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“My masseuse was not the slightest bit attractive, although it’s hard to say for sure. Every guy knows that for 10 minutes after jerking off, nothing in the world is attractive. All sexual objectivity normally assumed by women is gone, and they are reduced to being actual people; with feelings, hopes, dreams, and even families who love them.
So who knows, my masseuse could have been hot, I just wasn’t in a position to judge.”
Desperation can make a person do incredible things. Incredibly stupid things, incredibly sad things, incredibly terrible things, and incredibly shameful things. When I get desperate, I am capable of everything. This is a tale of one Marine's desperation as he headed into combat, with a loaded gun.
The Road to War
March 1, 2012
Manas Air Force Base, Kyrgyzstan
Getting from the United States to Afghanistan was borderline unbearable. First, we boarded onto a miserable Delta 747 and, as expected, I got screwed with the aisle seat in first class. The flight was an arduous 18 hours, and I was only able to get good sleep for 14 of them. For the few minutes that I was awake, I was very disappointed with the movie selection on my personal television. Additionally, on every single one of the six meals we were served, my fucking bread was cold. This was not the glamorous way I expected to head into combat, but I was a Marine, and I could handle anything. So I walked out of first class, where they didn’t serve us booze, and exited the airplane in Kyrgyzstan.
We crowded onto the flight line where it was 15 degrees. Then we piled way too many Marines on piece of shit buses that were so weighed down the bottom was scrapping against the ground. We drove out of the airport and through a dark, rusty town that made me feel like we were in either a World War II or James Bond movie. Thanks to the clouds, snow, cold air, barbed wire fences, and dying trees, it had a very Soviet, Cold War, feel to it. My initial impression of historic shame was reaffirmed when one of the Marines on the bus started doing impressions of a Nazi soldier herding Jews. Not only was the Marine a Jew himself, but he was yelling for the whole bus to hear, making it more outrageous.
“VOMEN and CHEELDREN, line TO ZE RIGHT. ABLE BODIED MEN, line TO ZE LEFT. Elderly and sickly, move quickly to ze showvas, we must get you clean IMMEDIATELY!”
The whole bus was laughing hysterically, mostly because no one could believe that a Jew would make that joke out loud. One Marine on the back of the bus, who didn’t know this Marine yelled out,
“MY FUCKING FAMILY WAS KILLED IN THE HOLOCAUST MUTHERFUCKER. SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
The Jew Joker yelled back, “SO DID MINE BITCH, AND THEY ALL HAD A SICK SENSE OF HUMOR, SO GET OVER IT.”
The angry Marine looked confused and then settled down. There was some laughter and discussion as the Marine in the back pondered the sanity of the Marine Corps.
Our buses dropped us off on the front line of Manas Air Force Base. Manas airbase is a huge transient base, first built as an airstrip for shuttling cargo into Afghanistan. It then became the stopping off point for troops heading into and out of Afghanistan. The base is outstanding; on flat ground surrounded by beautiful mountains. It has three chow halls, all of which are amazing. It has a sports bar, a supermarket, a library with internet access, a huge gym with a basketball court, another brand new, state of the art basketball court with 6 NBA regulation hoops in a large tent, (the Air Force has a lot of black guys) volleyball courts, running paths, an entertainment club with TV’s for movies, video games, and WIFI. The place is just fantastic. I spent my entire time in Manas eating, sleeping, working out, and on the Internet. Like a real Marine.
On a different part of the base was a shopping center with the following stores; a nail salon, (for all the fat, disgusting Air Force females) an alteration shop, (for all the Airmen who gain 30 pounds while stationed there) a gear store, (for all the Airmen to post pictures on Facebook holding knives and pretending to be bad asses) a souvenir shop, (so Airmen can prove to their families that they were deployed to a foreign country) and a massage parlor, (because Airmen do hard, back breaking work).
Naturally, I found my way to the massage parlor. The massage parlor served two purposes for me. First, ever since I injured my back on my first deployment, I have needed massages at least monthly to be able to turn my head properly without lots of painkillers.
Second, I desperately wanted to feel a woman’s hands on me. I had not touched a woman in a whole 5 days, and I was desperately craving a woman’s touch. Touching my back would have been a great start, but I was really hoping that the massages came with happy endings. In Thailand you couldn’t go anywhere without women begging to tug on your dick for a few bucks, so naturally, I figured that every woman in a foreign country working on a United States military base had an entrepreneurial spirit and a knack for stroking cocks.
Besides, to any deployed Marine, the words “Massage Parlor” are synonymous with “Happy Ending.”
As I walked up to the massage parlor door I had a quick fantasy of a small, smooth hand, with nice nails wrapped around my dick, because quite frankly my big, callused hand was getting old. As a matter of fact, I really didn’t care if the masseuses were hideous, hell, I didn’t even care if their hands were bigger than mine. Truth be told, I just wanted a females hand around my dick, and I wanted to blow a load that at least partially landed on female skin, because blowing loads into porta potties and napkins was getting really old.
I was well aware that if I got a hand job with my massage I was more than likely going to blow my load on myself. But I imagined that if just one, tiny, drop of jizz got on my masseuses hand, or forearm, or God forbid, her tits, I could sleep easy at night knowing that I served the needs of the Marine Corps, and all mankind.
All my fantasizing was very preemptive, because there was really a 50/50 chance that the massage parlor gave out happy endings. I had no way to know until I was lying on the massage table; all I had was hope, and God’s will. Inshallah.
By the time I got into the massage parlor, I had been in Kyrgyzstan, searching Manas Airbase for halfway decent looking females, for around 6 hours. In that short period of time I didn’t come across any good looking locals, so I was starting to worry about the quality of the masseuses.
All the woman from Kyrgyzstan looked unlike any women I had ever seen. They looked like a mixture of Russians, Middle Easterns, and Asians, and all spoke with Russian accents. I learned soon after arriving in Manas that good ole’ Genghis Khan had raped and pillaged his way through Kyrgyzstan 800 years prior; thereby adding superior mathematical ability, tight pussies, and little dicks into the bloodline.
I thought about the way they fought wars back then. I highly doubted that Genghis Khan’s campaign across Eurasia was hindered by rules of engagement and rules of war. I can only imagine how much fun and how little stress those guys had in combat. I digress….
I stepped into the massage parlor and saw to my immediate right, 4 fat Airmen, and 4 Infantry Marines. The Airmen looked relaxed, but the Marines looked both excited and uneasy. They looked like they were excited at the idea that they might possibly get a happy ending, but weren’t sure about how to ask. I could relate to them. Right above their heads, on the wall, was a large sign that read, “IT IS AGAINST THE LAW TO SOLICIT SEXUAL ACTS.” This explained why they looked uneasy.
