Mandy and More!

There’s this spa in QC that has a wet area that’s often full of PLUs on the prowl, but that’s not exactly why I go there. It’s this particular masseur named Mandy. First of all, he told me I could take off my shorts. Next he would glide his fingers ever so lightly along my inner thighs, reaching deeper and deeper until… bingo! His finger would oh so gently brush against my family jewels. And even when I was already sporting a raging hard-on, he didn’t mind letting his fingers stray along my pubic area. If I were in a massage parlor—you know, the Masahista kind—I would by that time be receiving some extra service, or in their parlance, “sensation.” But because this is not a “massage parlor” but a “spa” I decided not to risk it.

The second time I got Mandy, he got a little bolder. He engaged me in small talk, even revealing where he goes home and commenting on my living in Marikina, “Too bad it’s too far for me.” This time his fingers actually brushed this close to, uhm, a certain member of the McVie anatomy. Then when I was dressing up after the session, he said quietly, “Sir, next time maybe you want some sensation.” Jackpot! Bingo! Full house! Pong!

I smiled. “Next time,” I whispered back.

Next time I’ll be singing to myself, “Oh Mandy! Well, I came when you gave without taking. Then I sent you away, oh Mandy!”

Ang corny ng joke ko.