Mandy Once More

Last night I was feeling frisky, so after waiting for the heavier-than-usual Makati traffic (thanks to the anti-GMA, anti-cha-cha rally) to subside, I headed out to my ever-reliable bathhouse. But as I was pulling out of our building, I spotted a friend and fellow blogger walking out (he also goes to the same gym as I do). I decided right there and then to give him a ride home; unfortunately his place is in Quezon City, which is in the opposite direction of my favorite Sodom & Gomorrah. But I decided to prioritize a good deed over a good lay last night—maybe I was not as frisky as I thought I was.

While on the road we exchanged the latest gossip about gym trainers who give massage with extra service on the side. That led to talks about massage parlors and masseurs. By the time I dropped him off I wanted to be naughty again. But when I swung by F, I worried about safe parking. So after a quick self-check, I decided to not be naughty but just be nice.

I pulled up to this legitimate massage parlor, the very same one I featured a couple of seasons ago because of this masseur named Mandy. That particular episode of The McVie Show had generated the most reaction ever, with viewers asking me for the name of the place and the masseur even after a full year since that episode came out. The problem was I never went back to that place. Plus I heard from common friends that Mandy had resigned.

So when I approached reception I only had a good massage in mind. Okay, okay, to be perfectly honest, I was also open to the possibility of some extra service or a bit of action in the wet area. But if the massage turned out to be straightforward, and the wet area dry of any hot action, I’d still be okay since I really wanted a good rubdown (I had an extra heavy session with my trainer that morning).

Imagine to my surprise when, after I specified for a male masseur, the receptionist said, “Sir, I’ll assign Mandy.” What? He’s back?

In my room I waited for him to arrive, wondering if it was the same guy I “had” about a year ago, or just someone with a similar name. He came in; I recognized him immediately. Yes, it was him. He had filled up, though; he was not as thin as before. Maybe all that work and additional earnings have added muscles and fat to his frame.

“First time n’yo po, sir?” he asked. He doesn’t remember me, I realized. When I told him my last visit was a year ago, he merely nodded and asked me to lie down on my stomach. He offered to take my shorts off; I allowed him. Then he proceeded.

To be fair, he had improved as a masseur—his hands were a lot skillful and swifter than the last time. And he also didn’t fail to apply the moves on me—his fingers would graze at the McJewels every so often. And when he kneaded the buns of my ass, his thumbs would travel deep down into the middle and brush the hairs near my hole.

But despite his skillful swipes, he failed to make me rise to the occasion. I did sport a semi-hard on, but that was it. By the time he was winding down, I had gone limp again.

Maybe it was the idea of a round two with someone who can only offer me a hand job. Maybe it was the thought that I could get more sexual satisfaction for far less pesos in a bathhouse versus a massage parlor. Or maybe I just don’t like paying for sex anymore.

In the end Mandy didn’t even bother to offer me extra service. He just gave me his tip envelope then left.

There’s always the wet room, I murmured to myself.