To my direct front and to my left, were the curtains separating the massage rooms, and the masseuses. Within less than one second I was finished with a scan of 5 women, and identified that I’d have to drink about 17 beers to fuck any of them. I was like the Terminator in the opening scene of T2 when he walked into the bar and began scanning people; except my brain worked much faster than his processor, and my brain was only concerned with assessing “fuckability.” When I made eye contact with the masseuses I got the impression they were very attracted to me. I could see the hairs stand up on the back of their necks, I sensed their insatiable thirst for my dick, and I saw a quick scene of me fucking all 5 of them at once, with an empty 20 rack on the floor.
The way my brain works when I’m horny is truly incredible.
Seeing how horny and excited these women were at the sight of my charming smile and buff American body, instantly turned them from 4s into 5s. Any woman willing to fuck me becomes magically more attractive. It’s like a gift I have. I make women prettier with my presence, because I am selfless and kind.
I flirted with the Mongol-Russian hybrid working the front desk while 4 other women looked me up and down, imagining what it would be like to massage me. I felt very attractive at that moment. I put my name down for a massage the next afternoon, gave the front desk girl a wink, and took a deep breath through my nostrils; as expected, I could smell her sopping wet crotch as it yearned for me. I walked back to my barracks feeling like a million bucks, full of excitement, and myself.
I spent the rest of the night on Facebook like a loser, and sleeping like a leader.
When I woke up at 11AM the next morning, two of the other Platoon Commanders from Kilo Company, Toby and Charlie, were just getting back home from the massage parlor. They were excited to tell me about their experiences getting massaged.
Charlie was the first to speak.
“Donny wake the fuck up man, you gotta hear about the massage parlor.”
I felt my dick move. I immediately assumed that he got a hand job, which confirmed my hopes that the sign about not soliciting sexual acts was bullshit. I sat up and listened intently.
“Pleeeeeease tell me you got a hand job,” my face looked like I was in pain.
“First thing she did was pull my pants down below my ass, then ----”
I pulled my blanket over my lap and pretended like I was jerking off. Toby giggled.
“You’re such a fag.” He said.
“Charlie, I’m gonna rape your little bitch ass one day, you might as well get it over with,” I said.
Toby giggled again.
“You’re a fag.” Charlie said.
“Shut up and tell the fucking story.” I said.
Charlie continued, “so I’m face down, ass sticking out, and she’s massaging my lower back and upper ass. Her hands came eerily close to my ass crack.”
“Oh my God I love that, continue,” I said.
“You’re a fag,” he looked me in the face to emphasize his distaste for my over the top behavior. He continued, “So then she starts massaging my legs, and she spent most of the time on my inner thighs, and she worked really hard for a tip, because her fingers were like, grazing my nuts with each stroke up my inner thigh.”
I tilted my head up and rolled my eyes back in my head, as if I was feeling her hands graze my nuts at that very moment. Charlie continued, while Toby nodded his head in agreement,
“I got a raging boner under my towel and tried to fight it for a little while. Finally I said ‘fuck it’ and I just let it fly.”
“I’ve seen your little Jew dick bro, the head barely makes it out of the foreskin when you get hard,” I said.
Toby giggled.
“Fuck you, you’re a fag,” Charlie said, again.
“I normally only fuck chicks, but every time you call me that it builds up a gay rage that‘s gonna out in the form of a brutal ass raping one day, and you'll be sorry you ever called me that.”
Toby laughed out loud.
“Fuck both of you,” Charlie said, looking at both of us, “so I think she noticed that my dick was hard, and she started calling me her ‘blonde angel’.’” He smiled at the thought of it. “Then she starts patting my ass, and then judo chopping my ass. She does this for a minute, then adds lyrics. As she judo chops my ass, she says ‘masseuse’ then as she pats my ass, she says ‘girlfriend.’ She repeated this like 10 times. It was really weird but kind of a turn on.”
I was desperately waiting for the part where she jerked him off so that I had confirmation that they gave hand jobs.
“Ok, so what happened next?”
“Nothin’ man. I was seriously considering asking for a hand job but there was a sign in my massage room that said ‘DON’T SOLICIT SEXUAL ACTS,’ or something like that, so I didn’t risk it.”
I was infuriated, “NO HAND JOB!? What the fuck kind of bullshit establishment is this? Yeah I saw that stupid ass bullshit sign too, but who the fuck actually takes it seriously?” I became deflated and dejected.
“Well I’m sure they did give happy endings at one point, and some dumbass Marine probably tried to blow in the girls face or some shit, and ruined it for everyone.”
“It only takes one to ruin fun for everyone,” I said depressed.
We all nodded in agreement and looked at the ground for a second.
“Well fuck, my appointment is in 30 minutes and all I can think of is getting jerked off by one of those Mongol bitches.”
“Well, go ahead and be the Officer who gets court martialed for soliciting sex from an international worker.” He pondered the thought for a moment, then smiled. “I would be so fuckin happy if you got sent home before your first firefight. Please do it.”
“Don’t tempt me, Boy.”
“Why not? You won’t do it, you’re a pussy.”
I stood up like I was gonna hit him. He held his hands up to protect his face and said, “Get away from me bitch,” I left him alone, sat back down, and started putting my uniform on.
“Well fuck man, I purposely didn’t beat off last night because I was saving it up to shoot a load on the Mongol. Now I’m gonna be so fucking horny I’m not gonna be able to relax during my massage.”
“Well I say go for it Don,” Charlie said and quickly hurried away.
With Charlie gone, Toby started talking about his massage. He said that his masseuse brushed his nuts with every stroke. He told this to me with big, boyish eyes that made him look like a little kid who just saw a Ninja Turtle in real life. He was a real goody two-shoes, and would never in a million years have asked for a hand job.
I finished putting my uniform on and left the tent, headed for the massage parlor, feeling very bitter.
The walk to the massage parlor was miserable. My dick was hard as a rock, and with all the blood in my dick, I couldn’t think straight. Every fat disgusting Air Force chick looked beautiful. The Mongol employees looked beautiful, and when I looked down, even my right hand looked beautiful. I kept debating in my head if I would subtly ask for a hand job with my massage. I imagined the creative ways I could hint at a happy ending without being so blatant that I was reported and court martialed. I knew that my dick was going to be hard as a rock during the entire massage, and I was probably going to be dripping on myself. I would spend the entire massage sweating in anticipation of asking for a hand job, I wouldn’t relax, and I would focus on either trying to hide my hard on, or trying to maneuver it into the masseuse’s hand as it grazed by my crotch region. I reminded myself of how incredibly stupid I can be when I’m horny, and remembered that every single time I have ever gotten into trouble, and there were many times, it was because I was drunk or horny. I second-guessed my decision to go into that massage with a loaded gun.
Two seconds later, when a hideous, crusty, old, wrinkled, female Army Gunny walked by, and I imagined my dick in her nasty, diseased mouth, I realized I had a serious mental problem and needed to fix it immediately to avoid court martial.
It was time to beat off.
I saw a lone, blue porta potty on the side of the main street I was walking on. It was oddly placed, almost weird looking, on a very busy street with hundreds of people walking by it every minute. Lacking more time to find a nice, clean, private, heated bathroom, I decided to stop in the porta potty for a quick beat.
