If you can’t laugh at yourself . . .

The saying goes, “If you can’t laugh at yourself, then who can you laugh at?”
I laugh at the fact the sex business is a multi-billion dollar industry, but yet nearly every man lies whenever a woman asks, “Have you ever been with a prostitute?” or “Have you ever paid for sex?”
(Sorry guys, but you know it’s the truth)

When I was somewhere around the age of 20, a friend of mine told me about a happy accident he had in the back room of a small nail salon. I call this a happy accident instead of a happy ending because my friend was unaware of the establishment’s practice.
My friend saw an advertisement in the newspaper that said, “Massage.” There was no picture in the ad of seductively dressed women or hints of an Asian mistress. The ad said nothing more than, “Licensed Massage.”
Upon entry, my friend described a small room with a small bed. The room was not dim or relaxed with any kind of soothing music. According to him, the masseuse was an older woman. She instructed my friend to get undressed and lay face down on the table.

Somewhere in the ego driven, prideful mind, my friend believed the masseuse was attracted to him. As a young virile man, he assumed the older woman was aroused by him and the ending of his massage was actually an act of lust and not a matter of business.

Naturally, I had my own ideas of visiting the small salon. Slightly interested and partially in doubt of my friend’s story, I decided to visit this place myself. I wanted to see if this masseuse was real, let alone willing to help straighten a man out while hay lies on her massage table. It turned out this nail salon was in familiar territory.

There is a small strip mall across the street from the Home Depot on Hempstead Turnpike. I had passed this strip mall more times than I could count. In fact, I grew up a short distance from this place.
The nail salon was next to a somewhat popular eatery and bar known as Potters Pub.  The front appeared to be a legitimate nail salon with neighborhood women sitting across from female employees, wearing masks, and buffing, shaping, or polishing the customer’s nails

As I drove passed, I began to doubt my friend. I passed again; this time I turned right on to Conti Square near the diner. I slowly drove passed the parking behind the strip mall.
And there it was—there was a door that matched my friend’s description. I quickly pulled in and parked my car.
Slightly nervous, I approached the door. I pressed the small lighted button to signal the doorbell and then I waited to be received.

A woman answered the door. Indeed she was older, only my friend neglected to mention that she was not just older, she much, much older.
The woman was not unattractive. She was certainly mature, very polite, and accommodating while directing me to a small room that matched the description I was given.
The room was not very wide or long. The lights were not dimmed in any way. There was nothing sexual or sexy about this massage place in any way. Certainly, there was nothing sexual (at least not at first) about the older masseuse.

As instructed, I undressed down to my boxer shorts and laid face down on the table. My arms were propped beneath a small pillow that stuffed beneath the side of my face.
I was prepared for the letdown. If there would be no hand-job for me, at least I would undergo a massage treatment. I had never received a massage before—at least, not a professional one. This was to be my first time.

Upon returning, the older woman slightly giggled and instructed me to remove my boxer shorts. There was no towel or sheet to cover mu naked bottom.
Of course, I did as instructed and returned to my faced down position. The masseuse comfortably placed my arms directly at my sides. She gently readjusted the pillow beneath my face and then she began.

Starting with my shoulders, the older woman worked every detail and every muscle. She was not especially gentle or soft. In some spots, I can say the massage was almost painful. Apparently, the tension in my muscles were tightened by whatever stress that comes with being 20 years old and stupid.

After working my body from the top of my neck to literally the bottoms of my feet; after working my shoulders, and my arms down to my hands, after massaging the tension from the center of my spine, down to my lower back, through my legs and down to each toe on both feet, the older woman took a hot towel and rubbed my clean of the warm oil.
I was not sure if my friend’s story was true or untrue at this point. However, the validity of his story came when the much older woman spoke in a soft Asian voice.

“Okay,” she said. “Roll over now.”
I was not sexually stimulated in any way. I was not showing myself to this woman or trying to guide her hand towards my lower section.

With my eyes closed and breathing calmly, I heard the sound of a bottle being squeezed and spurting oil. Then I felt the warm baby oil drizzle down on my manhood.

“Holy Shit!” I thought to myself.
“That son of a bitch was telling the truth.”

I can say with all certainty that even I, a man who was quite familiar with my equipment in the art of masturbation had not mastered the art as well this older woman.
“Is this okay,” she asked.
Obviously, I agreed.

The masseuse was not sexy to me or sexual at all. Her body was mainly aged, weathered, and somewhat saggy and unappealing. She looked like she could be someone’s mom. When the masseuse leaned forward, her cleavage hung from the top of her shirt. I cannot say the view was appealing at first. But when the stiffness came, I found it easier to appreciate the view.

With her eyes closed, the woman stood close to the massage table. She reached down with both hands, holding my shaft at the base with one, and striding up and down with the other. Her hand swirled magically at the top and then swirled back as she ran down.

The older woman knew when to pick speed. She knew when and how to grip. And shortly after, I came to the conclusion that my friend’s happy little accident is what led me to my first happy ending. The only piece of the story my friend failed to translate was the price for this “Extra” service. This was followed by the realization that, “This lady didn’t jerk my friend off because she liked him. She did it because he paid her!”

