Happy Endings (The Time I Paid A Guy For An Orgasm)

As featured in print in Live FAST Issue 1

It was one of THOSE days. A disgustingly packed 9am early train ride to my beige colored office cubicle, white bread colleagues in their average corporate attire, meetings with cock-sure men who talk to me like they’re hate-fucking me. Emails, emails, conference calls, boredom. Mediocrity. The ‘rat-race’ they call it.

It was the kind of day that made me want to go home and soak in a hot bath. And maybe relish in the delight of a good licking. If only there had been someone to call.

Going home to Brooklyn at the close of said crappy day, I sit on the subway spaced out thinking what my options are. I wanted a massage, I thought. “I want a sexy masseuse with skillful hands to massage the boredom out of me. And once my knots are good and taken care of, I want him or her to get a little bit illegal and massage their way into giving me lovely impromptu orgasm… sigh. But how.

Arriving home, I got my keys out and walked into my cozy apartment, I kicked off my heels, rolled a joint and put on a song.
“I need you sooo, that I could die. I love you soooo, and that is why, whenever I want you all I have to do is dreeeeam, dream dream dream…”

I thought to myself, surely there’s a happy ending massage service somewhere that caters to women? It’s NYC.
Computer perched upon my lap, I googled that shit so fast. ‘HAPPY ENDING MASSAGE FOR WOMEN.”

So many adult back page ads came up. I weeded through all the crap for probably an hour before finally stumbling across something interesting.

An article in the New York Observer talked about a “Doctor M” who pleasures women for money.

I did some more digging and finally found his website; a low-key 1980’s looking site that’s exactly what you’d expect a middle-aged, balding, jewish guy from Queens to conjure up based on what he thinks women would respond to, aesthetically speaking.

I responded.

Email me with your age, height & weight, a photo and please, no overweight clients, he says on the retro site.

My inner alarm bell goes off for a second while I scorn his sizest attitude. And then I ponder to myself, this is a guy who spends his free time fiddling with strange women’s vaginas.
I guess at the very least, he might as well have the right to choose the vagina.

Anyway, I do what he tells me and within 24 hours, we’ve arranged an appointment.

Four very boring days later on a cold-ish Thursday night, I take the express train all the way uptown. It’s the furthest uptown I’ve ever been (ugh, of course it’s for a dude).
I make my way through the maze-like complex to find an entry-point and a fed-up looking doorman. A funny little guy comes awkwardly toward me, “Eve?”.

There’s a 5 second moment where I consider telling him no, and then I think to myself, who cares. I’ve no doubt had sex with guys way less willing to give me an orgasm, and I’m like, YOLO. Let’s see what this little cretin can do.

As we go up in the chicken soup-scented elevator I hear kids crying in the neighboring apartments, news readers spreading propaganda, women gossiping. It’s far from sexy.

His apartment is about as typical as a bachelor pad gets. Ikea book shelves, faux leather couch, his bed was covered by a paisley duvet and there are books on marketing and Jewish humor.There is a solitary birthday card propped up on the bedside table. I felt a little bit sad for him.

We sit down and proceed to discuss how this is gonna go. His hands are shaking a little bit, and quite frankly, he seems a little nervous. I was perturbed, thinking how can this guy be so awkward and supposedly so intuitive? But then it dawns on me that I’m glad. My biggest reason for coming to see this strange doctor- man is so that I can get some sexual relief, withOUT feeling obliged to give back. I didn’t want there to be any ‘sex’ in the room because if there was tension, the vixen in me would automatically feel that familiar sense of necessity.

After a quick wash, I lay my naked self face down on his professional massage table. With my face squished into the hole, I thought about how many other women had lay here expectantly, feeling nervous, or horny, scared, desperate…

He begins by pressing on my back and shoulders, sans oil, “to get used to my touch,” he cites.
Within 5 minutes of pathetic kneading, his gloved hand picks up the oil and he gently pours it over my warm skin. It’s at this point I realize I’d better stop thinking about this as a social experiment and get in the mood or I’m gonna waste my money.

For some reason, I picture Sarah, the manager at the cafe near my work. Sarah is 22yrs old and has never been with a man. Only women. She’s the most sure lesbian I think I’ve ever met. She has red hair and a perfect peachy shape.
I relax.

Sliding the oil over my upper back and moving in swift circular motions, he very slowly begins to make his way lower down my back, and in the arch, he presses down harder.
I can feel him looking at my round ass.

Sarah is undressing for me. Slipping her dress off, one strap at a time she reveals her perfect puffy pink nipples. It’s now that I feel that familiar feeling, the slight ache of pressure in my groin, and the wetness begins.

He mumbles something about me offering him signals that I’m ready to be touched intimately. Sarah starts to pull off her panties for me, and turns bending over to to touch her toes.

Doctor M moves to the bottom of the table. He very carefully pulls each ankle over to each side spreading my legs apart. As he is standing there, I can literally feel his gaze rest upon my slippery pussy, open and ready to be pleasured. I’m so turned on by the power I feel at this point, that I feel like I could come in two seconds, but I don’t.

He slides both his hands up my legs and thus spreading my thighs apart upon going back down. My little private part is on fire right now and at this exact moment he works his hands back up to touch it.

With one hand, using maybe two fingers, he begins to circle my clit. One way, and then the other, Sarah’s tongue is lapping at me, and I’m holding back a scream. He uses just one other method of stroking, and approximately 1.5 minutes later I lose my mind in the most marvelous orgasm I’ve had in a little while.

As I come, he lays his free hand on my lower back and coos, “thatta girl. Good girl.” I snap out of my orgasmic haze and think for a second how weird it is that he’s talking to me like a dad, but I then consider that the alternative is some sort of dirty talk “CUM FOR ME, YOU NAUGHTY SLUT”, and I’m grateful that yet again, he hasn’t brought any aggression or sexuality on his part into the space.

He washes his hand and asks me to turn onto my back.

So, I’ve just come, hard. Like any person fresh from the throes of passion, I’m right about ready to press stop, shut the computer and pass out, vibrator in hand. I’m back to myself. Sarah is long gone, and honestly I just want to get the hell outta there for a shower and a cigarette, but I feel a little bad, and think to myself that maybe this strange little man has some sort of amazing magic trick up his sleeve that I shouldn’t miss.

Hey presto! What do you know… he pulls out the Hitatchi Magic Wand and fires it up. I don’t mind a good play with a vibrator, but truth be told, it’s just for a tease here and there. I like orgasms the old-fashioned way. I want my sensitivity to be retained and because of this, the Wand basically tweaks my freshly rinsed pussy out. I stop him politely and tell him that I think i’m done, glancing at a clock to realize I’ve only been on the table for all of 10 minutes.

Sitting afterwards while pushing $80 onto his Lack Ikea coffee table, I tell him that he was pretty good. He says that if I write a review (can be anonymous), he’ll give me the next go for half price. My eyebrow raises as I consider it for 2 seconds and then I smile, shake his clammy hand and stride out of there, head high and composed just as a woman does after paying a guy to get her off.

It’s All Gucci…