Thai Massages

“This must be how the Brits or the French must have felt back in colonial days,” I thought while getting an exquisite foot massage from my beautiful Thai masseuse.   For the next hour and a half my masseuse would be paying attention only to me as she started with my feet, first my left which she must have spent better than ten minutes on before moving to the right.  She would spend her sweet time slowly moving up my legs finally finishing with body crunches against my thighs.  This entailed pulling my thighs up tightly against her chest while she bored down as hard as her little body would allow her.  Only 300 baht, which was just $7.50 for an hour and a half, I needed the massage badly. Over the last several days of sleeping with a different bed partner each night, I had gotten very sore.  By the time my pretty masseuse got done massaging my feet to my thighs I would be able to walk four miles with ease without feeling a hint of pain.  "I deserve this." I thought almost out loud.  "What I get here is fit for a maharajah, a king, or a feudal lord.  And tonight---ahhh--succulent Thai food and afterwards, the women, with it all ending with the babe of my choice--whomever she might be, my little present to myself for tonight just for breathing, and because I can. This is what all real men deserve, but most are not real men.  But what the hell, the others, those who should have been created as eunichs, are all back in the U.S. whereas me and my pals, are here.   

Six weeks earlier I had moved to a new apartment. The apartment was perfect. It was even in the same complex, in the building next door to where I had been living for five years. But the new place not only had a two car garage—the garage was heated and it was an extraordinarily wide two car garage. It had its own private deck which no one could trespass on without entering my apartment or scurrying up a tree which rose right up against the side of the deck. The new place had two bedrooms, one of which was much larger than any other bedroom in the complex. Twenty feet long but just nine feet wide it had a large window facing the East through which the rising sun would cast its rays each morning. Tall trees rose in front of this window, their foliage bright green and luxuriant. I could hardly imagine a more inspiring place from which I could write my stories. The owner of the complex had built my apartment for a very close friend who had never moved in, and since this had been a very close friend, its floor plan was completely different from all the other two bedrooms in the complex. But I had paid a heavy price moving into this place. On the first day moving I had wrenched my back.

I had continued to move which took another three or four days, having a lot of stuff I had accumulated through the years, and each day my back had gotten worse. I would lie on the couch having to urinate while asking myself:  "Now just how badly do I have to go.” as I contemplated walking the fifteen feet to the bathroom. Finally I would grab my crutches which I had gotten years ago after injuring a foot, hobbled to the bathroom, and stood  in excruciating pain, as while  urinating into the toilet bowl.

I finally saw a doctor, but my doctor from the family practice center was  covered up and no one else in the office could see me. So much for the fabulous American Health Care System for which I had been paying over three hundred dollars a month for health insurance with its $5,000 deductible. “Should I go to the hospital emergency room?” I kept asking myself. But I figured that would cost at least $1000, and that would be just the beginning. It would probably all end up with my getting operated on and spending $5,000 to get my back screwed up for life.  But I had to do something.

I wound up going to a clinic at the advice of the receptionist at the doctor’s office. But I was in so much pain that I could not drive myself. So I called for a cab which took me to the clinic. I hobbled in on my crutches.

It was beyond painful sitting there waiting to be called in to see the doctor. Finally I was admitted into a little room where the doctor, a pretty Oriental woman, soon joined me. No ex rays were taken. After examining me she told me she was prescribing a muscle relaxant called Skelaxin. Then she asked me: “Unless there is something else you have taken that you might prefer. I might give you that instead.”

“How about something with codeine in it?” I replied thinking about Tylenol Three which had worked on an infected tooth after a dentist had performed a root canal. There is nothing as painful as an infected tooth. The Dentist had enclosed the root canal with a crown, and down in the cavernous hole he had carved with his tools, it had all gotten infected. It must have swelled up inside and there was no way for the swelling to go let alone any gases wanting to escape. The Tylenol Three simply killed the infection and both the swelling and pain had gone away and that had been that. And after injuring my lower back, a guy who worked for apartment maintenance said that he had once had a similar back injury and that Tylenol Three had really helped.

“No. I won’t give you that!” the doctor exclaimed as she gave me an exasperated look. I don’t prescribe anything with Codeine in it and Tylenol Three is not a good anti inflammatory for something like you’ve got.”

“What did this woman think I am?” I thought. “A drug addict?” I had even quit smoking nearly a year ago. The last thing I needed was to get addicted to something else.