Once inside I took my right glove off, squirted some hand sanitizer on my right hand, then spat on it, and went to town on myself. It was about 15 degrees, so it turned out to be the coldest beat I ever threw. My hand became numb very quickly, and I realized that I had to be at the massage in 10 minutes.
I closed my eyes and focused, imagining that I was making vicious and powerful love to my ex girlfriend doggy style. In my fantasy, I pulled her hair, then she turned around and said with a hood rat accent, “I ain’t even tryin to fuck with dese niggaz. Nu uh. Ain’t hatnin’, dey can do dat booool shit dey DAMN selves. Uhhh huh, say summ’in’”
“What the fuck?” I thought, as I opened my eyes and pulled out of my dream. Someone outside ruined my fantasy. I stood on my tip toes to look out of the plastic grate on top of the porta potty. There was a group of black Air Force females walking by, complaining so loud the whole base could hear. Standard. The one talking actually looked like she had a great body to match her attitude. I was annoyed, but I got right back in the fight and resumed beating the shit out of my dick, imagining plowing the attitude out of the obnoxious Air Force chick until she said the safe word.
With a strong work ethic, focus, and teeth gritting determination, I was done in about 5 minutes. Not my quickest, but given the circumstances and distractions, not bad at all. With my load blown, the thought of nasty Eastern block-Mongol masseuses grossed me out, and I immediately relaxed. I was no longer concerned with whether or not I got a hand job. All I wanted was a nice, therapeutic massage to relieve the terrible knots I had in my upper left back.
I walked the rest of the way to the parlor with a huge smile on my face, and maintained that same smile when I opened the door to the parlor. I made eye contact with the girl at the front desk, and held it as I approached her. My smile and energy were so handsome and charming that again, I smelled her crotch as she yearned for me with a huge smile on her ugly face. I returned her a sad smile, with one eyebrow raised, and shook my head as if to say “sorry, you cannot have this.” She understood.
As I sat in the waiting room around other Marines, I saw how anxious they looked. I felt bad for them. I knew exactly what they were thinking and how they were feeling. As an Officer always looking to teach something to junior Marines, I wanted to educate them on the importance of jerking off before massages that don’t offer happy endings. Unfortunately, I was called by my masseuse before I got the chance to mentor them.
My masseuse was not the slightest bit attractive, although it’s hard to say for sure. Every guy knows, that for 10 minutes after jerking off, nothing in the world is attractive. All sexual objectivity normally assumed by women is gone, and they are reduced to being actual people; with feelings, hopes, dreams, and even families who love them.
So who knows, my masseuse could have been hot, I just wasn’t in a position to judge.
My masseuse directed me to remove my clothes and lay face down on the table. It dawned on me that I hadn’t showered in 5 days.
When she stepped out of the room I took my blouse off and smelled my pits. It was pretty bad.
I took my boots off and was punched in the nose by the smell of my feet. It was like eggs and vinegar that had been out in the sun.
I took off my pants and was kicked in the nose by the smell of my crotch. It was like shit, sweat, and balls stuffed into a horses hoof, and then kicked into my face.
I became terribly insecure about my smell. For one, because I was still within the 10-minute window that allowed for concern of the poor girls feelings, and more specifically, her olfactory glands.
For two, I became terribly insecure about what she would think of me. I’m not quite sure why I was concerned with my reputation amongst Russian-Mongol masseuses in Kyrgyzstan, but at that moment, I was very concerned that the tall, handsome, and confident Marine Officer, who was clearly full of himself, was going to be labeled a “disgusting piece of shit” by Eastern Block masseuses.
I frantically searched every drawer in the room for something that could make my orifices and glands smell less like death. I was hoping there was a can of air freshener that I could empty into my asshole, but I couldn’t find one. Alas, I found a bottle of baby oil that I thought would neutralize the smell of shit, so I bent over and poured it into the crack of my ass, hoping that it would have a positive effect. It dripped down my ass crack, into my asshole, then continued dripping down the back of my legs. Gravity’s a bitch.
Then I poured the oil on my feet, assuming oil always went well with vinegar, and put my socks back on, hoping to protect my masseuse from the stench of my feet. This proved to be a poor decision.
I sat down on the table and took a big whiff of myself. I still smelled shit and balls. I went back to the drawers and found a small bottle that had a faint, faded drawing of a tiger on it; I screwed off the lid and took a whiff. It smelled amazing and powerful. I assumed it was some kind of lotion, like a Vaseline or mentholatum, and knew it would be better than nothing. I took a big glob of it and wiped it on my chode, then without hesitation grabbed a bigger glob and wiped it on my asshole. I closed my ass cheeks hoping to spread it around and neutralize more death, and then all of a sudden my asshole felt like someone was shooting a blowtorch into it. It was the worst pain I had every experienced in my entire life. The burning sensation in my ass was so bad I thought I was going to vomit. The fire raging on the skin of my ass scared all the shit away from my asshole, back up my intestines, into my stomach, up my trachea, and into my mouth. I gagged several times, and threw up a little in my mouth. I was wincing like a baby, with tears dripping down my face, I had both hands on my ass cheeks with my sphincter and my cheeks clenched as tight as they could squeeze. I was hopping around on my tiptoes with my underwear around my ankles, and my mouth wide open on the verge of screaming at the top of my lungs. I was so angry I wanted to rip down every sheet hanging in the entire massage parlor and beat the shit out of every one in sight; in a Tiger-Balm-induced rage. As I learned LATER, the faded drawing of the Tiger on the little jar, was my first indication that the substance inside was Tiger’s Balm. Sadly, at 28 years old, I didn’t know what Tiger’s Balm was, until I got back to the barracks and told my buddies the story. To which they responded “OH MY GOD THAT WAS FUCKING TIGER’S BALM YOU IDIOT!”
Yeah, thanks.
Back to the story.
I was hopping around looking for something to use to remove the substance that was causing my asshole and chode to rage on fire. I heard my masseuse outside say with a Russian accent, “Mister, are you ready for me?”
“NO, NO, NO, DON’T COME IN. Not ready yet, one second please.”
“Okay, I come back.”
I looked down and realized that my sock was the best option I had to put the fire out. I ripped off my right sock and rubbed it in my ass with long, hard swiping motions. My face winced and my entire body shook as I wiped. I was still in terrible pain, so in a rage I ripped the sock apart and gave myself some more surface area with which to wipe. The pain began subsiding, but still lingered at a pretty decent level. When I was out of sock to wipe my ass with, and the pain subsided to a more tolerable level, I leaned against the wall, sweating and out of breath, and pondered how I had to potential to be such a fucking loser. I was literally in shock that I could be so stupid. I should have known from the harsh smell of the substance that it might have had an adverse effect, like, the fires of hell. Hindsight is 20/20.
