TOFTT / River Spa / Midtown West

[kingotis]

Forgive, if you will, the serial posts here detailing three distinct and separate visits to this place.

An excerpt from "Zen and the art of Erectile Maintenance: The Monger Bible," available at better bookstores across the entire world of my imagination.

"In the monger world as in life there are givers and takers. Without one the other withers and dies. If there were no takers, the givers would have no one to whom to give and they would have to become takers and before long they would merely end up giving to themselves, which isn't giving at all...And if there were no givers, from whom would the takers then take.

The spirit of giving in our community of mongers, rub junkies, perverts and good old fashioned down-home sex addicts is embodied by "taking one for the team," e.g. risking your own funds and possibly more to try an unreviewed, undocumented service provider. It's not for everyone. Some of the brethren don't have the budget to burn on a possible waste of time or worse. Other members of the flock just prefer to deal in known quantities and rely on more adventurous souls to seek, find and identify new and different things.

The givers in our world are the brave souls, the intrepid men who troll Backpage looking for untested subjects for research and development, who wander the darkened alleys of Chinatown and the misshapen streets of Koreatown looking for neon signs beckoning with the promise of "tui na qi gong" or "accupressure" or plain old "body rubs." These men take risks - they risk being ripped off, arrested, killed, upsold into a state of poverty, or spending an hour or more with old ladies, midgets, behemoths, crackheads, junkies, borderline retards and every other bent or broken sort of creature that may lurk behind a half-opened apartment door.

Let us bow our heads in silent appreciation of the good works of these men, men who have endured massages with no handjob, shitty covered blowjobs and halfhearted and unenthusiastic missionary position service that makes necrophilia look like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. These men have been teased to the very brink of orgasm only to find themselves upsold for even the most basic release. Let us give thanks for the brethren who are willing and able to take one for the team."

Walking away from a rub and tug a couple weeks ago, the neon "Body Rubs" light in a third floor window caught my eye and I clocked a number I'd never called. I put it on my list and today seemed like a good day to call it. I hoofed it crosstown in the afternoon and entered a dumpy building on 35th Street.

River Spa is the name of the place. I entered the building and went up two flights and the door was open. Three ladies were in evidence - decent looking women in their forties I would guess with the sorts of friendly attitudes that compensate for physical limitations and shortcomings. These were no beauty queens but they're nice women with smiling faces and a willingness to please.

The place is in a good sized space with no obvious hygiene issues. There's no shower, or at least none was offered. The massage stalls are divided by heavy curtains, which means privacy is most definitely an issue and if that kind of thing turns you off, do bother with this joint.

I went with Cici, a moon-faced woman with a nice slim body. I gave her the house money - 50 for the hour, took off my clothes and let her get to work. She gave an average rub, thorough and professional with a few nice touches here and there.

She gave me the hot towel and then started running her fingers up and down my spine...then my ass...then between my legs. I pushed myself upward to give her access to my cock and balls and she rubbed them both and then she asked me to turn over.

She stood over me and rubbed my cock nice and hard. She began rubbing my taint with her other hand. I ran my hands all over her ass and then under her shirt and right into bra, where I felt her nipples getting harder. She kept up her rhythm and finally I let loose a squadron of paratroopers in her hand.

Afterward, she came back to the room, laid her head against my chest and whispered "next time." It sounded a lot like a promise to me.

I gave her another 50 and she thanked me up, down and sideways as I hit the stairs.

A final except from "The Monger Bible":

"The good monger citizen, having taken one for the team, will report his adventure faithfully, so that the brethren may follow in his footsteps and share in his good fortune or learn from his lesson and stay the hell away."

And so, dear brothers and others, partake if you will of the basic, simple joys available for your pleasure at River Spa on 35th.

212 695 7059

[kingotis]

The following public service announcement is brought to you by the International Brotherhood of Rub Junkies (IBRJ) - a non-profit corporation organized and operated as a wholly owned tax dodge...err...pardon me...subsidiary of Team Otis.

Everyone has limits and standards, situations that they consider to be sufficiently unacceptable as to warrant putting their pants back on and walking out. Everyone, that is, except me.

