Christmas Day 2008 was shaping up as one of the crappiest, ever. Alone, and bored watching TV movies across Xmas day while drinking red wine as night closed in I said to myself – go out, try to see if you can find some fun (nearly impossible here in Gwangyang). And so, I went out.
First stop a 24-hour convenience store to avert the munchies and drink beer. Success. A few young couples at the tables were sexy, playing up, and chirpy towards me: they thought I looked like a rock singer, apparently. Smiles. And exchanges of “Merry Xmas.”
Next, a bar that was rumored to be staffed by transsexuals. Nothing. No patrons. NO STAFF. But open.
And so this was typical of Gwangyang’s – Hong Kong Street – named by students for the masses of colliding neons – but the lines of love motels and bars (and their sexy imagery) provide very little … Simply, there’s no people !!! No customers. No hookers hanging on corners. No dudes lurking in the streets. Nothing but lights, all night. Flashing. And quiet.
Few options. So, I wandered back towards my apartment tower. Unsurprised by the evening’s lack of excitement.
Then I stopped at a sign – it said 24 hours but the rest was in Korean script. Rotating pairs of red-white-blue barber tube-signs meant that it was most-probably a massage parlor, not a barber, and I needed a massage, for sure.
No sane person would offer to cut hair 24 hours a day and so I went upstairs into a flowery, feminine room, like a serene dentist’s reception. And was met by a middle-aged receptionist. She was friendly. And spoke zero English to my zero Korean.
But with patient, finger-sign-talk I managed to work out how long it would be as I pointed at a wall clock; and how much it would cost. And that there would be no sex involved … Not that I asked for sex but she got very confused with my Australasian accent and the words “six” and “sex,” sounding the same.
I simply wanted to be touched by a woman again. It had been so long, since. And it was Xmas and I was in need of some celebration.
And it was weird.
She carefully folds up and places within a cupboard my shirt, jacket, woolen poncho and I was taking my trou off – getting to draw down my underwear to find a towel – when she startled back, to mime: keep your underwear ON ! (so used to Thail-oil massages that I wondered what would be next). It surprised me.
I lie upon a high-rised, heated bed. She washes my feet, this petite, cute, older woman in frilly, pink mini-skirt, with slim legs, and now holding a tub of steaming towels. Motioned onto my back. Her oiled hands rub down my legs, shoulders, back.
THEN 5 layers of huge, hot, heavy towels across my back. Then a heaving plastic reflective material is wrapped around, sealing in the heat; she coffins me (and it’s freezing outside, like zero). Then another tub of towels. Boiling – fuck !!! – burning – towels across my legs and they are too hot and I motion to her and she removes then and flaps then about to cool them and replace them and seal me into this weird, body-wrapped sauna for 10 minutes of hell sweat. She wipes my forehead.
But says nothing.
But stands on me. Massage across legs, back and neck by feet, her total body pressure.
The towels are removed; am baked, cooked, wet; am ushered into shower cubicle down the hall; shown how to soap up and wash with sponge, brush my teeth, shampoo my hair, wash away the sweat, via her communication via charades.
The massage is decent and proper. Kneading the flesh of my tight shoulders, loosening my arms, and fingers. I groan; it’s good. Needed. My body is fucked.
Am on my back again, her twisting my arms back - resting on her naked thighs, as she straddles me, massages me, pulls, stretches and soothes, relaxes, rides me in jolting motion. And it continues, as you would expect
She is working hard. My body releases it’s cramping, computer aches: I am getting better, rejuvenated, re-born.
And she has gotten confident to talk to me – in Korean – not that I understand but she knows that with her hands, I can understand. About how she wants it to snow, fingers twinkling down above my chest. Over shy smiles and tugging and twisting I tell her my country, my job. And she asks, with her fingers coming together, then apart – am I single? So is she. And “Merry Xmas” we wish, one another, and laugh. She knows, “Jingle Bells”, and sings the chorus. I grab her butt, gently.
As she’s working on my thighs, probably, she notices my erection.
And I am shy of this - since it was made clear that sex was not part of the deal. But later she motions an understandable, clutched jerking of the hand – Do you want?
Yes, I nod, several times. She goes to find oil.
Removes my underwear.
And there I am – oiled up, whimpering; caressing her arse cheeks as my hard, heat in her hands erupts into a very, Merry Xmas …
~
2009 – UPDATE: Since this happy occasion I have visited again and also other massage parlors and received even “greater” services – including oral sex and intercourse, for the same inclusive price of a massage (60 – 70,000 won for an hour).
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