I looked down at my naked body, with shitty baby oil dripping down my sweaty legs, with one sock on my left foot, one half a sock filled with Tiger’s Balm and shit in my right hand, smelling like a chemical rich, diaper creation lab; and then I saw my blouse on the floor, with the proud “US MARINES” name tape, my name “O’MALLEY,” and my shiny silver bar indicating, MARINE OFFICER; and I started laughing hysterically. I shut my eyes as I laughed loud and hard, flexing every muscle in my body with the same intensity that I had when the fire was raging. I fell to the ground on my hands and knees and continued laughing. Finally my masseuse opened the curtain and peeked in. She saw me butt naked, on all fours, in all my glory, bright red in the face, with my head tilted back, laughing without a care in the world. She quickly shut the curtain door and said, “WHOA.”
Un phased by the intrusion, I continued laughing uncontrollably for several minutes more, and eventually laid down on the table with my boxers on, and continued laughing until my stomach hurt. Then I finally gave her permission to enter.
“I’m ready,” I yelled, still laughing.
She walked in to the room and smiled confidently, not the slightest bit embarrassed to have seen me naked; which was unexpected. I thought she’d be a little shy about it, but she was older, and definitely more experienced. Before she started she said, “Why you have on one sock?”
“My feet get cold,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
“Then where is other sock?”
“Oh, I ripped it.” I glanced over to my pile of clothes; half of the Tiger’s-Balm-shit-sock was sticking out from underneath my pants. I smiled, then nodded to my left foot, “You can take this one off,” I said, not wanting to explain further.
She took the sock off and said in her Russian accent, “Ooooo wow. What do you shower with boy?”
I laughed as I said, “Oh, the military soap they give us is no good.”
“Oh, wow,” She exclaimed, amazed that military soap smelled like eggs, oil, and vinegar, as she warmed up my muscles with her hands.
I told her that the biggest problem I had was in my upper left back, around the scapula, and that I wanted her to focus there. It was an old injury from my first deployment.
This is where my experience should have taken a turn for the better, since it’s hard to be a bigger loser than I had already proven myself to be. But it didn’t, in fact, I continued coasting down the road to shame.
She did a decent job warming me up and getting to the scapula. As soon as she put pressure on my scapula I grunted under the pain and pressure of her hands.
“You are very tight here. I must work here for long time.”
“Yes, please, you can spend the whole session on this part of my back.”
She continued rubbing all around my scapula, and began using her elbow at my request for more pressure. She put the full weight of her body into her elbow, creating so much pressure it pushed the air out of my lungs. Each time her elbow slid past my scapula and into my trap I grunted loudly. The knots and scars around my left scapula throbbed on a daily basis, and were very sensitive to the touch. Her elbow, pressing down underneath all her body weight, felt like a jackhammer in my back. My grunt was a combination of the sound, “AHHH,” with my teeth gritted, and the air being pushed out of my lungs by the pressure. Because she moved slowly, the first motion from lower back to neck worked out to roughly one grunt every 12 seconds. Then she started in the mid back and worked her way up. One grunt every 8 seconds. Then she focused on the scapula and brought me to one grunt every 3 seconds.
At this point, there was a lot of noise coming from my room. To the untrained ear, it could have been assumed that a man was trying to get a nut off. Not surprisingly, three other masseuses pulled the curtain and peeked inside to see what all the noise was about. Then I heard someone in another room, definitely an Air Force nerd, say, “what the hell is that noise all about?”
I began to get a little insecure about my grunting and tried to hold it in. By holding it in, I turned my manly grunt into a pathetic little whimper. She continued her massaging and started laughing at me.
“Why are you cry boy? You look like big strong man. And you are cry?”
She resumed laughing. I don’t know why but it really rubbed me wrong. She kept laughing, and kept repeating, “Why are you cry boy?” As if she found it immensely humorous that a big Marine could be such a pussy.
I had a quick vision of choking her with my Tiger’s-Balm-shit-hand until she started crying, then saying, “Why are you cry girl? Why are you cry?”
The vision went away as quickly as it came.
I finally responded to her and said, “I’m not crying, my throat is clogged. AHEM.” I cleared my throat.
She said, “Ooooo kay” like a smartass. Then she resumed laughing at the whimpers that I was trying to turn back into grunts.
She whispered in my ear, “don’t cry Boy, it’s okay, you don’t cry.”
I realized at that moment that I was probably the biggest, worst smelling, most disgusting pussy that she had ever massaged.
I was anxious for her to finish and get her filthy Mongol hands off me, but before she was done she had me lay on my back while she pretended to be a fucking chiropractor. She tugged and twisted my head and tried to crack my neck, whipping it from one side to the other, carefully, but aggressively, as chiropractors do. I couldn’t relax enough to let her do it. So I flexed and fought her at every turn.
“Relax Boy, relax.”
I finally began laughing at the hilarity of some dumb Eastern Block masseuse attempting a Chiropractor’s most dangerous technique, as I resisted her every movement. She probably looked like she was trying to twist my head off.
As I laughed I said, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t relax, just stop. Stop.”
She finally stopped and rolled her eyes, reinforcing that I was the biggest pussy she ever massaged.
She walked towards the curtains, and without looking at me she said, “You put on clothes, see you at front desk.”
The few minutes that I spent putting my clothes back on were miserable. All of the humor had left my body. All that was left was shame. I felt immense, powerful, unadulterated, shame, about the events from the last hour. I looked down at my uniform on the floor and thought, Marine Officer huh? Yeah, sure you are buddy.
My back was sticky from the oil that the masseuse used, and while it might have looked clean, it felt disgusting; because I thought about all the other buttholes that her filthy hands rubbed against before she started rubbing my back. I wondered if she even washed her hands.
I put my t-shirt and blouse on first, then my pants, and finally, my one remaining sock. I looked at the two halves of my Tiger’s-Balm-shit-sock on the floor. I would have normally chuckled, picked up the socks and stuffed them in my pocket, but instead I thought, “Fuck this bitch,” and left the socks right where they were. I was already feeling so embarrassed that I didn’t care if I lost even more of her respect by leaving my two half socks on the floor. In fact, I hoped the Mongol would walk back in and pick them up, and even better, sniff them.
Again, I would like to reiterate that I was a Marine Officer.
I walked to the front desk with only one sock on my left foot, shitty baby oil all over my body, the remnants of a small fire in my asshole, and no pride left in my heart. Once at the front desk I gave the front desk girl a partial smile. She returned me a sad smile, with one eyebrow raised, and shook her head as if to say “sorry, you cannot have this.” I understood.
As if I had not been shamed enough, I saw my masseuse talking with some of the other girls down the hallway. It looked like she was telling them a story; she held her hands to her nose, she held her elbow up, and she made a crybaby face. She was clearly telling the story of what it was like massaging me. The 3 masseuses listening were laughing hysterically.
Feeling like a complete loser, I walked out of the massage parlor and into the freezing cold, causing my dick to complete the transformation and shrivel up into an actual pussy. Within my first two steps outside I walked by a group of my Marines. They propped up, smiled, and said with a crisp salute, “Good morning, Sir.” I stood up proudly and returned the salute with a fake confident smile and a motivational, “Ooorah Marines.”