No, I will not lie and say this was my only time. I will not lie and say that I never paid for a prostitute. Nor will I deny that my first true prostitute experience ended up poorly with the police pulling up to me in the backseat of my car. Nothing happened. The hooker came in. She sat in the back seat and negotiated her price. Once we agreed, money exchanged hands and as she lowered her face towards my lap, we were interrupted by the quick bleep-bleep sound of a siren from a police car.

In all, I paid $25 for a hooker to give me a condom. As for the cops—they gave me a ticket.

The saying goes, “If you can’t laugh at yourself, then who can you laugh at?”
I laugh at the fact that most men deny ever paying for phone sex. And again, this too is a billion dollar industry. So from a statistical point; this means most men lie.

I will not lie and tell you I have never paid for phone sex. I will not deny the unfortunate way I was caught. Instead, I will laugh about it and expose my own stupidity.

I was living with a girl for a shirt while. I had just received my first credit card, which was certainly a new experience. It was really a simple process. I go to buy something with my credit card—they swipe it through, and that was it. This almost seemed like free money
(until the bill comes.)

My credit limit was not high at all. It was only a low introductory limit. Had I paid the bills on time and properly, then my limit and credit score would have increased. But that’s not what happened. I paid for meals with my card. I took my girl out and felt like a big shot. I spent money that was never mine because to me, a credit card didn’t seem like real money.

Nevertheless, on Saturday mornings, my girlfriend would go out to meet her mother for a manicure and pedicure. And me, I dug my alone time. I slept late and would lie around the small studio apartment.
One morning, I decided to turn on a video and enjoy some “Adult” time. These were the days back when VHS tapes were still in use. This tape in particular was worn from use. I would rewind and fast-forward to my favorite spots. I had my share of fetishes and things I like to see when in the mood. This above any other VHS tape was one of my better ones and I kept it handy for this Saturday morning occasion.

At the start of the movie and before the porn actresses and actors from the 80’s did their thing on film, there were advertisements for different phone sex lines.
They advertised numbers like 1-800-GET-HARD with the numbers 1-800-438-4273 in parenthesis below. And since I had a credit card, I decided to give this a shot with success.

The following week, I decided to try a different line. I made up my own ideas. I CALLED 1-800-HOT-GIRL. I called 1-800-GET-LAID, or whatever clever, seven letter combinations I could come up with like, 1-800-HI-HEELS.
This became a weekly thing until my credit card maxed out. Then it just became an idea to see which numbers I could come up with.

I called 1-800-FAT-GIRL as a goof. Apparently, this number was legitimate because there was a sexy recording that followed. I decided to give my card a shot with success. They explained my credit card was not approved, but I would receive a separate bill for the services provided.
I agreed to the terms and laughed at my own private joke about fat girls needing it too. Admittedly this joke was cruel, but admittedly, I was a stupid kid at the time.  And this was my Saturday morning thing. They never sent a bill. My credit card was never charged. I never heard anything about the service, so as time went on, I became comfortable in my conversation with the operators at 1-800-FAT-GIRL.

In the beginning, I was aware of the charge, so I sped the conversation up with the quick need of phone sex and had them get right to the point.
I had the velvety voice of a woman (at least I hope it was a woman) on the other end of the phone say what I needed her to say. Then I finished myself off and then I hung up.
Since the bills never came, I stopped caring about the operator’s lengthy sexual descriptions. I was comfortable to take my time and enjoy the phone sex experience to its full and erotic potential.

Approximately eight months passed. My girl had her Saturday routine with her mother and their manicure and pedicure. I had my Saturday alone time with the buxom women that operate the phone service at 1-800-FAT-GIRL. All was well . . .

On day I came home to find my girl sleeping on the couch. It was apparent that she was crying. I woke her and asked what happened.
“I’m in a lot of trouble,” she said.

Then she proceeded to show me a bill for more than $1600 from a phone line with the numbers, 1-800-328-4475, which in translation reads, 1-800-FAT-Girl. This bill did not come to our apartment. Instead, the bill was sent to the name of the lease holder of the apartment, which was the same name on the phone bill. In other words, the bill went to my girlfriend’s father. Not me.

Worst, the bill was followed with various sexual advertisements that ranged from any and all different fetishes including not only fat girls, but S&M, gay, and cross-dressing services. And worse than this, my girlfriend’s father received a second follow up bill of up to $1200 for phone sex services.

In no uncertain terms . . . I was caught

I had to face questions like, “How long have you been doing this for?”
“Why don’t you wait until I get home and we could do it for real?”
But of all questions, the toughest to answer was when my girlfriend asked, “And why the hell are you calling a number called, 1-800-FAT-GIRL?!”

Again, I laugh now. I’m not sure if I laughed then. I know the girl I dated was not laughing at all. I know her father was certainly not laughing, but I think that part makes me laugh a little harder.

We all pay for it in some shape or form. Everyone pays. We all make mistakes in our sexual careers. And we always pay for those mistakes too. Sometimes we pay for those mistakes up front—and sometimes we get hit with a bill in the end.

Like I said, if you can’t laugh at yourself . . .

who can you laugh at?

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