The Search for a Happy Ending Part 3
Featured article on Zug.
"Finding Hap-penis"
Part VI: The Return of Mung
I was visiting an Asian Massage Parlor in NYC, doing some "undercover" journalism. My mission: to find that elusive service known as the "Happy Ending." In Part 1 and Part 2 of my report, I was lathered up and hosed down by a Korean masseuse named Nana.
Now the lights are low and I am told to get on the table, face down, into an open ended pillow. And by told I mean pointed to the table with an utterance that sounded like, “Berry down.” Religious, church-like music is playing in the background, which I find odd. Not because I am Jewish and naked, but rather because I might actually see Jesus if this thing ends up the way the legend goes.
She whispers into my ear, “So you lika strong o media.” I say “softa.” I think by this time I am actually starting to get the hang of this Engrish and can probably get by with making shit up. She giggles uncontrollably and starts talking as if there are others in the room. “He saya softa, ahahahah, softa you no likey harda. He so silly. OK Nana go real softaaa.” I was partly waiting for her to say “My precious, nasty Hobbits wants to take my precious,” but luckily the third person rhetoric was only for a few seconds.
As I sit blindly staring at through the open pillow of the massage table, I feel a strange feeling by my feet. Nana lifts each leg and puts wooden blocks to prop each foot up and open. Oh boy, this went from a WW2 shower scene to a Kathy Bates Misery scene real quick. I am truly exposed, and if Ashton Kutcher is going to jump out and punk me, the least he can do is give me a reacharound from this position.
These thoughts fade. She uses light fingertips all over my body, starting at the neck, gently running down my back. I had pictured exotic oils, but my guess is with my amount of body hair, I would require 6-7 bottles per minute with the absorption factored in. So I was not at all surprised this session was dry ... for now.
She continues down my body, lightly to the top of my crack and then “whooooaaaa.” What the fuck? Did she just graze my ass? Oh wait she’s there! I perk up in surprise. I wasn’t expecting anything in the furpatch, and to tell you the truth, the trouble with my Tribble was the Barbacoa black bean burrito from Chipotle one hour prior. A new wave of panic hits me! As assplay ensues, all I can think about is how I asked for extra cheese and guac on the burrito bowl and that Nana may get 2-girl, 1-cupped if she proceeds any further with her grazing.
She senses my unease (or maybe it was the rumbling from my sphincter), and continues all around, but I can see these blocks leave me completely open and vulnerable to assault. Light tapping and her constant whisper set the mood and she uses her long jet black hair to tickle my body forest. ”Oooooohhhhooooohh” is repeated with upward and downward inflection for the next 20 minutes as I am relaxed with feather touches and the music continues its hymn-like trance. Then, those magical words, the ones I had been waiting for, but now fill me with anxiety, excitement and gas: “Turnna Ovvvvvaaa.”
I turn over. I realize to this point I hadn’t even looked at Nana, partly because I didn’t have my glasses, but more so because I am blind without my glasses and my astigmatism makes the room seem more like the moonwalk than a massage parlor. Nana looked about 30 years old in the dim lit room, long black hair, petite frame, clothes were all on and I then I realized I could do much better than her. So I stopped looking directly into the sun and focused my eyes on the ceiling. I tried to picture something hotter, like Molly Ray Cyrus ... I mean, uh, Elizabeth Hurley, yeah, Hurley. That covers hot, international and age appropriate.
As Nana “Ohhh’s,” she lightly glides her nails down and she starts the chant “Nana like, ooooohhh, Nana like.” I hear a familiar sound, and recognize it as lube hitting the hands (a sound I am all too familiar with) as she wastes no time and goes right for the pole standing before her. After all this, I can’t look at her. Thoughts of my wife, Jesus music, my 97 year old grandma, Chipotle and Molly Ray are running through my head like wild. I have arrived at the end of this journey that started 55 minutes earlier, and I am doubting if I can go through. I am sweating, thinking of work, life, Hitler, anything but the moment. If I weren’t a man, I swear I wouldn’t be able to finish here.