Once they walked past me, I let my smile fade, let the air out of my lungs, hung my head down in shame, and headed back to the barracks feeling like I had let down my Marines, and my country.
If they only knew…..
So who knows, my masseuse could have been hot, I just wasn’t in a position to judge.”
Desperation can make a person do incredible things. Incredibly stupid things, incredibly sad things, incredibly terrible things, and incredibly shameful things. When I get desperate, I am capable of everything. This is a tale of one Marine's desperation as he headed into combat, with a loaded gun.
The Road to War
March 1, 2012
Manas Air Force Base, Kyrgyzstan
Getting from the United States to Afghanistan was borderline unbearable. First, we boarded onto a miserable Delta 747 and, as expected, I got screwed with the aisle seat in first class. The flight was an arduous 18 hours, and I was only able to get good sleep for 14 of them. For the few minutes that I was awake, I was very disappointed with the movie selection on my personal television. Additionally, on every single one of the six meals we were served, my fucking bread was cold. This was not the glamorous way I expected to head into combat, but I was a Marine, and I could handle anything. So I walked out of first class, where they didn’t serve us booze, and exited the airplane in Kyrgyzstan.
We crowded onto the flight line where it was 15 degrees. Then we piled way too many Marines on piece of shit buses that were so weighed down the bottom was scrapping against the ground. We drove out of the airport and through a dark, rusty town that made me feel like we were in either a World War II or James Bond movie. Thanks to the clouds, snow, cold air, barbed wire fences, and dying trees, it had a very Soviet, Cold War, feel to it. My initial impression of historic shame was reaffirmed when one of the Marines on the bus started doing impressions of a Nazi soldier herding Jews. Not only was the Marine a Jew himself, but he was yelling for the whole bus to hear, making it more outrageous.
“VOMEN and CHEELDREN, line TO ZE RIGHT. ABLE BODIED MEN, line TO ZE LEFT. Elderly and sickly, move quickly to ze showvas, we must get you clean IMMEDIATELY!”
The whole bus was laughing hysterically, mostly because no one could believe that a Jew would make that joke out loud. One Marine on the back of the bus, who didn’t know this Marine yelled out,
“MY FUCKING FAMILY WAS KILLED IN THE HOLOCAUST MUTHERFUCKER. SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
The Jew Joker yelled back, “SO DID MINE BITCH, AND THEY ALL HAD A SICK SENSE OF HUMOR, SO GET OVER IT.”
The angry Marine looked confused and then settled down. There was some laughter and discussion as the Marine in the back pondered the sanity of the Marine Corps.
Our buses dropped us off on the front line of Manas Air Force Base. Manas airbase is a huge transient base, first built as an airstrip for shuttling cargo into Afghanistan. It then became the stopping off point for troops heading into and out of Afghanistan. The base is outstanding; on flat ground surrounded by beautiful mountains. It has three chow halls, all of which are amazing. It has a sports bar, a supermarket, a library with internet access, a huge gym with a basketball court, another brand new, state of the art basketball court with 6 NBA regulation hoops in a large tent, (the Air Force has a lot of black guys) volleyball courts, running paths, an entertainment club with TV’s for movies, video games, and WIFI. The place is just fantastic. I spent my entire time in Manas eating, sleeping, working out, and on the Internet. Like a real Marine.
On a different part of the base was a shopping center with the following stores; a nail salon, (for all the fat, disgusting Air Force females) an alteration shop, (for all the Airmen who gain 30 pounds while stationed there) a gear store, (for all the Airmen to post pictures on Facebook holding knives and pretending to be bad asses) a souvenir shop, (so Airmen can prove to their families that they were deployed to a foreign country) and a massage parlor, (because Airmen do hard, back breaking work).
Naturally, I found my way to the massage parlor. The massage parlor served two purposes for me. First, ever since I injured my back on my first deployment, I have needed massages at least monthly to be able to turn my head properly without lots of painkillers.
Second, I desperately wanted to feel a woman’s hands on me. I had not touched a woman in a whole 5 days, and I was desperately craving a woman’s touch. Touching my back would have been a great start, but I was really hoping that the massages came with happy endings. In Thailand you couldn’t go anywhere without women begging to tug on your dick for a few bucks, so naturally, I figured that every woman in a foreign country working on a United States military base had an entrepreneurial spirit and a knack for stroking cocks.
Besides, to any deployed Marine, the words “Massage Parlor” are synonymous with “Happy Ending.”
As I walked up to the massage parlor door I had a quick fantasy of a small, smooth hand, with nice nails wrapped around my dick, because quite frankly my big, callused hand was getting old. As a matter of fact, I really didn’t care if the masseuses were hideous, hell, I didn’t even care if their hands were bigger than mine. Truth be told, I just wanted a females hand around my dick, and I wanted to blow a load that at least partially landed on female skin, because blowing loads into porta potties and napkins was getting really old.
I was well aware that if I got a hand job with my massage I was more than likely going to blow my load on myself. But I imagined that if just one, tiny, drop of jizz got on my masseuses hand, or forearm, or God forbid, her tits, I could sleep easy at night knowing that I served the needs of the Marine Corps, and all mankind.
All my fantasizing was very preemptive, because there was really a 50/50 chance that the massage parlor gave out happy endings. I had no way to know until I was lying on the massage table; all I had was hope, and God’s will. Inshallah.
By the time I got into the massage parlor, I had been in Kyrgyzstan, searching Manas Airbase for halfway decent looking females, for around 6 hours. In that short period of time I didn’t come across any good looking locals, so I was starting to worry about the quality of the masseuses.
All the woman from Kyrgyzstan looked unlike any women I had ever seen. They looked like a mixture of Russians, Middle Easterns, and Asians, and all spoke with Russian accents. I learned soon after arriving in Manas that good ole’ Genghis Khan had raped and pillaged his way through Kyrgyzstan 800 years prior; thereby adding superior mathematical ability, tight pussies, and little dicks into the bloodline.
I thought about the way they fought wars back then. I highly doubted that Genghis Khan’s campaign across Eurasia was hindered by rules of engagement and rules of war. I can only imagine how much fun and how little stress those guys had in combat. I digress….
I stepped into the massage parlor and saw to my immediate right, 4 fat Airmen, and 4 Infantry Marines. The Airmen looked relaxed, but the Marines looked both excited and uneasy. They looked like they were excited at the idea that they might possibly get a happy ending, but weren’t sure about how to ask. I could relate to them. Right above their heads, on the wall, was a large sign that read, “IT IS AGAINST THE LAW TO SOLICIT SEXUAL ACTS.” This explained why they looked uneasy.
To my direct front and to my left, were the curtains separating the massage rooms, and the masseuses. Within less than one second I was finished with a scan of 5 women, and identified that I’d have to drink about 17 beers to fuck any of them. I was like the Terminator in the opening scene of T2 when he walked into the bar and began scanning people; except my brain worked much faster than his processor, and my brain was only concerned with assessing “fuckability.” When I made eye contact with the masseuses I got the impression they were very attracted to me. I could see the hairs stand up on the back of their necks, I sensed their insatiable thirst for my dick, and I saw a quick scene of me fucking all 5 of them at once, with an empty 20 rack on the floor.
