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. 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. No secret signals were listed either. With all our talking, imagining, pretending, and google searching, my partner started to get intrigued.
Would you be mad? I would think it was awesome. 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.
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.