The Skelaxin wound up costing me $53.00 for a six day supply. And it did nothing to alleviate the pain. I was still living on that couch where I could lie in a reclined position. I could not sit up for long. Luckily I still had plenty of food in the apartment so at least I didn’t have to go out to a restaurant or go off to get groceries. An ex stripper friend had convinced me to try the Atkins diet so I had plenty of eggs around, bacon, ham, ground sirloin and other things.

It was Tiger Wayne who had convinced me to see a chiropractor. Tiger Wayne lives down at the Lake of the Ozarks when he’s not on the road that is. He has access to literally over a hundred large jungle cats. I had met Tiger down at Big Daddys while the Lumberyard and Big Daddys Cabaret were having their first S.P.E.W. wrestling match which pitted Iowa’s Dirty Heather against Big Daddy’s Killer Chloe’ with former Miss Nude of Illinois, Leah Layne, presiding over as referee. It must have been well after 2 a.m. when I found out that a man had a Bengal Tiger cub upstairs, and that he was charging the dancers to have their pictures taken with the baby tiger.

I had offered Tiger all the free magazine publicity I could get him and had then taken pictures of Leah Layne and some of the other entertainers with the tiger cub. A few weeks later when Kiara was visiting me from Iowa having me do her promo pictures I had gotten Tiger Wayne a motel suite near my apartment. I shot lots of pictures of Kiara in the suite along with two other girls with Smokey, the thirty pound white tiger Wayne had brought with him. I would take still more pictures of the white Tiger with Kiara and other entertainers down at Mustang Sallys (Now Club 64) in East St. Louis. A few weeks later Wayne brought Smokey, now fifty pounds up to the Lumberyard in Des Moines for one of the S.P.E.W. wrestling matches.

“”Chiropractors are kings of the spine,” Tiger Wayne had told me on the phone. “You will feel much better even after your first visit.”

Tiger Wayne then explained how he had to periodically go see a chiropractor since he took so much abuse from cats that weighed up to five or six hundred pounds. And from what I had seen of the playful Smoky, I could just see a five hundred pound jungle cat playfully knocking Wayne, who was now over fifty, around as if it were an overly exuberant German Shepherd.

The next day I found a chiropractor whose office was within a mile and a half of my apartment. I had looked up chiropractor’s in the yellow pages. The chiropractor I wound up seeing shared an office with a young guy who’s picture was displayed in the yellow pages. The doctor’s face looked too young for my tastes. But the ad was by far the largest, and it was the most impressive. Another chiropractor’s ad, a much smaller ad, stated, “It is experience that counts.” But when I called the number I was greeted by a recording. The chiropractor never called me back that day. His office must have been closed.

So I wound up hobbling into the Chiropractic clinic that had the largest ad. There were two doctors working there, the one whose face had appeared in the ad, and Dr. Jeremy Clark, who would wind up treating me. And if I had been put off by the youth of the other doctor, when I first saw Jeremy Clark I thought he couldn’t be over two years fresh out of chiropractory school.

I couldn’t stand sitting up so when I walked into the clinic, I had asked the receptionist if they had a place where I could lie down. I was immediately led into a small room where I could lie down on a small padded bench the chiropractor’s used for their patients to lie down on as they adjusted their spines. I was soon having my ex rays taken after which Dr. Clark assured me he would look at them that evening. He then explained his fees, which were one hundred dollars for the ex rays and $600 for up to three months treatment. He assured me he could probably help me but that he wouldn’t be sure until after he examined the x rays and seen me the next morning.

The next day, I was placed on a narrow bed that was surrounded by over a half dozen beds just like it. My attendant then placed two electrodes up against the skin of my lower back. I then reclined on the narrow bed while looking at the ceiling as my attendant asked while applying some low voltage: “Can you feel it? It should not pinch or grab your skin or hurt. Just let me know when it’s about right.”

After receiving  ten minutes worth of low voltage I was admitted to a small room like I had been admitted to the day before. Doctor Clark soon joined me there.

“I can definitely help you. You have what is sometimes referred to as a slipped disk. I can realign it and that’s going to take up to three months but I think you will be much better close after the first month. Believe it or not, I’ve done this to hundreds of people.”

Dr. Clark then had me lie face down on the narrow padded bench as he cracked my spine with his hands. He then had me lie on first my left side, then my right as he performed similar adjustments. He then told me, “You can throw away your crutches. You won’t be needing them anymore.”