The way my brain works when I’m horny is truly incredible.
Seeing how horny and excited these women were at the sight of my charming smile and buff American body, instantly turned them from 4s into 5s. Any woman willing to fuck me becomes magically more attractive. It’s like a gift I have. I make women prettier with my presence, because I am selfless and kind.
I flirted with the Mongol-Russian hybrid working the front desk while 4 other women looked me up and down, imagining what it would be like to massage me. I felt very attractive at that moment. I put my name down for a massage the next afternoon, gave the front desk girl a wink, and took a deep breath through my nostrils; as expected, I could smell her sopping wet crotch as it yearned for me. I walked back to my barracks feeling like a million bucks, full of excitement, and myself.
I spent the rest of the night on Facebook like a loser, and sleeping like a leader.
When I woke up at 11AM the next morning, two of the other Platoon Commanders from Kilo Company, Toby and Charlie, were just getting back home from the massage parlor. They were excited to tell me about their experiences getting massaged.
Charlie was the first to speak.
“Donny wake the fuck up man, you gotta hear about the massage parlor.”
I felt my dick move. I immediately assumed that he got a hand job, which confirmed my hopes that the sign about not soliciting sexual acts was bullshit. I sat up and listened intently.
“Pleeeeeease tell me you got a hand job,” my face looked like I was in pain.
“First thing she did was pull my pants down below my ass, then ----”
I pulled my blanket over my lap and pretended like I was jerking off. Toby giggled.
“You’re such a fag.” He said.
“Charlie, I’m gonna rape your little bitch ass one day, you might as well get it over with,” I said.
Toby giggled again.
“You’re a fag.” Charlie said.
“Shut up and tell the fucking story.” I said.
Charlie continued, “so I’m face down, ass sticking out, and she’s massaging my lower back and upper ass. Her hands came eerily close to my ass crack.”
“Oh my God I love that, continue,” I said.
“You’re a fag,” he looked me in the face to emphasize his distaste for my over the top behavior. He continued, “So then she starts massaging my legs, and she spent most of the time on my inner thighs, and she worked really hard for a tip, because her fingers were like, grazing my nuts with each stroke up my inner thigh.”
I tilted my head up and rolled my eyes back in my head, as if I was feeling her hands graze my nuts at that very moment. Charlie continued, while Toby nodded his head in agreement,
“I got a raging boner under my towel and tried to fight it for a little while. Finally I said ‘fuck it’ and I just let it fly.”
“I’ve seen your little Jew dick bro, the head barely makes it out of the foreskin when you get hard,” I said.
Toby giggled.
“Fuck you, you’re a fag,” Charlie said, again.
“I normally only fuck chicks, but every time you call me that it builds up a gay rage that‘s gonna out in the form of a brutal ass raping one day, and you'll be sorry you ever called me that.”
Toby laughed out loud.
“Fuck both of you,” Charlie said, looking at both of us, “so I think she noticed that my dick was hard, and she started calling me her ‘blonde angel’.’” He smiled at the thought of it. “Then she starts patting my ass, and then judo chopping my ass. She does this for a minute, then adds lyrics. As she judo chops my ass, she says ‘masseuse’ then as she pats my ass, she says ‘girlfriend.’ She repeated this like 10 times. It was really weird but kind of a turn on.”
I was desperately waiting for the part where she jerked him off so that I had confirmation that they gave hand jobs.
“Ok, so what happened next?”
“Nothin’ man. I was seriously considering asking for a hand job but there was a sign in my massage room that said ‘DON’T SOLICIT SEXUAL ACTS,’ or something like that, so I didn’t risk it.”
I was infuriated, “NO HAND JOB!? What the fuck kind of bullshit establishment is this? Yeah I saw that stupid ass bullshit sign too, but who the fuck actually takes it seriously?” I became deflated and dejected.
“Well I’m sure they did give happy endings at one point, and some dumbass Marine probably tried to blow in the girls face or some shit, and ruined it for everyone.”
“It only takes one to ruin fun for everyone,” I said depressed.
We all nodded in agreement and looked at the ground for a second.
“Well fuck, my appointment is in 30 minutes and all I can think of is getting jerked off by one of those Mongol bitches.”
“Well, go ahead and be the Officer who gets court martialed for soliciting sex from an international worker.” He pondered the thought for a moment, then smiled. “I would be so fuckin happy if you got sent home before your first firefight. Please do it.”
“Don’t tempt me, Boy.”
“Why not? You won’t do it, you’re a pussy.”
I stood up like I was gonna hit him. He held his hands up to protect his face and said, “Get away from me bitch,” I left him alone, sat back down, and started putting my uniform on.
“Well fuck man, I purposely didn’t beat off last night because I was saving it up to shoot a load on the Mongol. Now I’m gonna be so fucking horny I’m not gonna be able to relax during my massage.”
“Well I say go for it Don,” Charlie said and quickly hurried away.
With Charlie gone, Toby started talking about his massage. He said that his masseuse brushed his nuts with every stroke. He told this to me with big, boyish eyes that made him look like a little kid who just saw a Ninja Turtle in real life. He was a real goody two-shoes, and would never in a million years have asked for a hand job.
I finished putting my uniform on and left the tent, headed for the massage parlor, feeling very bitter.
The walk to the massage parlor was miserable. My dick was hard as a rock, and with all the blood in my dick, I couldn’t think straight. Every fat disgusting Air Force chick looked beautiful. The Mongol employees looked beautiful, and when I looked down, even my right hand looked beautiful. I kept debating in my head if I would subtly ask for a hand job with my massage. I imagined the creative ways I could hint at a happy ending without being so blatant that I was reported and court martialed. I knew that my dick was going to be hard as a rock during the entire massage, and I was probably going to be dripping on myself. I would spend the entire massage sweating in anticipation of asking for a hand job, I wouldn’t relax, and I would focus on either trying to hide my hard on, or trying to maneuver it into the masseuse’s hand as it grazed by my crotch region. I reminded myself of how incredibly stupid I can be when I’m horny, and remembered that every single time I have ever gotten into trouble, and there were many times, it was because I was drunk or horny. I second-guessed my decision to go into that massage with a loaded gun.
Two seconds later, when a hideous, crusty, old, wrinkled, female Army Gunny walked by, and I imagined my dick in her nasty, diseased mouth, I realized I had a serious mental problem and needed to fix it immediately to avoid court martial.
It was time to beat off.
I saw a lone, blue porta potty on the side of the main street I was walking on. It was oddly placed, almost weird looking, on a very busy street with hundreds of people walking by it every minute. Lacking more time to find a nice, clean, private, heated bathroom, I decided to stop in the porta potty for a quick beat.
Once inside I took my right glove off, squirted some hand sanitizer on my right hand, then spat on it, and went to town on myself. It was about 15 degrees, so it turned out to be the coldest beat I ever threw. My hand became numb very quickly, and I realized that I had to be at the massage in 10 minutes.
