Curious or perhaps bi-curious or maybe even multi curious... whatever that means... was he. But the hourglass sand remaining for him was in countable grains rather than in innumerable grams. Like chapter-ettes in a novella, a life can be thumb paged in seconds. Always a start, a middle and a finish. Disappointingly, that finish can be a bummer. Indeed it usually is, death and its attendant inequities... ugh!
David Graye sits, anxious in a place called,
M-A-S-S-A-G-E. With its red neon flashing inner window tube beacon, people around here just called it,
Massage, without pausing as if to ignore the hyphenation. However he got here makes less sense now than it did when he pulled his Prius into the mostly abandoned strip mall slot. Besides
M-A-S-S-A-G-E, there were only four other stores in Echo Crossings and all of them but Pep's Subs were
chiuso. A summer Sunday at PM 4:30 is not a high volume time to do business. Graye was beginning to think he didn't need to be
that adventurous as he got clam hands, waiting. Waiting...
David had self diagnosed himself with pancreas cancer. That miserable malady ran in his family, like long foreskins. Both his father and his father died with wasting, abdominal pain and jaundice. Back then the doctors pronounced for both of the senior Grayes that they had a month or two to live before they passed on. And pass they did, both of them...
While the retired rail roader hadn't developed yellow eyes (yet), he was suffering from abdominal pain and some loss of appetite. Being 59, the age Papa Graye reached, what else could he think? A Sunday kind of love?? So it was on this day, he decided to see what was what. He had heard that
M-A-S-S-A-G-E was the kind of place a man could find and meet his maker. At least that was what the gents of the Knights of Columbus were selling on Friday beer nights at the Post.
M-A-S-S-A-G-E was owned and operated by Scotty Mildew, a man who would have been six feet tall if his scoliosis hadn't screwed him down so that his head faced floorwards. Mildew used Asian women, who looked like girls, to work massage at
M-A-S-S-A-G-E. The supply of these ladies was endless, what with immigration being what it is the USA. Since they were all petite and hairless, 30 looked 15. To call it a whore house would be disingenuous.
"Yeah, can I help you?"
"Ah, yeah, yeah... I want a massage."
Scotty knew that wanting a massage almost always meant more than a rubdown. Most guys, who look like David, are satisfied with a sterile happy ending. A hand job will do it... Knowing that David would pop in a few minutes, he sold him an hour. Things were slow... A rube and his money needed to separate, so thought Mildew.
"Want a double?"
"Double?" thought he. With his brow furrowed, David stared forwards like a man shot in the eye with Botox.
"Two girls..."
Nodding affirmatively, Graye could sense an excitement he had never experienced. Considering he had parlayed himself to play for only another month or two, he had nothing to lose. As they used to say on the Red Robbins show, "
You can't take it with you."
M-A-S-S-A-G-E is cash only. David knew that going in (some of the Knights had already been)... he shelled two Benjis over to Scott Mildew. He was hand motioned through a narrowed opening, occluded only by a thick green, dirt smelling drapery. Graye had the presence of mind to wonder how many spores he had just inhaled as he pushed it aside. If Graye didn't hink he was close to death, he would have been more inhalationally circumspect.
A girl, whose said her name was Daisey, smiled as he approached through the tunnel hallway.
"Here, here, dressing room... clean robe after you shower." She spoke perfect South Jersey English even though she was Asian (Thai actually.) To David, all Asians looked the same. He was a dolt.
Apparently, the girls of
M-A-S-S-A-G-E like a body to be clean before the festivities began. Using a bar of soap which smelled and felt like LAVA, Graye washed. He was careful to scrub his feet. He suffered from smelly ones ever since he stepped bare toed in dog shit when he was a Boy Scout. He would have been less fastidious if could have seen the number of fungi swimming in the base of his shower stall. A man with no time left does not care... one way or the other!
Two other workers, not Daisey, waited as he walked out of the shower into an open space, just large enough for a bed!. Jade and Helen looked like clones. Barely five feet in height, they had small titted skinny bodies. There ought to be a law that a 59 year old man should not be with two women whose combined ages did not exceed his. But money talks and men cum, da cum.
Jade and Helen were bemused by his foreskin. It extended even beyond his erect penis so that to get to his head, the prepuce needed to be rolled. Of course, such a luxuriant foreskin kept him as sensitive as sensitive can be. And without keratinization of the glans, it was as soft as cashmere to the exploring tongues of both Jade and Helen. The combinations and possibilities with one man, one cock, two women, two pussies, three mouths, threes assholes, three tongues and six hands and six feet are beyond mathematical clarity. Get it? Got it??
It might come as a surprise, but Mr. David Graye used every one of his 60 minutes. Nerds can be sex machines... Scotty was impressed as he watched the action from his two way mirror. Daisey had retreated to Mildew's office and as it turns out a five way was going on. If David had known of his prowess, he would have been proud of himself. A sex exemplar!
As he walked out of
M-A-S-S-A-G-E, the evening air was cooler. David could smell better and taste better. The musky scent of those two sweet 'swa would not be soon forgotten. As he turned into the driver's seat of his hybrid, he felt some post-cum dripping on his leg. It was a pleasant sensation. Post orgasmic, he couldn't help but to hope he didn't have pancreas cancer. You know a gastric ulcer could cause pain and a loss of appetite. You know...
three is a lovely number