And he was right. I walked out of the clinic feeling much better. I had felt like Lazerus after Christ had told the dead man: “Get up and walk.” I kept seeing Dr. Clark every day and each day I felt much better. Finally the weekend approached when I was to once again take pictures of the female wrestlers in Des Moines at the Lumberyard.

Big Mike was the general manager of the Lumberyard which is probably the largest nude club in the Midwest. Big Mike had put a deposit on the Man Tour which would be leaving for Thailand in two weeks for both himself and his wife, Suzanne, but he had bought a house instead and now felt that going to Thailand was just a little too much too soon.

“No..Don’t even think about it, Jack. You don’t need to be up here taking pictures because that would be jeopardizing your trip to Thailand.”

In the last week before flying to Thailand Dr. Clark had doubled up on his treatments having me return to the clinic twice a day. And up to several days before getting on my first flight, I doubted I would ever go. I wound up spending more than twenty-four hours on planes or waiting at airports for my next departing flight, leaving St Louis for San Francisco, then San Francisco for Taipei, and finally Taipei for Bangkok. Although I expected to find myself in excruciating pain from being confined in small passenger seats on crowded planes I actually managed to sleep something like five hours on the flight from San Francisco to Taiwan.

Talk about a difference between stewardesses. The Chinese stewardesses on Eva Airlines, which was a Taiwanese outfit were slender, tallish dark haired beauties. If the babes in Thailand would be anything like these girls we could all die there in Thailand with smiles on all of our faces. These stewardesses were all from Hard ON City. By contrast, our stewardesses on the flight from St Louis to San Francisco were all Middle Aged matrons having about as much sex appeal as my computer keyboard. In fact, I hadn’t seen a good looking American stewardess in years. Just leave it to all of us Americans to allow the lawyers to even control how good looking or unappealing our flight attendants were. I could just hear one of them crying out: “Replacing me with a younger and prettier woman, why that’s discrimination. Why I’m suing the airline.”

Which is one of the reasons why our health care system is so unaffordable in the first place. It’s those damn lawyers raising all those malpractice suits against the doctors which causes the doctors to prescribe treatments and drugs they really don’t think are necessary but which they prescribe anyway just to cover their asses when someone decides to sue them.

But all these lawyers would be out of business if it weren’t for such loyal Americans as Lori. Now Lori goes to the doctor or the hospital whenever she wants to. As far as assets she doesn’t have a pot to piss in. She’s a titty dancer who works as little as possible, probably not even working an average of one night a week in the club near me. But the health care professionals use my medical insurance payments so that Lori can get treatment whenever she wants when I can’t afford to. You see, the difference between Lori and me is I own a farm so if I can’t make my payments for hospital treatment both the lawyers and the health care professionals know they can always foreclose on my farm. So Lori just puts her medical treatments on her tab which is paid by Medicaid or simply ignored.

As I just mentioned Lori works as little as possible, but she sure does a lot of pot, smoking it at night, in the morning. I can always tell when she’s doing it when she’s on the phone with me. Her breathing or hackled cough gives her away nearly every time. Now Lori’s always the first to cry lawsuit. A couple of years ago she had a breast job, then got into a minor car accident that supposedly misaligned her breasts. I think she’s still in court trying to get that straightened out. Meanwhile Lori is always threatening to sue somebody, whether it’s this club or that club for discrimination, someone for sexual harassment, or a store for selling her batteries that didn’t work.

Well, at least here in Pattaya Lori couldn’t call me to complain about the latest event that’s screwing up her life. The masseuse started with my feet, massaging gently my toes. Then she went up to the tops of my feet, then my ankles, calves, then my knees, and finally she got to the tops of my thighs as she firmly pushed down on them. The next day I would get my neck and shoulders massaged along with my feet and legs. And a couple days after that I’d get the full body oil massage. I’d wind up being able to easily walk miles throughout the city each day without even a hint of the back problems I had been experiencing.

These Thai masseuses sure had a firm understanding of the human body, at least when it came to back pain. Even though my present masseuse limited her ministrations to my feet and legs, she must have gotten through the nerve endings that controlled the nerves in other parts of my body. And as I lay down in the reclining chair as he fingers and hands went all over me, I thought: “This is the life. Where for just eight dollars I can lie in complete comfort as someone focuses all her time and energies on making me feel good, where I am the center of attention, and the raison d’etre for one’s success or failure in this woman’s line of work, and afterwards I can go out and get the finest meals of a lifetime and then still go out afterwards to get picked up by my choice of hundreds if not thousands of women. Life doesn’t get any better than this.” 

