How was Tuyen in bed?
What you expect? She was noisy. Said "pain, pain, pain" but I think she was pretending.
His face ashen, Adrian moves closer to inspect the creased bedsheet. Let me call the Vietnamese agent.
He talks briefly on his cell phone and passes it to Tuyen. Your agent wants to talk to you.
Tuyen sobs and wails in Vietnamese, while Adrian paces up and down the room, his lips pressed tight. She returns the phone to Adrian and stares blankly at the carpeted floor, bleary-eyed.
Charles asks: So how, now? I’ve to pay two thousand for one session?
Adrian discharges a deep sigh and takes out his wallet. I’ll refund you thousand eight hundred ringgit. Just pay the normal price.
Fifteen minutes later while Charles is driving away from Bukit Bintang Kuala Lumpur, his cell phone rings.
Hello, Charles! Looks like Tuyen’s attempting suicide. Words in a hurried torrent burst from Adrian’s voice through the Bluetooth headset. If she dies, we’re in deep shit. Please come and calm her down.
What? Charles, overcome with guilt and sympathy, slaps his hand against the steering wheel. Okay, I’m coming back.
He executes an illegal U-turn, speeds to Laguna Hotel and returns to Tuyen’s former room. The door is ajar and he strides in. The split glass casement windows are open and Tuyen is sitting on the ledge, her feet dangling on the other side, one hand holding the middle sash bar. Adrian is standing several paces from her, taking deep breaths as if trying to calm down.
Tuyen turns to face Charles and snivels, her voice choked with emotion. I virgin! I virgin! I no boyfriend!
Adrian’s face is pale, his voice shaky. Her Vietnamese agent called again after you left. He insists Tuyen’s a virgin before she met you. In fact, he’s acquainted with her family. He suggests you take her to a gynaecologist for a check-up. Just look at her. She’s very upset. She’ll owe her agent a lot of money if the deal fails.
Come, we go to a doctor, Charles says, and extends his arm to her, and she climbs back into the room. Get your things. We leave, now. To Adrian: You coming along?
Of course. He locks the window. I show you where the nearest gynaecologist is.
After two hours, the episode at the doctor ends with a damage of 200 ringgit to Charles wallet. Tuyen is confirmed a virgin with a torn hymen. Charles returns to Laguna Hotel to allow Tuyen to collect her luggage and to drop Adrian. Then he installs Tuyen in a motel at Alor Road.
The next day, he visits her. I’m sorry about yesterday. Let’s go to a Vietnamese restaurant.
My investigation into men’s spas starts with an Internet search. A gay site lists several spa advertisers. The terms ‘gay-owned’ and ‘gay-friendly’ are used to describe a few of them.
I phone a spa located uptown in a commercial centre. How much for an hour’s massage?
Sixty-five onward, depending on service. He sounds like a foreigner.
YES... Of course!
What other services?
Please go online. He gives me the URL of the website www.moscow-outcall.org which I log into. Body scrubs and hydrotherapy, costing around 200 ringgit, are also available. Pictures of hunks wearing only briefs or swimming trunks are displayed, including their age, height and weight, a sign that the spa is gay.
The next afternoon, I check out another men’s spa in the city centre. As the website does not contain any picture of muscular, handsome young men, I conclude it is a regular spa.
The waiting area is outfitted with a small copper fountain decorated with Roman figurines. The violet walls clash with the salmon-pink cushion covers. An attendant ushers me down a passageway into a room filled with lighted candles where a six-foot-tall masseur is waiting. No more than twenty-five, he is clad in green track pants and a t-shirt that displays a swimmer’s physique, not muscular but fit and trim. Smiling, he hands me a towel measuring three feet by two feet to cover my modesty. I remove my shoes and socks slowly and peel off my clothes even more slowly, hoping he will leave the room for me to undress in private but he doesn’t. Wrapping my towel around my lower torso, I climb up the massage table measuring six feet by two feet with a gap at one end that functions as a face rest. I lie on my stomach and position my face in the gap.
The massage begins with a pair of strong hands rub my shoulders. I’m using sunflower oil so it is not greasy, the masseur says. Your body won’t be oily after the massage.
I close my eyes and relax. He whispers into my ear. Is the pressure okay? His hot breath against the lobule of my ear sends a chill down my spine.
I’m fine. I answer through gritted teeth, opening my eyes and looking at the floor through the gap.
Ten minutes pass. Apart from kneading my shoulders, the masseur uses his knee to work across my back very gently.
After five minutes, the sensation makes me more relaxed, and I idly stare down at the masseur’s feet. They are shod in white sneakers that close with Velcro tabs. Strange. How can the masseur be massaging me with his knee when his feet are on the ground? I count mentally – two hands squeezing my shoulders, two feet on the ground. Perplexed, I lift my head up and turn around to look. Holy smokes! With his pants pulled down below his hips, the masseur is jabbing my back with his enormous, erect weener! Stop – stop – stop that at once! I choke. My voice is barely audible. No answer from the strong, silent masseur.
The blood drains from my face, and then my chest and feet, turning my skin cold. Will he kiss me next? Oh, my god. I don’t want to start a fight with a masseur capable of tearing my scrawny body apart. I reluctantly allow the massage to continue and put my face into the gap again. He slides the towel down to my thighs and kneads my buttocks, but only for two minutes. He compresses my buttocks with both hands, and proceeds to rub his unshaven face against my two globes of posterior flesh!
Eeeeeeeeeeeek! Swallowing my fluttering heart, I jump up from the massage table and shake my head. E-enough, I’ve had enough. I totter like a sapling after a storm to the clothes hook behind the door and retrieve my garments.
You don’t like me? There is fire in the masseur’s eyes, and ice in his voice. If you don’t like me, earlier you should have chosen someone else.
I mop my forehead with my handkerchief. It’s – it’s not you, I’m just not gay. I dress and beat a hasty retreat from the room.
In the waiting lounge, a muscular man – with showy, drugstore blond hair and an earring – is discussing his choice of treatments with the supervisor.
How can the masseur be massaging me with his knee when his feet are on the ground? I count mentally – two hands squeezing my shoulders, two feet on the ground. Perplexed, I lift my head up and turn around to look. Holy smokes! With his pants pulled down below his hips, the masseur is jabbing my back with his enormous, erect weener!
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