After what seems like an eternity, but is actually 45 seconds later, I let out a pathetic girly moan and release a volcano of molten hot white magma all over my hairy chest. Nana laughs, leaves, gets me a hot towel to mop up the mess, and I am left empty, in both the wallet and the pants. The Death Star has been destroyed, the Emperor is no longer, and Ewoks rejoice far away on the planet Endor.
I have found the Happy Ending!
"Finding Hap-penis"
Part VI: The Return of Mung
I was visiting an Asian Massage Parlor in NYC, doing some "undercover" journalism. My mission: to find that elusive service known as the "Happy Ending." In Part 1 and Part 2 of my report, I was lathered up and hosed down by a Korean masseuse named Nana.Now the lights are low and I am told to get on the table, face down, into an open ended pillow. And by told I mean pointed to the table with an utterance that sounded like, “Berry down.” Religious, church-like music is playing in the background, which I find odd. Not because I am Jewish and naked, but rather because I might actually see Jesus if this thing ends up the way the legend goes.
She whispers into my ear, “So you lika strong o media.” I say “softa.” I think by this time I am actually starting to get the hang of this Engrish and can probably get by with making shit up. She giggles uncontrollably and starts talking as if there are others in the room. “He saya softa, ahahahah, softa you no likey harda. He so silly. OK Nana go real softaaa.” I was partly waiting for her to say “My precious, nasty Hobbits wants to take my precious,” but luckily the third person rhetoric was only for a few seconds.
As I sit blindly staring at through the open pillow of the massage table, I feel a strange feeling by my feet. Nana lifts each leg and puts wooden blocks to prop each foot up and open. Oh boy, this went from a WW2 shower scene to a Kathy Bates Misery scene real quick. I am truly exposed, and if Ashton Kutcher is going to jump out and punk me, the least he can do is give me a reacharound from this position.
These thoughts fade. She uses light fingertips all over my body, starting at the neck, gently running down my back. I had pictured exotic oils, but my guess is with my amount of body hair, I would require 6-7 bottles per minute with the absorption factored in. So I was not at all surprised this session was dry ... for now.
She continues down my body, lightly to the top of my crack and then “whooooaaaa.” What the fuck? Did she just graze my ass? Oh wait she’s there! I perk up in surprise. I wasn’t expecting anything in the furpatch, and to tell you the truth, the trouble with my Tribble was the Barbacoa black bean burrito from Chipotle one hour prior. A new wave of panic hits me! As assplay ensues, all I can think about is how I asked for extra cheese and guac on the burrito bowl and that Nana may get 2-girl, 1-cupped if she proceeds any further with her grazing.
She senses my unease (or maybe it was the rumbling from my sphincter), and continues all around, but I can see these blocks leave me completely open and vulnerable to assault. Light tapping and her constant whisper set the mood and she uses her long jet black hair to tickle my body forest. ”Oooooohhhhooooohh” is repeated with upward and downward inflection for the next 20 minutes as I am relaxed with feather touches and the music continues its hymn-like trance. Then, those magical words, the ones I had been waiting for, but now fill me with anxiety, excitement and gas: “Turnna Ovvvvvaaa.”
I turn over. I realize to this point I hadn’t even looked at Nana, partly because I didn’t have my glasses, but more so because I am blind without my glasses and my astigmatism makes the room seem more like the moonwalk than a massage parlor. Nana looked about 30 years old in the dim lit room, long black hair, petite frame, clothes were all on and I then I realized I could do much better than her. So I stopped looking directly into the sun and focused my eyes on the ceiling. I tried to picture something hotter, like Molly Ray Cyrus ... I mean, uh, Elizabeth Hurley, yeah, Hurley. That covers hot, international and age appropriate.
As Nana “Ohhh’s,” she lightly glides her nails down and she starts the chant “Nana like, ooooohhh, Nana like.” I hear a familiar sound,
After what seems like an eternity, but is actually 45 seconds later, I let out a pathetic girly moan and release a volcano of molten hot white magma all over my hairy chest. Nana laughs, leaves, gets me a hot towel to mop up the mess, and I am left empty, in both the wallet and the pants. The Death Star has been destroyed, the Emperor is no longer, and Ewoks rejoice far away on the planet Endor.
I have found the Happy Ending!
posted by Mung Champ at 10:47 AM
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