Unless We are getting our Soapie Massages

Aren't you guys so glad you are staying in the U.S.  And to those who settled on an American wife, don't worry, you did the right thing while us bad boys are doing the wrong thing.

You really haven't lived until you've gotten a massage at a place like Sabailand in Pattaya.  There are places like it in Bangkok, Pattaya, and other cities, but for us, tonight, it's Sabailand.  Over a dozen of us enter the establishment.  Behind us is an area for small tables and chairs and behind this is a bar all of which is here to help customers relax or to stay longer some of whom will choose a second girl.  But the first thing one notices is the array of scantily clad girls behind a large panel of glass.  We are about to experience window shopping at its best.  Best is better than the Christmas's we experienced as small children.   By the time we will leave the place we will all speak of the Thai Bath or Soapie Massage with reverence. 

There must be forty girls behind that large pane of glass. Each girl has a number across her chest. There are short girls, which is typical for Thai women, but there are tall ones also.  You just never think of Thai or any Oriental women as being five foot seven or eight, but they are here.  Think of it as just part of the buffet.   

We are invited by a well dressed Thai male to relax and take our time making our selections.  It takes me just ten minutes to choose the girl for me.  She's the first girl to really take my eye.  As if guided by gyroscope my attention is directed at her. She's in one of the back rows, with raven black hair, a nice slender figure and medium height for a Thai woman.  As my eyes ball on hers, her chest seems to fill up.  "Swelled up with pride?" I ask myself.  Or is she subtlety trying to acknowledge my gaze, trying to communicate to me:  "Choose me.  I hope you take me in the back." 

I tell the man in charge that I want her.  It takes just a minute for him to collect her, and then she's standing next to me, face to face.  She's smiling which is a good sign.  When I was in Bangkok twenty years ago, the girl I chose from a similar establishment did not smile. 

She takes me to what could almost pass as a very small apartment in the back.  There is a large washtub within a tiled area.  Next to it is a small room with a bed in it.  She has me lie in the tub completely naked--then she takes off her clothes revealing her slender curvaceous body. Her skin is brown, not quite as dark as many black women in the U.S. but she's not that far off.  Certainly she's a lot darker skinned than most Chinese girls.  It is then that Marty's words come ringing back in my ears:  "I like  Thai women because for one thing their skin is darker than most."  Puki---that's the name of my new girl now that I am meeting her for the first time in this hot tub, is nearly perfectly proportioned, but she's a scaled down version of what would pass as a Goddess.  But if Goddesses are white, and that's what I've been thinking Goddesses are, then I'm going to just have to rearrange my thinking on the subject since Puki is a little brown Goddess.  If she's five foot tall, that's probably giving her an inch or two.   

After the tub fills up about a third of the  way, Puki directs me to sit with my back facing her.  She then starts to pour hot sudsy water down my back.  Every so often parts of her body touch mine.    But just knowing she's back there and it's her who's pouring hot water upon me gives the water itself a sensuous feel to it that starts to get me hard.  

She directs me to face her.  And now I start really getting it as she begins to rub her silky smooth skin up against mine.  Whether it's her naked breast, an arm or a leg, her bodily parts just glide up and down against me.  The feel of her perfectly formed breasts is already making me think of orgasming inside her.  I greedily take one of them into my mouth.  I taste soap but it doesn't matter since I'm still thinking of being deep inside her.  

She puts her buttocks firmly against my groin and starts to glide slowly back and forth.  You can try this with your wife or your girlfriend but it's not going to be the same.  A girl like Pukie is in perfect control of her body and her oily oozy sweet smelling body is going to fit yours like no wife of yours ever did.  Several times she climbs right on top of my face and once again I'm getting a deep taste of soapy water.  Once again she settles back into me.   

Compared to the girl I had experienced twenty years ago, Pukie is altogether different.  She's looking right into my eyes, and every once in awhile she starts to laugh, usually at something I've just said to her.  We are in eye to eye contact much of the time as our bodies fuse together.  Twice I almost lose it, going completely out of control.   But I catch her eyes, and see how she's smiling at me as I shove her off.   

