertheygotouremail.com

Ah, a good question… and a hard one to answer. There’s no way to say what happens at ALL such establishments. Assuming that the “sketchy ones” are murdering man-poultry as you say, the only reasonable test would be to check in on a few who don’t appear to be in the batter-bleeding business. But as none would confirm by phone that they engaged in such practices, we decided to move in for a closer look. The following is my account of a visit to a beauty salon around the corner from the Zoom office in Soho/Nolita. Consider it Zoom’s first attempt at investigative doggling. Lets see what we can’t learn…

ZOOM NOTE: In the interest of not blowing up anyone’s spot, we’ve decided to run just this one picture.

From the outside the place looked like anything BUT a happy-ending hideaway. A full plate glass facade gave passersby a view of three barber-chairs facing a mirrored wall. Two older Asian ladies sat with tinfoil in their hair and the signage was all haircuts and nails. By my naïve standards, this should be the last place on earth to get jerked and therefore, the perfect test. At the end of the price list in the window was mention of a foot and neck massage for $20. I wondered how many—if any—nods, winks, and smiles it would take to get them to service the in-between.

Upon entering, the hairstylist, or beauty technician if you prefer, looked up with what was either disgust, confusion or irritation.

“Hi, I’d like a FULL-body massage,” I said. She put up a finger, and, without saying a word, marched through a curtain to the back of the place. A few moments later she returned with another woman, mid-40s but rocking higher heels than I’ve ever seen my mom in, who smiled as she motioned me to the back. The tug-zone?

She sent me into a room with a single massage table. Alone and unsure I went balls out and, well, took my balls out… along with everything else and laid facedown on the table.

“Full body $45?” she said when she returned.

“Not a problem. I just really need a good, FULL-body rubdown. I have a lot of tension and need RELEASE.” Before I could even wink into the face-pad, she’d covered my butt with a towel and gone to work.

It started off normally: oily hands, loads of squeezing and kneading, and me, unsure of how much groan is just enough to say “I appreciate your skills” without sounding creepy.

“What your name?” she asked, as she moved up my legs and shoulders to the back of my neck.

“Andy,” I said, my Adam’s apple pressed uncomfortably into the table.
“Dandy!?” she said.
“No, Andy,” I corrected.
“Danny, good name,” she responded. I didn’t try to correct her again. Sure, I’ll be Danny for you.
Just as I was getting comfortable, she climbed onto the table and—this time starting at the top—pressed her heel hard into my brain stem. My vision went a little blurry.

“So how you hear of us?” she asked, feet planted firmly in my upper back.
“My friend, Jake, recommended the place,” I said, which was the truth. Kinda.
“I don’t know Jake,” she said quizzically.
“Yea, he said it was a great place to relieve stress,” I fumbled.

“Oh? You’re stressed?” Was this the line of subtle questioning I had been waiting for?
“Totally! Work is real tough, and my girlfriend and I just broke up. It’s been a HARD past few weeks.”
“What kind of work?” she asked. I’d planned for this; I had the perfect answer.

“For a bank. In banking. I deal with other people’s money… It’s tough working with other people’s money,” I smiled into the table. “Stressful. It’s really, really stressful.” How smooth am I? Straight up greasy. But also financial-like. Those guys are no strangers to the dark arts.

She got down off the table, squirted some oil into her palms, rubbed her hands together and started to work my back and arms again. This time more intimate, more magical—and more firm. She began to talk.
She told me her name was Serena (“spelled like tennis player”). She was Malaysian, not Chinese. She explained why her massages were better than the rest: “Swedish too wimpy and pricey.”

She continued the rub, cracking my neck, and legs, my arms, butt and hips. At one time she even got onto the table, grabbed both my legs and lifted them, my junk hanging loose. She commanded me to flip over and left the ween-bean uncovered while she worked my face. Clearly, we were closing in on O-town. I closed my eyes and awaited her firm handshake on my delicate undercarriage.

“Wow, feels good, Serena,” I complimented as her hands worked my chest, stomach and thighs. I wasn’t hard, but the slightest touch would have made it so. “Feels real good,” I said again.

And then… nothing. In fact, she covered my midsection and stopped.

“OK, we done,” she said. WHAT!? Done? But, Serena, we just started.
“You sure we’re done?”
“Mmmhmm,” she affirmed. But what about all my sexual implications? Was I not clear with my subtlety? It was time to be blunt.

“What about something a little extra? You know, for a big tip?” I asked. She stopped and looked at the door.

“Earlier is better. Soon we get busy,” she said as she left the room.

What the hell? This isn’t how it works. I slipped into my clothes and recalled all my actions and answers since I entered the massage parlor, but couldn’t pinpoint what I’d done wrong. Maybe this place is legit. Forty-five bucks is a pretty good deal on a massage; maybe that actually is their business. Just then, she returned.

“Next time, you ask for me,” she said. “I give you personal number.” Interesting.

So do ALL Asian massage parlors offer secret sex services? I’m not sure. This one didn’t look like it did… but maybe if you look like someone else they do… or will if you call in advance.
Bear with me, it’s only my first week on the job and, well, I’m still kinda stressed.
Who’s next and what can I do? Truth or Dare me.

—Drew@zoomdoggle.com

ONE LAST NOTE: In the days since Drew went on his investigation, all of Zoom’s pervy-er pals have confirmed the place as a chain-tugging tavern. Does that mean Drew looks like a narc or was just too eager? Hard to say, but we have high hopes for this kid. Check back next week to see how he does.