by Smiling Philly…
All I remember is that the sign above the door said MASSAGE—plain as day—and boy was I ever in need of one. I had a crick in my neck so bad, my head felt like it was screwed on sideways.
So I plopped down my $200 (a little pricey for a massage, I thought) and proceeded on back where they told me undress and lie down on the table. Undress? Oh, well. Anything to get rid of this agonizing pain.
In walked this cute little Asian gal. A little small for a hearty massage, I thought; but who was I to judge? They were the professionals.
She put on some relaxing music and proceeded to remove my towel. Then, she started rubbing my back. I was about to ask her to rub a little harder, to really get down in there, when she asked me to roll over. Roll over? Again, who was I to question; she was the professional.
She began rubbing my upper torso and I was about to explain to her that the pain was in my neck, in the back around the shoulder area, when she grabbed hold of my ding-a-ling. You heard me right: she started going to town on Mr. Johnson.
“Just wait a second there, little darling,” I told her. “The pain is up here, not down there.”
“You like massage?” she said.
“Yes,” I said, “I like massage. But not down there,” I said, pointing toward my love gun. “Up here,” I motioned, rubbing my neck.
“Up here?” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “Up here.”
“So you no want massage?” she said, looking confused. I knew our conversation was going nowhere.
Next thing I know, I got the whole place in there, mama-san and all. Not a one them spoke a lick of English, and I was about to give up when all of a sudden mama-san got this look on her face like, Aha! “Wait here,” she said, and she darted out of the room.
When she returned, she was leading this big ole hunk of a man by the hand. He looked like Stone Cold Steve Austin, from the WWE.
“This man need massage,” she told him. “MASSAGE,” she said, pointing toward my neck.
She turned me over, and that’s when that mountain of man grabbed hold of my neck and started rubbing it. I was about to object when all of a sudden the pain started giving way to pleasure. It felt good. SO good.
He must have rubbed me down for half an hour. An hour. I don’t know; I lost all track of time.
He beat me, bruised me, tossed me around and tenderized me like a pork loin steak. When he was done, my neck was like rubber and my head was back on straight. That crick was completely gone, I tell you.
I gave the guy a hundred bucks and asked him his name.
“Henry,” he said.
I asked him what he did for a living and he told me he worked roadside construction. “Lots of heavy lifting,” he said.
I asked him if he wouldn’t mind coming over to my house next week. I’ve been getting these awful cramps in my calves as of late, and he was just the guy to set them straight.
“There’s two hundred bucks in it for you,” I told him.
“Two hundred bucks?” he said. “That’s more than I make all day. You’re on.”
Henry, my heaven-sent savior. Henry, my big hulking hunk of Prometheus clay. Henry, my newfound friend.
I love happy endings. They’re the best.
Happy Endings is the latest in the Flashbytes series from worst-selling author Philip Loyd. The story itself is based on real events, when Loyd walked into a massage parlor one day actually looking for a real massage. Needless to say, there was no happy ending for Loyd that day.
About the Author
Philip Loyd loves fat chicks and cheap beer, though not necessarily in that order. Loyd has worked for Forbes and McGraw Hill, each time running for his life as if waking up from a nightmare. He dreams of one day moving to Hollywood and winning a Razzie. Loyd lives in Dumbass, Texas. PhilipLoyd.com
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