She sees I'm about to lose it.  Most girls would simply move in like birds of prey, hanging tight, holding onto me as they press their firm little bodies up close to mine, pressing up tight as they feel my excitement course through me, forcing it out of me.  In a minute it will be over and they will be free of me. 

How can I ever explain to you how titillating the hot soapie is from the right girl.  One of my friends later admitted coming three times in the hour to hour and a half he was with his soapie girl.  And now my moment of truth had arrived. I grabbed Pukie underneath her hips and lifted herself off of me.  Then, unlike practically any other girl who in her situation would have held on as she pressed herself up against me, she backed off.  Leaving more than a foot between us, Pukie smiled as she awaited my next move. 

A few moments later I once again pulled her over towards me.  By some miracle I was able to keep from coming.  Finally she got out of the tub and started to dry herself off.  Then she went into the little room next to the little hot tub room and climbed on top of the bed.  She spread out her legs, asked me to come over to her, and looked up at me with half covered eyes.   

She was an exquisite little princess with beautiful expressve eyes and a quick sense of humor.  And she was just the right size as she lay down beneath me waiting to see what I'd do next.

But I'm not going to tell you readers simply because I'm not the kind of kiss and tell guy.  But I will confess into developing the strongest urge to see her the next day.  So I made a date with her to meet me at my hotel and was surprised to see that she accepted.  It was on for 1 p.m. the next afternoon.  I had no plan and no time table over how long I'd want her to stay.   

I don't know where all the other guys went, but after PlOne came out, we decided to head down to the group of little beer bars where they held the Thai boxing matches.  There must have been over a dozen little bars all under the same roof with the dies open to the structure.  Once again I went to the bar I had been to before where there were several girls bartending.  The ring stood fifty feet away.  Here they had practically no stop action.  Two Thai men would fight using both their feet and their hands.  One would wind up getting knocked down for a ten count after which two more fighters would replace them.   

Plone settled into playing games of blocks with one of our bartenders.  These weren't exactly blocks but they were three dimensional figures which  were meant to be placed one on top of the other.  First PlONe would place his figure on top of the others, then his bartender would take her turn.  After a few turns the structure started to get top heavy.  And with each new placement of a figure, the whole thing would start to sway, nearly toppling as PlOne and his bartender held their breath.  

I had to go to the bathroom.  It seems that in Thailand the urge to go often comes at the wrong time.  To the rear of the open sided building were two little bathrooms outdoors.  In front of them sat a little old lady who had a roll of toilet paper in front of her.  I went to what I thought was the men's bathroom and immediately saw that there was no toilet paper inside the little cubicle.  The cubicle next door was even worse since it had only a hole in the middle of its cement floor.  There one was expected to squat over the hole Chinese style.  

I paid the woman out front a little tip--whatever it was she was asking wasn't much. But I didn't get much toilet paper either.  I don't even think she gave me twelve inches of paper.  So when I got done eliminating my now pretty much liquefied toxic wastes, I had somehow managed to make do on what she had given me.  What I could not find was a valve or faucet to flush the toilet with.  Instead there was a hose.  So I turned on the hose and used it to spray water into the toilet bowl.  Now I don't know what the whole principle of this thing was since I had never seen anything like it in the U.S. before.  Or Israel, or Egypt or Hong Kong, Russia or anywhere else I had been, but I suppose the whole idea is you kept filling the bowl with fresh water from the hose which would gradually push out the old waste filled water that had settled there trhoguh some process of dilution.  From now on I'd keep coming back to this building not just for the excitement of the Thai boxing matches but also for all my future toilet bowl misadventures. 