Well, that's not entirely accurate. I suppose I have some such limits, but my standards, I have to confess, are so low as to be nearly non-existent. Principally this is the case because of a simple mathematical formula:
NEED > JUDGMENT

Or, to put it collo****lly, need exceeds judgment. Time, for me, is a precious commodity. There just aren't enough hours in my average day to be walking into places, looking around, and leaving because the talent's not quite up to snuff. If I go somewhere its a fait accompli - a done deal - that I'm gonna take my pants off and blow a load before I walk out. This fundamental truth - I don't call it a rule; it's not a rule, it is not backed by a principle, it is merely a function of practicality - has resulted in my tolerating some comically awful situations (see, e.g. Hon Man Herbs, proof that even a halfway decent blowjob can scar a man for life) which, nevertheless, got the job done when required.

Yes, everything is relative, taste is taste and it's inevitably subjective, for sure. That's why absolutely any posted review that describes a provider as "old" will result in the appearance of at least three mongers who saw her, never reviewed her, but who will vehemently defend her honor and insist you've got the demographic profile all wrong. Similarly, using the word "cute" in reference to a provider whose facial features rank as a mere "5" in one man's eyes will draw a raised eyebrow sort of reply.

Once I've gotten in the door, I roll with things unless they simply enter some new realm of total unacceptability. After the fact, I make an effort to sort reality from what I may have had to close my eyes and imagine in order to get the job done, and while I may romanticize this shit, I do try to cast my descriptions in enough harsh daylight to allow my fellow mongers to glean useful consumer information from the report.

In that vein, I report as follows: should you elect to follow on the heels of the one I took for the team at River Spa, you may be fortunate enough to replicate the roughly average experience I had with Cici or one of the other fortyish ladies I ran into that day. Alternatively, you may wind up with something significantly less appealing.

I figured I'd hit this place again to see if I might stretch some additional mileage out of it, but my day was busy and I left a very short window of time in which I might entertain myself. I walked in and an older woman I assumed was the mamasan greeted me. I quickly realized there were no other women about and asked if Cici was working. She was busy...I didn't have time to wait...I looked her up and down in the dim red light...slim...maybe too slim...damn, kinda skeletal actually.

Between the lighting and the makeup I couldn't really gauge her age effectively. I went with it. She said her name was "Katie." I gave her 40 for a 40 minute massage and she got to work. Face down, the mediocre massage was...mediocre.

Then came time to flip. I flipped and she started rubbing by balls and then stopped and did that weird "is it ok?" bit, asking permission to jack me off. Ok? Jesus christ why do you think I'm here? For the shitty Chinese candy? For the tiny Poland Spring bottle?

She oiled up my cock and got to work. Slow, even strokes up and down my cock. I looked up at her and made eye contact. I could see cracks in her thick makeup that made it look like her face itself was in danger of crumbling off. She had to be at least 60.

I am not proud. I was getting hard and I wasn't leaving without closure. I closed my eyes - she kept it simple, kept her hands on my cock and nowhere else. She used a kind of twisting motion that felt really good. I was fully erect. My mind was drifting. I had to get back for a meeting at...what time? Wait, what day is it? Right ok. Focus...

This went on for a while. A man does what he has to do to get the job done. No, I am not proud. I may have no pride at all, but I also have no shame and I am not above any manner of desperate measure. I closed my eyes again and put my hand on her ass. It was...an asian woman's ass, which is to say it was nice and tight. It felt good. I felt like I was making progress.

I reached up and felt her breasts. They were...an asian woman's breasts, which is to say they were nice and small and tucked away inside a padded bra. She was pumping away nicely down below. It felt damned good. Whatever that twisting thing was it was working. I arched my back a little and let it fly...

She cleaned me up and I started getting dressed. Then something bad happened. As I was putting on my socks on, she turned the lights on and peeked in on me. I turned and saw her in all her glory, under harsh fluorescent lights. Her gaunt figure...the heavy makeup...nothing could conceal it anymore...she looked like...Skeletor.

I gave her 40 as a tip and high tailed it down the stairs, the image of Skeletor nipping at my heels as I did. I couldn't shake it. Skeletor haunted me, laughing at me.

I wondered if I ought to adjust my priorities and pursue quality over quantity for a change. Maybe go half as often but to places that are twice as nice...

Nahhhh. I'll just have to find another way to get Skeletor out of my head.

[kingotis]

Maybe its time to start collecting stamps or hummels or something when the tawdry little world of dumpy Manhattan massage places starts to feel like some sort of twisted dysfunctional family and the names and faces get all intertwined and the new girl at a new place is an old girl you already know from a different place...and she remembers you.

