Happy Ending Bj

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Happy Ending Bj
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Two years ago my partner and I were amidst a real estate deal that fell through at the last second. Everyone in our city moves on September 1. We were off the moving schedule, so the immediate options for vacant apartments were scarce. The only thing we could find was a converted disused religious building within an outlying neighborhood that was approximately 90% Asian American.
We loved the neighborhood, we loved the culture, and we were happy with our temporary spot. In this new neighborhood there was an abundance of massage parlors. In a one-mile radius of our home, there were at least 10 of these little massage parlors, possibly more.
My partner explained that happy endings at these types of massage parlors were actually real things. It really happened. The concept of the happy ending became a running joke with us. Each time we passed one of these little massage parlors, we would make note of the patrons entering and exiting and imagine their home lives, what they were feeling, what their partners must think, all those things.
We would also imagine how awkward it must be to get a hand job at a massage parlor. Was there some secret signal? Was it part of every massage package offered? How did the masseuse know a happy ending was requested? Was it on the checklist? Areas you would like us to work: shoulders, neck, and my dick.
Our google searches led us to rubmaps.com, but alas, none of the massage parlors were listed. No secret signals were listed either.
With all our talking, imagining, pretending, and google searching, my partner started to get intrigued. He brought it up during one of our discussions, “What if I went to one of those and got a hand job? Would you be mad?”
The answer came very easy, “No. I wouldn’t be mad. I would think it was awesome.” Then I started laughing, and so did he. The whole thing seemed completely absurd, and hilarious, and I felt like I really needed to know if this whole “happy ending” was actually a real thing. He felt the same, plus he would be the one getting the happy ending, so it was an added bonus for him.
The idea bounced around between us a lot. The conversations were never contentious in anyway, it was more us joking about when he would do it. He would leave to go to the store, and I would ask him to text me if he decided to get a happy ending, just so I wouldn’t be worried if he was late. There is a lot of humor in our lives, and this was part of it.
As we talked about it more, he asked if I would consider it cheating. No, I did not consider it cheating to get a happy ending. It was just a hand job from a stranger, in a controlled setting. There would be no affair, there would be no emotional connection, there would be no back alley hooker, there would be no penetration. A happy ending seemed like nothing to me as long as he was completely upfront about it and was not sneaking around. If he was going behind my back to get happy endings, I would be upset. That wasn’t the case. We talked about it a lot, and joked about it a lot. If he did decide to go through with it, it would not feel like cheating to either of us. Rather, the quest for a happy ending felt like this secret spy mission, this experiment. He had my full consent, I just asked to know every detail.
After a year, we were ready to get back to the city. Moving day was approaching, and he was very overwhelmed with the change. Moving is always very difficult for him. A friend was over helping us pack, my partner was pacing around in circles completely unable to participate in the moving process with his thoughts scrambled around in his head.
So I said, “You need to get out of here. Why don’t you go get a massage and let us take care of the packing for now? A massage may clear your head, and your back has really been hurting.” Obviously our friend had no idea what we were really planning here. I had made this suggestion to him many times, but this time was different. My partner thought for a second, grinned, and said, “Yeah, I think that’s a good idea. I’m going to go.” I threw out the bait, he took it. It felt sneaky and sly and exciting.
He left, I was frantically checking my phone like a madwoman, wanting an update every second. I did not hear from him until about an hour and a half later, when I got a text that simply said, “Great success.”
Immediately I thought, “YES!” More than anything I was excited. I couldn’t wait for him to get home. First, I could not believe a happy ending was real, and second, I wanted to know every single detail. He did not disappoint. He explained he went to two separate places before he settled on one, and he felt very awkward the whole time. The women were asking him lots of questions, what did he do for a living, where was he from, etc. He said later he felt like they were feeling him out to see if he could be a police officer. Apparently there had been several raids on massage parlors in the neighborhood lately.
They took him back into a room where he met his masseuse, Lisa. Lisa asked him to get naked, he did. She wore high heels, and gave him a great back massage. She asked him to flip over, he did, and she just went for it. With no prodding, no permission, she lubed him up and started in. He reported that there was nothing sensual about it, it was very mechanical. He said it was over very quickly, both because he was so turned on and because apparently Lisa had some magical hand job skills. After it was over, she cleaned him up, and finished the massage. He paid and left.
Immediately after he seemed a little conflicted, and asked me if he had cheated. No, he hadn’t. He asked if I thought less of him. No, I didn’t. I gave him a high five, and we went on with life.
Has he gone back? No. Has he expressed a desire to go back? No. Has anything in our relationship changed whatsoever? Yes, our sex life has gotten even better. He fantasized about it after that day, because despite a happy ending being such a socially taboo and forbidden thing, it was a major turn on for him to be able to experience it one time with my full consent.
