(Un) Happy Endings

I know I’ve made this abundantly clear, but I’m an addict. I say that completely guilt free. It’s a redundant, pointless statement, because I think we’re all addicts. It all comes down to what degree you’re addicted and how negatively it impacts your life.

For me, sex is as debilitating of a habit as hitting the pipe or plunging a needle into a plump vein.

Last night I squandered precious resources on yet another shameful visit to an Asian massage parlor. Those places are all over this slimy town. The hypocrisy of the south is blatant. In Atlanta, prostitution is damn near legal. It’s ignored to the point of being decriminalized.

However, if you’re caught with a nickel bag of shitty dirt weed, they’ll drum on your fucking skull with their billy clubs and toss you into a cell, where you’ll immediately get your ass packed to capacity with swollen, black cock.

At least that’s what happened to me, but I digress…

The ads for these massage parlors are vulgar lies. If the service they offered wasn’t mired in shame, I would sue them for false advertising. I’ve never, in my entire life, met a lady at one of these establishments that looked even remotely like this picture. I’m no noob, either. Over the years, you could fill up a swimming pool with the amount of man membrane I’ve blown in nasty ass massage parlors.

I don’t know why I go to these places. The number of times I’ve walked out disappointed and thoroughly disgusted with myself outnumber the good experiences by a significant margin.

The woman I met last night was astoundingly ugly. I’m a realist. I know not to expect a goddess, but gOD-fucking-dammit! This woman (and I’m testing the limits of my optimism by assuming she was born one) was donkey dick ugly. She had the wide back of football player, forearms like Popeye the Sailor, and a nightmare-inducing visage that made me want to cave her head in with a boot heel.

Despite all that, I engaged my penis in our usual dialogue.

“Okay, penis, can we do this?” I asked.

“Dunno yet,” my cock replied, shrugging.

"What wrong? You no like me? Him all soft like lomein! Why chin chin no spit up foam?"

“Don’t fuck with me dude!” I snapped, peering down the front of the rough towel around my waist. “You’re not obligated. If you wanna bail, we’ll just get a massage then politely leave. Don’t embarrass me again like you did last time. I can buy an Xbox for the amount of cash we’re pissing away here. You at least have to squirt!”

“Okay! Okay!” my penis responded. “Let’s do it. It felt pretty good when her hand ‘accidentally’ brushed against the ‘ole wrinkly men during the table shower.”

So I paid her the money, got on the table, and she proceeded to yank on my semi-soft noodle with the rough, iron-fisted grip of a Russian power lifter on a cocktail of steroids. The entire, sad process took over fifteen minutes, resulting in chaffing, uncomfortable grunting and absolutely no orgasm. I muttered feebly, put my clothes on, and left, repulsed with myself yet again.

If you need me, I’ll be inspecting my balls for pubic lice.

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