I closed my eyes and focused, imagining that I was making vicious and powerful love to my ex girlfriend doggy style. In my fantasy, I pulled her hair, then she turned around and said with a hood rat accent, “I ain’t even tryin to fuck with dese niggaz. Nu uh. Ain’t hatnin’, dey can do dat booool shit dey DAMN selves. Uhhh huh, say summ’in’”
“What the fuck?” I thought, as I opened my eyes and pulled out of my dream. Someone outside ruined my fantasy. I stood on my tip toes to look out of the plastic grate on top of the porta potty. There was a group of black Air Force females walking by, complaining so loud the whole base could hear. Standard. The one talking actually looked like she had a great body to match her attitude. I was annoyed, but I got right back in the fight and resumed beating the shit out of my dick, imagining plowing the attitude out of the obnoxious Air Force chick until she said the safe word.
With a strong work ethic, focus, and teeth gritting determination, I was done in about 5 minutes. Not my quickest, but given the circumstances and distractions, not bad at all. With my load blown, the thought of nasty Eastern block-Mongol masseuses grossed me out, and I immediately relaxed. I was no longer concerned with whether or not I got a hand job. All I wanted was a nice, therapeutic massage to relieve the terrible knots I had in my upper left back.
I walked the rest of the way to the parlor with a huge smile on my face, and maintained that same smile when I opened the door to the parlor. I made eye contact with the girl at the front desk, and held it as I approached her. My smile and energy were so handsome and charming that again, I smelled her crotch as she yearned for me with a huge smile on her ugly face. I returned her a sad smile, with one eyebrow raised, and shook my head as if to say “sorry, you cannot have this.” She understood.
As I sat in the waiting room around other Marines, I saw how anxious they looked. I felt bad for them. I knew exactly what they were thinking and how they were feeling. As an Officer always looking to teach something to junior Marines, I wanted to educate them on the importance of jerking off before massages that don’t offer happy endings. Unfortunately, I was called by my masseuse before I got the chance to mentor them.
My masseuse was not the slightest bit attractive, although it’s hard to say for sure. Every guy knows, that for 10 minutes after jerking off, nothing in the world is attractive. All sexual objectivity normally assumed by women is gone, and they are reduced to being actual people; with feelings, hopes, dreams, and even families who love them.
So who knows, my masseuse could have been hot, I just wasn’t in a position to judge.
My masseuse directed me to remove my clothes and lay face down on the table. It dawned on me that I hadn’t showered in 5 days.
When she stepped out of the room I took my blouse off and smelled my pits. It was pretty bad.
I took my boots off and was punched in the nose by the smell of my feet. It was like eggs and vinegar that had been out in the sun.
I took off my pants and was kicked in the nose by the smell of my crotch. It was like shit, sweat, and balls stuffed into a horses hoof, and then kicked into my face.
I became terribly insecure about my smell. For one, because I was still within the 10-minute window that allowed for concern of the poor girls feelings, and more specifically, her olfactory glands.
For two, I became terribly insecure about what she would think of me. I’m not quite sure why I was concerned with my reputation amongst Russian-Mongol masseuses in Kyrgyzstan, but at that moment, I was very concerned that the tall, handsome, and confident Marine Officer, who was clearly full of himself, was going to be labeled a “disgusting piece of shit” by Eastern Block masseuses.
I frantically searched every drawer in the room for something that could make my orifices and glands smell less like death. I was hoping there was a can of air freshener that I could empty into my asshole, but I couldn’t find one. Alas, I found a bottle of baby oil that I thought would neutralize the smell of shit, so I bent over and poured it into the crack of my ass, hoping that it would have a positive effect. It dripped down my ass crack, into my asshole, then continued dripping down the back of my legs. Gravity’s a bitch.
Then I poured the oil on my feet, assuming oil always went well with vinegar, and put my socks back on, hoping to protect my masseuse from the stench of my feet. This proved to be a poor decision.
I sat down on the table and took a big whiff of myself. I still smelled shit and balls. I went back to the drawers and found a small bottle that had a faint, faded drawing of a tiger on it; I screwed off the lid and took a whiff. It smelled amazing and powerful. I assumed it was some kind of lotion, like a Vaseline or mentholatum, and knew it would be better than nothing. I took a big glob of it and wiped it on my chode, then without hesitation grabbed a bigger glob and wiped it on my asshole. I closed my ass cheeks hoping to spread it around and neutralize more death, and then all of a sudden my asshole felt like someone was shooting a blowtorch into it. It was the worst pain I had every experienced in my entire life. The burning sensation in my ass was so bad I thought I was going to vomit. The fire raging on the skin of my ass scared all the shit away from my asshole, back up my intestines, into my stomach, up my trachea, and into my mouth. I gagged several times, and threw up a little in my mouth. I was wincing like a baby, with tears dripping down my face, I had both hands on my ass cheeks with my sphincter and my cheeks clenched as tight as they could squeeze. I was hopping around on my tiptoes with my underwear around my ankles, and my mouth wide open on the verge of screaming at the top of my lungs. I was so angry I wanted to rip down every sheet hanging in the entire massage parlor and beat the shit out of every one in sight; in a Tiger-Balm-induced rage. As I learned LATER, the faded drawing of the Tiger on the little jar, was my first indication that the substance inside was Tiger’s Balm. Sadly, at 28 years old, I didn’t know what Tiger’s Balm was, until I got back to the barracks and told my buddies the story. To which they responded “OH MY GOD THAT WAS FUCKING TIGER’S BALM YOU IDIOT!”
Yeah, thanks.
Back to the story.
I was hopping around looking for something to use to remove the substance that was causing my asshole and chode to rage on fire. I heard my masseuse outside say with a Russian accent, “Mister, are you ready for me?”
“NO, NO, NO, DON’T COME IN. Not ready yet, one second please.”
“Okay, I come back.”
I looked down and realized that my sock was the best option I had to put the fire out. I ripped off my right sock and rubbed it in my ass with long, hard swiping motions. My face winced and my entire body shook as I wiped. I was still in terrible pain, so in a rage I ripped the sock apart and gave myself some more surface area with which to wipe. The pain began subsiding, but still lingered at a pretty decent level. When I was out of sock to wipe my ass with, and the pain subsided to a more tolerable level, I leaned against the wall, sweating and out of breath, and pondered how I had to potential to be such a fucking loser. I was literally in shock that I could be so stupid. I should have known from the harsh smell of the substance that it might have had an adverse effect, like, the fires of hell. Hindsight is 20/20.
I looked down at my naked body, with shitty baby oil dripping down my sweaty legs, with one sock on my left foot, one half a sock filled with Tiger’s Balm and shit in my right hand, smelling like a chemical rich, diaper creation lab; and then I saw my blouse on the floor, with the proud “US MARINES” name tape, my name “O’MALLEY,” and my shiny silver bar indicating, MARINE OFFICER; and I started laughing hysterically. I shut my eyes as I laughed loud and hard, flexing every muscle in my body with the same intensity that I had when the fire was raging. I fell to the ground on my hands and knees and continued laughing. Finally my masseuse opened the curtain and peeked in. She saw me butt naked, on all fours, in all my glory, bright red in the face, with my head tilted back, laughing without a care in the world. She quickly shut the curtain door and said, “WHOA.”