In response to his fantasies, I gave him my first hand job ever. It wasn’t that great, because I had never done it before, but it got better. We’ve since experimented with various lubes, various speeds, various techniques, even anal play. Hand jobs have become part of our repertoire, and it is really, really hot for both of us. I love watching his body react, and watch him shake and shiver and quiver – something I don’t really get to see during our other sexy times.
Will I ever give hand jobs as good as Lisa? Probably not. But I love this new part of our sex life, and I have Lisa to thank for that.
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Chances are you’ve heard the story: an unmarked door leads to a dimly-lit massage parlor where women with strong hands and tolerant smiles await a train of libidinous male patrons. The “happy ending” tale is all too common, a mixture of truth and urban legend that captivates male imaginations even in an age of casual sex and unlimited Internet porn.
“It’s always a certain type of place,” said Brian, a 41-year-old screenwriter who admits to visiting the odd “men’s spa” or two (though never, of course, for that ). “You go for a reason, and you know what you’re getting when you walk in the door.”
The rest of spa culture, meanwhile, is dominated by women. There are more than 14,000 spas in the U.S. bringing in around $10 billion in annual revenue, and their predominantly female clientele average more than 100 million visits per year. With all that time spent around low lighting, soft music, and heavy rubbing, it can be tough not to think of sex. But until recently, the female version of “happy endings” has remained doggedly taboo.
Luckily, any “rules” restricting female sexuality are dying as fast as Sex and the City repeats can slay them, and it was only a matter of time before women embraced the notion that “quick releases” aren’t just for men. And with competition among spas getting ever more intense, customers are starting to demand more than just Enya and free herbal tea with their Shiatsu, according to massage therapists.
“It’s such a well-known thing for guys, and women are finally getting more comfortable asking for it,” said Anna, a self-described “massage healer” who has worked at several upscale spas and performed happy endings on female customers. (Names have been changed to protect the less-than-innocent.) “Women are finally getting comfortable with the idea that it’s ok to feel erotic in what’s already a really erotic setting.”
The bottom line: We like massages and we like orgasms, so why shouldn’t the two sometimes, er, come hand in hand?
The answer is that they can and do, though the logistics can get complicated. “With men, there’s no subtle approach when it comes to a happy ending,” said Tyler, a 6'4" hunk of tattooed muscle who has worked as a masseur at several New York City spas. “Some will ask outright, plus they have this appendage that’s obvious, and gives you a clear idea of where they want to go. But with women, it’s so subtle. There’s really no way to know [if they want sexual contact], even if there’s moaning and heavy breathing.”
For many women (myself included) the idea of point blank asking a hot masseur to “finish me off” sounds about as appealing as a full-body exfoliation with Brillo pads. And as Samantha learned in the now-notorious SATC Episode 33, making demands can result in humiliation. So if you’re into it, how do you avoid embarrassment and still come out fully satisfied?
The key, according to veterans like Amy, a 32-year-old model/actress who has had happy ending massages in two different states, is clear but subtle communication: “It’s all about giving the right signals.” She first discovered erotic massage during an in-room rubdown at an upscale Miami hotel. “Initially [the masseur] kept it very clean, but I was really turned on, and I let him know it by moaning and saying how good it felt. He started slowly touching my thigh, then going higher, and it turned into a game of how far each of us would take it. One thing led to another and he ended up finishing me off, which was great.”
Occasionally, a spa’s reputation for sensual goings-on will precede it, as with New York City’s famed 10th Street Russian Baths. An East Village fixture famous for its massive steam rooms and “women only” days, it once drew celebrities from John Belushi to Frank Sinatra and now attracts a cross section of New Yorkers from Russian sexagenarians to downtown fashionistas.
“At first you’re on your stomach, so they’re just massaging your back,” said Trish, a 29-year-old marketing manager who frequents the Baths. “Then they turn you over, and [my masseur] started massaging my breasts. My nipples got erect, so that must have sent him a signal. He started rubbing me on the pressure points around my hips. I was wearing bikini bottoms, and he never actually touched my clitoris or vagina; it was just all around the area. I did [have an orgasm]; afterwards, people kept stopping me on the street to say, ‘’Oh my God, you’re glowing.‘’
Chemistry with your masseur is a key factor, and one that can’t always be controlled. But if it’s present, the possibilities are endless. “I was going through a divorce and feeling like hell,” said Alexa, a 30-year-old attorney. “So I went to a high-end spa for a massage, and the only person available was a guy — I was nervous, I’d never had a man massage me before. He ended up being so hot. I was turned on the whole time, but nothing happened. Then I went back two weeks later. I was on my stomach while he massaged my back, and when I turned around, topless, we started making out. He said, 'I can’t do this, it’s unprofessional,’ so we stopped. But when I went back a third time, we ended up having sex in the massage room. After that, we started dating.”