This place would provide future toilet bowl escapades that would end up unmatched in my lifetime, but this will all have to come out in the end later.  With the exception of one night's misadventures in the bathroom, but that all happened in Russia.  That was twenty years ago under Communism and it was all probably my punishment for defiling the tomb of Lenin.  Now you new readers have got to understand just what it was like in those old Cold War days.  To the Russians Lenin was God or at least that is what all of us Americans had been taught.  The Commies had entombed him next to the Kremlin and each hour the Russians staged a changing of the guard. Back then we were staying at the Intourist hotel which was not far from the Kremlin and since it was so close we would stop for a few minutes to watch the guard change in front of Lenin's tomb before heading to bed for the night.  And that's where I got picked up by a Russian woman or I picked her up.  Whichever way it was doesn't matter or how we got the job done.  What did matter is that we ended up planning our sexual escapades for the evening within a hundred yards of where Lenin's body rested in the mausoleum.  Somehow I wound up at the other end of Moscow from our hotel not knowing where in the hell I was at.  And wouldn't you know it, right after having sex the girl, I had to take a dump.  But after not finding any toilet paper in the bathroom, I went back to the girl to ask for some.  She didn't have any toilet paper so she ripped out a page out of a notebook and handed it to me to use for toilet paper.  Well, wouldn't you know it but I had to take two dumps before the night was over, and I hated to wake the girl up to ask her for notebook paper the second time.  And that started a whole series of toilet bowl adventures in the Soviet Union that extended from Moscow all the way to Leningrad.  I swear that the inability of the Soviets to supply the Chinese with good working toilets or to keep them in toilet paper is what finally got them kicked out of China, and I'm equally sure a Russian team of engineers had designed the toilet facilities for this place as well.

On the way back to my now favorite  little bar, one of the bartenders at one of the other bars finally caught up with me.  For the past hour she had been dancing in front of her little booth while several of the other girls waited patiently inside.  She had stared across the room at me trying to get me to catch her eye.  This time she simply stood in front of me blocking my passage back to where I had been drinking and put her arm around my waist. 

What a smorgasbord.  Here there must have been a dozen little bars manned by nearly forty girls.  Most of the girls were unaccompanied by anyone seeming to be only interested in getting whatever man they could to join them back at their bar.   And this was just one place out of the 2,000 bars in Pattaya.  It was not just the tip of the iceberg.  It was the tip of the tip of the iceberg which fanned out endlessly in all directions with unending choices of all the women one could ever dream of and more. 

I put my arm around the girl who had been blocking my passage and cut up with her for a bit before explaining that I had to get back to my friends.  Back at the home place, which is exactly what that bar was becoming for me, a kind of home away from home, PlONe was still playing bar games with the bartender.  But by this time one of the fighters had gotten my number. Taller than most of the other boxers, he was a classic middleweight appearing to weigh around 160 or so.  He had demonstrated that he had good speed with all the moves, and there was no question that he had the power to easily bring down his opponents.  At 160 with his build and skills, I mean American opponents because I don't think your average two hundred pounder could have stayed up to him.  But somehow this guy managed to keep losing his fights.  But he had started coming over to my little bar to look me up, asking me for a tip or to compare his biceps to mine. 

here was one bartender who intrigued me in her own way.  She kept emitting these sensuous vibes, wore her hair in a two toned shade like many Thai girls had started doing.  But it was hard to figure out what she was built like.  Her clothes hung about her loosely.  What lay underneath was hard to determine. 

She asked me where I was staying so I took out my hotel key and showed it to her.  "Oh, I've never stayed there," she commented.  "

I want to go to your hotel with you."    

"I want to take you to my hotel," I replied, "but tonight I can't."

"Why not?" she asked.

"Because I need to get up real early,"  I lied.

On any other day you wouldn't refuse this girl and I wouldn't either.  I would have taken her back in a heart beat.  Probably cost me twenty-five bucks for an all nighter.  Maybe even less.  Niy I had a date with Puki at 1 in the afternoon.  And I knew myself only too well.  If I liked the girl now standing in front of me, I'd have her sleep with me all night.  I'd get two, possibly three hours of sleep and I'd be all worn out when Puki arrived. 

"Well, I won't be here tomorrow night, the girl answered.  "Or the next night.  It will have to be tonight.  I want you to take me to your hotel tonight."

"You will be here tomorrow night. If not, the next night for sure," I said confidently. 

"No I won't."

But I knew better.  They say a bird in had is better than one in the bush.  And here I was, sitting before her in her bar, a horny American obviously.   If she could manage to get me to take her to my hotel room she could pour on the charm while satiating me with her body.  This was her big chance.  And if she didn't get me tonight there might not be a second chance.  Pattaya was full of girls.  All day and all  night ling she knew they'd be up in my face, each one vying for my attention---each one making the most of her chance to get me in bed.  Making a mental note of catch up with her over the next night or two, I left with PlOne as she protested. 

Next month---My date with my little soapie massage parlor girl. 

To read what you have missed in the July, 2004 back issue click here.  

Then go to the back issues to pick up on the July installment

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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