On the heels of my run in with Skeletor (detailed previously in this thread) I had no intention of ever returning to this particular West side dump. Then one of the Team Otis brethren tipped me off that he'd checked into this place and found himself serviced by...Janey, whose fans and detractors alike will remember from her stint as one of the more attractive members of the crew of loose-lipped overweight soccer moms on 33rd Street. Janey's absence from 33rd Street was noted by other consumers who frequent the low-cost/high-mileage end of the tide pool that is Manhattan massage places, but mercifully we were spared an "ISO Janey" thread by her resurfacing a couple blocks away pretty much the next day.

Wanting to confirm this serendipitous turn of events myself, I wandered back into the fray over the weekend, walked into the joint and was greeted by "Eileen" - another thick fortyish asian lady with a nicer face than the others. She has one of those friendly, smiling faces that makes you feel welcome and warm. Pretty? Probably not, but with a great attitude and personality, and lots of eye contact she looked better to me than many conventionally "hot" Asian providers.

I asked if Janey was working and she said she wasn't, then asked if I knew her from 33rd Street. She said she was Janey's "friend" and she thought she would be working the next day. Then she asked me to sit on the couch with her, which I liked, and said I could come back to see Janey or she could take care of me right now...and I liked the sound of that, I will admit. It had been a full 24 hours since my last massage and blowjob...I was getting itchy...Eileen...I saw an obvious opportunity to insert the name of a terrible 80's pop song into a review...I asked for 45 minutes and dropped the $40 house fee on the table.

She was immediately playful, grabbing my ass and giggling a little. I mentioned I had seen Cici there before and she pointed to the curtain and said, “Oh, Cici’s right here…” at which point Cici, having no fucking idea who was on the other side of the curtain, nevertheless called out “Hi baby” to me. Eileen surprised me with a relatively solid massage. My left shoulder had been hurting for a couple of days and even an hour at my preferred Chinatown venue the night before had done no good at all. She worked that shit right out for me. I could hear the dude in Cici’s stall snoring. Sigh. I gotta get back to going to places with actual walls.

She told me to flip and she started with some nice long slow strokes up and down my chest. Then she bent over and licked my nipples as she reached down and touched my hardening cock. She licked her way down my chest and belly to my balls where she licked gently…and then licked the tip of my now very hard cock. There was no discussion of tips, no upsell whatsoever. She rubbed a little oil on my iron-hard cock and stroked it more. She grabbed my hand and put it on her nice firm ass and then as I touched her above the waist she pulled her shirt up to expose her nice C cup breasts with big brownish nipples. I was getting closer.

All the while she had that same inviting look on her face, that happy smile in her eyes. Then my second surprise of the night arrived when she took me into her soft wet mouth and began slowly sucking my cock. She kept at it for a few minutes – I was arching my hips up to meet her mouth and then I knew I was going to cum any second. She put her soft hand back on my cock, gave it a couple more tugs and I proceeded to, yeah, you guessed it, “Come On Eileen.”
I felt like my brain had been dipped in maple syrup – my tongue was swollen and a stupid smile had invaded my face and refused to leave.

Eileen brought in hot towels for clean up, all the while with the same lovely demeanor and tenderness. After she cleaned me up, she planted a tender kiss on the head of my cock (seriously, I am not making this shit up) and told me she knew I was a “good person” when she looked at my “nice face.” I didn't know whether to hug her or grab her shoulders and shake some sense into her. Good person, nice face. Sometimes they just know what you want to hear, I guess. I wanted to set her straight. I wanted to look her in the eyes and tell her what a shitty human being I am, how this was my third blowjob in three days…how I had been to half the dank shitholes in Manhattan looking for cheap action.

But I am who I am, I suppose, and I just gave her my little smile and said I thought she had a happy face and kind eyes. She smiled again. To my left, the neon “Body Rubs” sign glowed in the window and I could see its shifting colors around the opaque curtain that separated this grubby little oasis from the big bad world for just a few minutes.

Then I was alone again with a little bottle of water, putting my pants on and tying my shoes. I gave her a big, enthusiastic hug as I handed her a 60 buck tip. Cici was also there at the front, and she got up from her meager dinner to come give me a hug as well.

I left feeling warm inside but soon I pulled my thin jacket around myself against the growing cold of Manhattan in December. Christmas was coming. Tourists were shopping at Macy’s and looking at the window displays. What happy little lives they all had. They pointed and laughed at the little moving figures in the windows as I walked on by, as always, alone.