Wudaokou. A late, warm evening in blossoming March. Shannon, Marco and I stuffed our faces with the deliciousness that is the pizza at Red House (where we also prayed to the Face of Mercy which still hangs there in all its glory!). We decided to have a massage at the good- and- ridiculously- cheap- but- questionable place next to Fahlafel. Determined to not be subject to unholy propositions, Shannon asked for a woman masseuse and made clear from the very beginning what we were there for. However, the tone changed suddenly when Marco’s Magic Massage Man appeared- a Chinese Adonis with able hands, humble demeanor and a gift for carnal pleasure who made the very straight Marco utter things like:
I would cook for him, I’d wash his clothes. We could have a good home together! I’d drop out of university and move to Yunnan and his family, I don’t care!!!
If this massage does not end soon, I’ll be giving him a happy ending. and climaxing in
Oh my god, when he massaged my ass, I was like take it! Take it now!!!
Granted, it was probably the best massage any of us had ever had. They knew all the tricks. Two hours of heavenly bodily sensations for 79 Yuan with student discount. Remind me how much a drink is in Sweden again?