This was me to Juanette, the new girl at Madame Ching’s House of Exotic Massage. “I mean, shit. I’m paying good money, ain’t I?”
That’s when she burst into tears, going on and on about being the victim of a third world sex-slave racket, the abortion she had last month, her pedophiliac stepfather, etc. Frankly, I’d heard enough.
“Listen darling,” I said, yanking the towel from my waist and dropping it on the floor. “Maybe you didn’t get the memo, but you work in a massage parlor. A seedy massage parlor. One that specializes in handjobs for fat, moneyed men like myself. So a little less yapping and a little more willy-rubbing, huh?”
Well, for being such a “victim” she sure had a mean left cross — one that requires immediate raw steak treatment for the black eye it gave me. Needless to say, I’ll be taking all future massage business to Pete’s Poontang Emporium, where the customer always comes first.