In 2003 a friend from Louisiana visited me in the East Village. We stayed up late drinking at Lakeside Lounge on Avenue A and he started yapping about Asian massage parlors. We grabbed copies of both the Village Voice and NY Press and flipped to the back. Yes! I'd seen those ads before, with their printed photos of Asian girls in bikinis with glassy smiles. The invitation to visit for "health" and "rejuvenation". I had always been too chicken, but my buddy offered pay my way(!).
We selected the most alluring ad and booked an appointment. The whole time, we were surrounded by early-aught hipsters who had zero idea what we were doing. I guess they were too busy planning their moves to Williamsburg.
I can't remember the name of the spa, but I was greeted by a smoke-show Korean with false eyelashes and a perfectly plump ass. Her name was "Pepsi" and she was likely 32 at the time. To this day I've never forgotten her confidence and swagger. She wasn't a "giggly" Oriental or a "girl power" college student. She stared into my eyes, squeezed my hand, and led me to a bed in a room with a hazy red light bulb. After a mind-blowing bj with intense eye contact, she hopped on to gave me a cowgirl ride worthy of Gina's Brazilians. She was so beautiful. I didn't last long.
Afterward, she gave me an excellent, deep tissue massage. One move, which I have yet to experience again, involved her sitting on my butt and using her knees to knead the my glutes, like so much dough. I can still close my eyes and see her falsies and stern, sexy gaze. When I walked out I saw my friend waiting there. "How much did that cost?" I asked him. "Two bones". He looked extremely stoned.
I was hooked.