The Time I Was Inadvertently Cuckolded
Be Advised: Don’t take your “girlfriend” to an Asian Massage Parlor…and spring for it.
Be Advised: Don’t take your “girlfriend” to an Asian Massage Parlor…and spring for it.
Before we go any further, we should identify two things:
What is cuckolding?
What is an Asian Massage Parlor? (Colloquially known as AMP … yes, it’s a thing.)
Cuckolding — in fetish usage, a cuckold is someone who is complicit in their partner’s sexual “infidelity.” The primary proponent of the fantasy is almost always the one being humiliated, or the “cuckold” and the wife who enjoys cuckolding her husband is called a cuckoldress.
Asian Massage Parlor (AMP) — these are typically the massage parlors you see in strip malls or other unlikely locations. Sometimes called “rub and tug” places, they can be rather unsavory. BUT it is essential to note that not all massage parlors owned and operated by Asians is one of these “rub and tug” places. Many of them are on the up and up. An Asian Massage Parlor is located where you live; all you have to do is look.
Where I lived at the time of this story, Brooklyn, there were tons of AMPs. Far too many to count, but if you search, you’ll see them. Let me reiterate, most of these are legitimate …or at least give the appearance as such.
I am confident in saying that the masseurs that work in these places are not trained. At least not with any type of American certification. I also can’t and won’t argue the resident status of those working in these places — although I would guess it’s suspect at best.
Like many people in NYC and the surrounding boroughs, a considerable chunk of my income went to rent, so whatever disposable income that I had was limited. Suffice it to say that when I lived in Brooklyn, I was making ends meet but I wasn’t “well off” by a long shot (still not), and I got by.
But I did like to get a massage now and again. There were two problems I would encounter:
Whomever I was dating, wasn’t always keen to give me a massage.
I couldn’t afford the swanky massage places across the river in Manhattan.
So I would often go to one of the many AMPs in my neighborhood where you could get a one hour massage for around $60, plus tip (you can come up with your own “just the tip” joke here).
They were clean, and the people were friendly, and it was legitimately hassle-free. And they even took credit and debit cards — although you won’t be surprised to read that they preferred cash.
After a few tries, I found a place I liked and even found a woman I liked. I became such a regular that I got my “Buy Ten Get One Free” punch card.
The process was pretty simple; I would go in, strip down to my shorts, and get a 60-minute massage. Dress back up, walk outside to pay and tip. Never once was I asked if I wanted anything else. Of course, I was aware of those “rub and tug” places (they tend to offer “table showers”) but this — as far as I knew — wasn’t one of them.
One afternoon, a woman I was dating, and I were day drinking around Brooklyn, and I suggested getting a massage.
“Do you mean like a couples massage?” she asked.
I replied, “No, we’ll go into the place I always go to. We’ll be in different rooms.”
“Wait, you want to go get a handjob?!”
“What? NO! It’s not that kind of place. It’s straight-up massages.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yea, I’m sure. Jesus. Why the hell would I bring you to a place so I can get a handjob?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. Are you sure this is legit?”
She wasn’t keen on it, but since I’d been paying for everything else up to that point, I threw up a hail Mary and said, “I’ll even pay for it.” She gave in, and I dialed up the place on my phone and made an appointment for the two of us.
I should say that, as a rule, AMPs are typically a man’s domain. I’m not aware of many women going in for the female equivalent of “rub and tug” …which would be …“rub and rub”?
After a few more glasses of wine, we arrived at the massage parlor.
In all the time I had been to this particular place, I had not seen a male staffer in there. Ever …until, we checked in. As the woman brought us each to our rooms, I saw a dude strut out of the back and make his way to the place where my “girlfriend” was.
I thought to myself, “Well, that’s interesting.” but since it was a legitimate place, I didn’t give it a second thought.
My usual masseuse came in, and we attempted some small talk. Very small as I’m not very fluent in Cantonese, before she got down to it.
Sixty minutes later, I left my room and saw my date sitting on a chair waiting for me. As I paid and tipped, for both massages, I looked over and gave one of those “Yea! How’d you like that? I told ya so!” dumb smiles that men give women when they’re feeling righteous.
Once we got outside and were walking a little, she grabbed my arm to stop me, turned: “I thought you said that place was legitimate.”
“It is. Why?”
“Because that guy in there who gave me a massage fingered me.”
“Wait. What?”
“Yea, the guy, who gave me the massage, …he massaged me, but then began to finger me.”
Immediately, my temperature shot up, and my heart started racing.
My voice went up a few octaves, “Are you OK?”
“Yea, I’m fine.”
“Did he ask if he could?”
“No.”
“Did you ask him to?”
“NO!”
“Were you naked?”
“No, I had underwear on.”
“Did you tell him to stop?”
“No.”
That took a moment to sink in.
“You didn’t tell him to stop?”
“No. I didn’t want to offend him.”
“You were worried about offending the guy who was, essentially, finger raping you? The guy who was by the very definition, sexually assaulting you. THAT’S the guy you didn’t want to offend?”
“I dunno, I was super relaxed,” she looked away from me, “and it’s not like it felt bad.”
As I’m trying to process this, I asked, “Do you want me to go back and say something?”
“OH, NO! Please. Please. Don’t.”
“OK, so …so, what do you want to do?”
“Nothing. I guess. You just said it was a legitimate place.”
“I thought it was. You don’t want to report him?”
“Oh, God, no!”
I was still confused.
“I’m sorry that happened. I honestly thought it was a safe place. I hope you know that I would never put you in a position like that.”
“Of course. I know. I know.”
“And you’re sure you don’t want me to go back and say something or call the cops?”
“No. I’m sure. Let’s just go back to your place.”
She grabbed my hand, and we walked in the general direction of my apartment in silence. I grew increasingly irritated. Targeting that irritation was a little problematic. Was I irritated that the guy assaulted her without her consent? Well, yes, I was …but she didn’t seem to be. And that was odd. Was I annoyed with her? No, just very confused.
Her blase’ attitude about the experience struck me as strange, …but I suppose everyone has their way of processing and dealing with things.
As we got closer to my apartment, I stopped her, “OK, just so I’m clear, you didn’t stop the guy?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I told you, I didn’t want to make the dude angry or whatever. And I guess because it felt kinda good.”
I discovered the source of anger.
“So, basically, I just paid a guy and tipped him to finger-bang, my girlfriend.”
“Whoa! Since when are we putting labels on this?” she asked.
“What?”
“When did I become your girlfriend?”
“Oh, for fucks sake, I hardly think that’s the issue!”
“Well, it kind of is. We never said we were exclusive.”
I paused and gave that some consideration because she had a point …but I was unclear how it was relevant.
“OK. Fair enough. But just so we’re clear, I’m not now, or ever have been, in the habit of paying someone to fondle OR finger the woman I’m dating.”
“How is that different than if some other guy did it on a date?”
“Well, I suspect we can agree that …I WOULDN’T BE IN THE ROOM NEXT DOOR …AND PAYING FOR IT!”
I didn’t want to ask if she had an orgasm.
We walked in silence for a little longer before she decided that she just wanted to go to her place, which seemed like a good idea. The motivation for some relaxed, tipsy afternoon delight had disappeared for us, albeit for different reasons.
It was clear we saw this incident from different perspectives.
While I certainly have a quirk or two (or three), cuckolding isn’t one of them. But then I suppose, by the definition of cuckold, I would’ve had to have been in the room to witness it …and not just dole out the money for it.
I never did go back to that massage parlor. Although for reasons lost to time, I did continue to date that woman.
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