Part One
The last thing I should have done was proffer any notions that might
inspire a harebrained stunt, least of all to Mr. Keith “Sippy” Cullen,
that mook. At first it seemed out of character. The man practiced a
pathological frugality, pinched his pennies until they squealed like
pigs. His porn sessions were his version of a cheap date. Sure, he
was a natural introvert, but it was parsimony mostly that prevented
him from pairing up. Now, The Red Splooge Boogie had him
high-stepping to a different tune as he betook himself to The Joy Luck
Rub, a tidy emporium of tug jobs tucked into a strip mall not too far
from his favorite 7-11 store.
Middle-aged Chinese women, originally from Hong Kong, operated the
massage parlor. Though they possessed but a smattering of English,
they moved him from lobby to massage room in a manner businesslike and
brisk. The women wore plain blue hospital scrubs and though far from
matronly frumps, they were certainly not the China doll ingenues of
desire’s imagination.
Mother naked, he stretched out on the massage table, his arms dangling
rubbery and loose off the sides of the table, his face firmly in the
cradle allowing him but a hemmed view of the floor and sometimes a
glimpse of a sensible workshoe. The masseuse set to manhandling
whatever muscles he had achieved through a regimen of role player
video games and internet porn. She directed him to turn over onto his
back and as he turned, she placed deftly a small pillow beneath his
head before he even realized what she had done.
“Little Brother need massage?” she asked.
“What brother?” he started, “I don’t have a ...”
“Little Brother.” and she pointed.
“Oh ... oh, yes, please,” said Sippy. “Please, take good care of him.”
The woman stationed the bottle of lotion between Sippy’s knees,
applying liberal amounts to her hand and began slathering Sippy’s
loins. She proceeded in circular motions on his abdomen, sweeping
lower, lower, and then working the inside of his thighs. The circle
was closing in. Then running tentatively her fingers along his shaft,
with the other hand she kneaded the scrotum. Grasping his balls with
increasing pressure, she started stroking his penis. Sippy felt the
grumbling and flexing gland exert its power. A sudden inner
convulsing,and like a damburst, the woman was drenched. Sippy moaned
and the woman gasped.
“Aieeeeeeeeee!” she cried, “Ugh! Ugh! Oh, no! [something in Mandarin]!
You ugly defective white man! [something more in Mandarin]! I might
be contaminated and die of a horrible disease!
[something-something-something in Mandarin]!”
She wiped frantically the blood from her face and jetted from the
room, down the hall. Sippy heard doors slam and could discern several
excited voices but could not understand the words in Mandarin. Then
more slamming of doors. He toweled himself dry, then dressed and made
his way to the front desk. Seeing no one there, he slipped out the
door, hastening homeward with many a backward glance. The woman had
not collected money before the massage and Sippy had failed to leave
payment on the desk. When it became apparent no one pursued, he
slowed, breaking into a saunter and a shit-eating grin.
* * *
As if no one wanted to play cards with a man called Doc, pigeons were
scarce in the card room that next day when Sippy showed up, a spark in
his eye, a spring in his step. I motioned him over and asked how he
fared.
“I took your advice, Doc,” he said, “been trying things out, seeing
what’s exactly my new normal.”
“Your hemospermia condition - still erupting red?”
“Yeah, Doc. It’s a dang mess.”
“Vesuvius, Krakatoa, Sippy Cullen.”
“Doc, sometime I don’t get you at all,” he said. “So it’s funny. I
thought this brouhaha with the burst blood vessel would check my
action but just the opposite - it’s jumpstarted and turbo-charged my
whole sex drive. I’m in full-on horndog mode. All the time.”
“Well, that’s surprising,” I said. “I ‘d have guessed it would have
let the air out of your balloon.”
“It’s like I have an animal down there below my gut” Sippy said,
“purring away all the time, then when I get going, the animal is
roaring like that talking tiger on the cereal commercial. I’m about
to shoot my wad and the animal feels like it’s trying to explode out
of my body. It’s more powerful than anything I’ve felt before.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a good thing going there,” I said.
“It’s like when you absorb a power booster capsule, you up your energy
and your firepower increases tenfold.”
“Sippy, for the sake of my reputation, I’m going to pretend that I did
not understand what you just said.”
“Hardy-har-har,” he said, “You just like to pretend that you don’t
know as much as you really do. So let me ask you about something
that’s come up.”
“Tell me what’s itching your brain,” I said.
“I’m thinking of going to one of them massage places I see around
town. Seems to be new ones popping up every month and I don’t know
which one would be really right for me, if you get my drift.”
I gave him the eye and thought oh ho, once more he’s the man of gelded
dreams and stillborn schemes.
”Well, Sippy,” I said, “there’s legit ones and then there’s not so
legit ones where you can exercise your animal, if that’s what we’re
talking about. But seriously, you need to take care of your problem
first.”
“It’s getting better, actually,” he said, “should be cleared up in a few days.”
“Just like finding the right plumber or barber shop, it’s trial and
error, or you rely on word of mouth. You might try doing some
searches on the internet. I understand there’s chatrooms and websites
where the ‘patrons’ discuss and rate the different establishments.
I’ve heard that if you’re interested in a superb by-the-book working
over, then steer yourself to the Asian joints.”
“Really?” he asked. “Why’s that?”
“Regular massage has been a part of their culture for centuries and
unlike run-of-the-mill American-operated massage parlors, those run by
Asians make a practice of rendering service before receiving payment,
leaving the amount of the gratuity, if any, to the gentleman patron,
which is one their ways of sidestepping the snares of Uncle Leo.”
“You mean the crazy uncle from Seinfeld?”
“That character’s name has been hijacked by the criminal subculture so
that here LEO stands for Law Enforcement Officer.”
“Jiminy Christmas! No kidding!”
“And try to avoid anyplace that advertises ‘hot stones’ therapy,” I
said. “According to my sources, that’s the piss-poor substitute
provided by sleazy incompetent joints that don’t have trained massage
therapists and any extra services they might offer are usually
substandard, as well. So you think you want to sample the skills of
one of our local service providers?”
“Nah,” he said, “probably not.”
“I didn’t think so for a moment, Sip. We are who we are.”
“Guess so,” he said.
In hindsight, he’d laid enough cards on the table for me to suss out
the situation but, you see, I had never taken Ol’ Sippy seriously, not
even halfway, and so my mind skated over what otherwise would have
been evident.
* * *