Nonetheless, it’s important to remember that the risks can be high for massage therapists. Every state (save Nevada and Rhode Island) considers prostitution illegal, and in some states it can lead to months of jail time. Also upping the ante is the gray area surrounding sexual assault, generally defined as nonconsensual touching of the genital area.
So how hard is it to find that perfect massage combination of chemistry, timing, setting, and mood? I hit the massage tables to find out. Stop No. 1 was Cornelia Day Spa on Fifth Avenue, known for its Chanel-clad clientele and handsome male staff. I booked a Swedish massage and showed up with high expectations. But after 60 minutes of awkwardness peppered with a few moans that provoked no response besides “Is the pressure OK?” I decided to call in reinforcements. So I dispatched a sexy and adventurous friend, Joanna, on a spa mini-marathon, with instructions to request a male massage therapist and, if possible, end each massage with a big finish.
Her first stop was Great Jones Spa, a relaxation Mecca for the downtown set. “It was definitely a 'my husband is a venture capitalist, I eat vegan and live in a loft’ kind of crowd,” said Joanna, who made sure to request “the best man you have” for her Swedish massage. The result was Andy, a pony-tailed Adonis with bicep tattoos and a winning smile. As he massaged her thighs, she flirted with comments like, “That feels sooo good” and “Feel free to keep going.” At first, her advances brought no response, but after a while he treated her to a polite, non-judgmental lecture about how “going there” was against the rules, and he loved his job too much to put it at risk.
“I was feeling a little rejected,” Joanna said. “But after it was over, he rushed out to the waiting room to introduce me to his girlfriend — apparently she was nearby — and asked if I wanted to 'hang out’ with the two of them sometime. So I felt better — though I said no.”
Next was the ultra-opulent Mandarin Oriental Spa, known for its lavish views and obsequious service. “I felt like I could throw a fit over the temperature of my Pellegrino, and it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary,” Joanna observed. This time, her method consisted of suggestive moaning and pulling the strategically placed towel away during the “inner thigh” portion of her deep tissue massage. Her masseur, immaculately groomed and very clearly gay, resisted her advances, saying simply, “I love my job here, and I’d do anything to keep it.” Afterwards, he pulled her aside and said, “Honey, I think what you need is to visit the Vitality Pool.”
“I couldn’t figure out what he meant,” she said. “Then I saw the Vitality Pool.” Located in the ladies-only “Heat Experience Room,” it consists of a tub filled with room-temperature water, a bench made of metal bars, and intense water jets that shoot up straight from the floor. “As soon as I sat down, I realized what he was getting at,” said Joanna. “There’s no point of having an open bench in a hot tub where jets shoot up between your legs other than to have an orgasm. It took me all of two minutes of sitting there [to climax], then the woman who went in after me looked like she took 30 seconds.”
While the experience was refreshing (“I definitely left with a glow”) we still had two spas down and no results. Then Joanna got a tip in the Mandarin’s plush relaxation room. “I started chatting with this woman in her mid-thirties, who looked like she went to spas all the time,” she said. “When I mentioned I was going to another spa tomorrow, she told me 'Oh, you have to go to Cornelia. You should ask for Tron [definitely not his real name]; he’s fantastic.’ Her voice did not sound like she was describing a massage.”
The next day, Joanna arrived at Cornelia primed for victory. “The second I saw Tron, we had instant chemistry,” she said. “He was definitely hot. I flirted with him all the way from the waiting room to the massage room, and we chatted about our lives. When we got inside, I talked about how I hated having underwear and towels constricting me during massages, and he said, 'I’m comfortable with you having them off.’ About 15 minutes into the massage, I let my hand graze his thigh and I could see his erection. Finally, he turned me over, and it was on.”
Kissing turned to heavy petting with a strong dose of grinding, until he was on top of her on the massage table. Joanna recalls the make-out session as being totally comfortable — at one point, they both started laughing — but after the first few minutes, she broke away, saying, “I’m sorry, this is so inappropriate.” His response: “Sweetie, you are my reward for the two men who asked me for happy endings earlier today. I told them no — but for you, I won’t tell if you won’t.” When she coyly asked if she was the first woman who’d expressed interest in more than a massage, he sidestepped with, “Well, you know how it is.”
The impromptu liaison went on for the rest of the hour, and another 30 minutes beyond. “It was very romantic and totally mutual — it didn’t feel like I was just being serviced,” she recalls. “He asked after a while if I wanted to have sex, but neither of us had a condom,” said Joanna. “I considered giving him a blow job, but then I was like, 'I’m paying for this!’”
Her advice after a successful venture? “You have to be open to having that kind of experience. And not exactly be subtle about what you want.” When it comes to massage sex, the chances are high that you’ll encounter fuzzy boundaries and ephemeral guidelines, and one woman’s violation may be another’s fantasy. But just as with a female presidential candidate, whether you think happy endings are the pinnacle of bliss or the apex of vileness, it’s still nice to have the option.
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