Un phased by the intrusion, I continued laughing uncontrollably for several minutes more, and eventually laid down on the table with my boxers on, and continued laughing until my stomach hurt. Then I finally gave her permission to enter.
“I’m ready,” I yelled, still laughing.
She walked in to the room and smiled confidently, not the slightest bit embarrassed to have seen me naked; which was unexpected. I thought she’d be a little shy about it, but she was older, and definitely more experienced. Before she started she said, “Why you have on one sock?”
“My feet get cold,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
“Then where is other sock?”
“Oh, I ripped it.” I glanced over to my pile of clothes; half of the Tiger’s-Balm-shit-sock was sticking out from underneath my pants. I smiled, then nodded to my left foot, “You can take this one off,” I said, not wanting to explain further.
She took the sock off and said in her Russian accent, “Ooooo wow. What do you shower with boy?”
I laughed as I said, “Oh, the military soap they give us is no good.”
“Oh, wow,” She exclaimed, amazed that military soap smelled like eggs, oil, and vinegar, as she warmed up my muscles with her hands.
I told her that the biggest problem I had was in my upper left back, around the scapula, and that I wanted her to focus there. It was an old injury from my first deployment.
This is where my experience should have taken a turn for the better, since it’s hard to be a bigger loser than I had already proven myself to be. But it didn’t, in fact, I continued coasting down the road to shame.
She did a decent job warming me up and getting to the scapula. As soon as she put pressure on my scapula I grunted under the pain and pressure of her hands.
“You are very tight here. I must work here for long time.”
“Yes, please, you can spend the whole session on this part of my back.”
She continued rubbing all around my scapula, and began using her elbow at my request for more pressure. She put the full weight of her body into her elbow, creating so much pressure it pushed the air out of my lungs. Each time her elbow slid past my scapula and into my trap I grunted loudly. The knots and scars around my left scapula throbbed on a daily basis, and were very sensitive to the touch. Her elbow, pressing down underneath all her body weight, felt like a jackhammer in my back. My grunt was a combination of the sound, “AHHH,” with my teeth gritted, and the air being pushed out of my lungs by the pressure. Because she moved slowly, the first motion from lower back to neck worked out to roughly one grunt every 12 seconds. Then she started in the mid back and worked her way up. One grunt every 8 seconds. Then she focused on the scapula and brought me to one grunt every 3 seconds.
At this point, there was a lot of noise coming from my room. To the untrained ear, it could have been assumed that a man was trying to get a nut off. Not surprisingly, three other masseuses pulled the curtain and peeked inside to see what all the noise was about. Then I heard someone in another room, definitely an Air Force nerd, say, “what the hell is that noise all about?”
I began to get a little insecure about my grunting and tried to hold it in. By holding it in, I turned my manly grunt into a pathetic little whimper. She continued her massaging and started laughing at me.
“Why are you cry boy? You look like big strong man. And you are cry?”
She resumed laughing. I don’t know why but it really rubbed me wrong. She kept laughing, and kept repeating, “Why are you cry boy?” As if she found it immensely humorous that a big Marine could be such a pussy.
I had a quick vision of choking her with my Tiger’s-Balm-shit-hand until she started crying, then saying, “Why are you cry girl? Why are you cry?”
The vision went away as quickly as it came.
I finally responded to her and said, “I’m not crying, my throat is clogged. AHEM.” I cleared my throat.
She said, “Ooooo kay” like a smartass. Then she resumed laughing at the whimpers that I was trying to turn back into grunts.
She whispered in my ear, “don’t cry Boy, it’s okay, you don’t cry.”
I realized at that moment that I was probably the biggest, worst smelling, most disgusting pussy that she had ever massaged.
I was anxious for her to finish and get her filthy Mongol hands off me, but before she was done she had me lay on my back while she pretended to be a fucking chiropractor. She tugged and twisted my head and tried to crack my neck, whipping it from one side to the other, carefully, but aggressively, as chiropractors do. I couldn’t relax enough to let her do it. So I flexed and fought her at every turn.
“Relax Boy, relax.”
I finally began laughing at the hilarity of some dumb Eastern Block masseuse attempting a Chiropractor’s most dangerous technique, as I resisted her every movement. She probably looked like she was trying to twist my head off.
As I laughed I said, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t relax, just stop. Stop.”
She finally stopped and rolled her eyes, reinforcing that I was the biggest pussy she ever massaged.
She walked towards the curtains, and without looking at me she said, “You put on clothes, see you at front desk.”
The few minutes that I spent putting my clothes back on were miserable. All of the humor had left my body. All that was left was shame. I felt immense, powerful, unadulterated, shame, about the events from the last hour. I looked down at my uniform on the floor and thought, Marine Officer huh? Yeah, sure you are buddy.
My back was sticky from the oil that the masseuse used, and while it might have looked clean, it felt disgusting; because I thought about all the other buttholes that her filthy hands rubbed against before she started rubbing my back. I wondered if she even washed her hands.
I put my t-shirt and blouse on first, then my pants, and finally, my one remaining sock. I looked at the two halves of my Tiger’s-Balm-shit-sock on the floor. I would have normally chuckled, picked up the socks and stuffed them in my pocket, but instead I thought, “Fuck this bitch,” and left the socks right where they were. I was already feeling so embarrassed that I didn’t care if I lost even more of her respect by leaving my two half socks on the floor. In fact, I hoped the Mongol would walk back in and pick them up, and even better, sniff them.
Again, I would like to reiterate that I was a Marine Officer.
I walked to the front desk with only one sock on my left foot, shitty baby oil all over my body, the remnants of a small fire in my asshole, and no pride left in my heart. Once at the front desk I gave the front desk girl a partial smile. She returned me a sad smile, with one eyebrow raised, and shook her head as if to say “sorry, you cannot have this.” I understood.
As if I had not been shamed enough, I saw my masseuse talking with some of the other girls down the hallway. It looked like she was telling them a story; she held her hands to her nose, she held her elbow up, and she made a crybaby face. She was clearly telling the story of what it was like massaging me. The 3 masseuses listening were laughing hysterically.
Feeling like a complete loser, I walked out of the massage parlor and into the freezing cold, causing my dick to complete the transformation and shrivel up into an actual pussy. Within my first two steps outside I walked by a group of my Marines. They propped up, smiled, and said with a crisp salute, “Good morning, Sir.” I stood up proudly and returned the salute with a fake confident smile and a motivational, “Ooorah Marines.”
Once they walked past me, I let my smile fade, let the air out of my lungs, hung my head down in shame, and headed back to the barracks feeling like I had let down my Marines, and my country.
If they only knew…..