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I need to get a massage.

No, I don’t mean the stressed out or tired and sore muscle kind of massage. I mean the happy ending kind of massage. Shamelessmack’s blog has been dark long enough now that it’s a safe bet he’s not going to start it up again. Mack covered the massage scene in Thailand. And was quite detailed in his posts. I’d hate to steal his shtick but it’s been too long now and his readers are tired of waiting for his return. The massage parlor scene in Thailand beat needs to be covered. There’s only one problem. I’ve only had one happy ending massage in Thailand out of all of the visits I’ve made there. And the masseuses were women. Real ones. So I’m not the guy to be reporting on the state of the Kingdom’s rub and tug shops for gay men. Until I get some more experience under my belt. So to speak.

My singular experience in visiting a massage shop that offered more than just massages wasn’t my idea, nor is it something I need to experience again. But I was on holiday with my straight buddy Rick and he came up with the idea. Since I always thought it’d be cool to share an orgasm with Rick, I agreed.

Rick had discovered Thailand independently of me, we’d both been there a few times and decided a road trip to Bangkok as a duo was in order. We were both still in our early thirties, and neither of us had much of a problem in scoring hotties back home. Regardless, I’d been busy discovering the wonders of Thai male flesh from places like DJ Station on my visits to Bangkok. Rick had zeroed in on the city’s commercial sex world on his. And was ecstatic about it. He could barely contains himself on the flight over and couldn’t refrain from singing the glories of a soapy massage non-stop even while our flight made stops. It wasn’t until we checked into our hotel that he came up with the idea of the two of us hitting his favorite place together.

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“Sounds wonderful, dude. But ya know the sight of pussy tends to make me nauseous.”

“No, I’m, telling ya it won’t matter. It’s like being in heaven.”

“There are no fish in my version of heaven.”

“Come on, we’ll book a room together.”

“Well, if you need a bit more dick in the room to make your happy ending all it can be I guess I don’t have a choice.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

Rick was right. I am an asshole. And our joint massage of our joints was like being in heaven. Though that had more to do with Rick’s dick’s proximity than it did the massage. But even Rick’s dick aside, that visit spoiled me for any future massage orgasm experiences. There was no pretense about which muscle needed massaging. There was no question of whether or not the ending would be a happy one. And – thank the gods – there were no commercial sex workers unskilled at the art attempting to actually give me a real massage.

Obviously not the first time a double occupancy room had been requested, ours was humongous. And clean, bright, decorated, and cheery. It had two large separate sunken bath tubs, and two separate shower stalls big enough to fit a party into. More importantly, it had two queen size air mattresses spread out on the floor ready and waiting. We weren’t there for a simple hand job; Rick was determined that I’d get to discover the joys of Bangkok’s famous soapy massage. Even if that meant sacrificing a bit of his heterosexuality to make it happen.

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For those of you who have never had the experience, with or without Rick’s dick in the room, a soapy massage has nothing to do with the art of massage. Some jaded fools who think they know more than they do will tell you a soapy massage is just another name for a full body massage. It’s not. That’s like saying Oprah’s ass is a bit on the large side. The air mattress on the floor is important. The soap a must. And any place that specializes in soapy massages has a bar fixed at the head of the mattress for the masseuses to grab a hold of to keep on top of her job.

The massage starts with a shower which is only partially about getting clean. I think Rick enjoyed his shower more than I did, those the sight of his meaty buttocks pressed up against the glass shower enclosure added to my enjoyment. And that enjoyment didn’t pass the notice of my masseuse, who earned a large tip for making sure I had a good view of what I wanted to see for the rest of the massage. Next came the tubs where any suggestion of cleansing was totally discarded. Besides a good soak, that time was devoted to getting thoroughly dowsed and properly lathered up. It was obvious when he got out of the tub that Rick enjoyed that part of the service more than I did too. At least until Rick got out of his tub.

While we were still soaking the masseurs hopped out of the tub, wet the mattresses down and soaped them up a bit so that by the time we joined them it was an effort to not go slip sliding away. Possibly holding degrees in physics, the masseuses solved that problem by adding some weight. Theirs. On top of our bodies. And that’s when the soapy massage really begins.

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A firm ripe body gliding up and down your back, the friction between your two bodies slightly lessened by your lathered bodies is in fact a little bit of heaven. Having your naked straight buddy a few feet away, going through the same experience and enjoying himself so much he wants to talk about it doesn’t hurt either. Having said naked straight buddy then roll over to have his other side massaged, nonchalantly exposing his erect cock in the process starts the angels singing. And when you do the same and notice your naked straight buddy’s shit eating grin dims by a few watts when he realizes the two of you just established who really has the biggest dick . . . yes, there is a god.

I’m sure having less tit and more cock rubbing up against yours would be a much more pleasurable experience. No cock and bigger tits than any Asian woman was ever born with wasn’t too bad either. I think you’d have to be Charles Nelson Reily gay to not respond. And even if you were only Andy Dick gay, watching your hunky straight buddy – who is past the point of caring how much of your attention he has or what you are seeing – obviously building up a full head of steam should do the trick.

Rick had dissolved into a fit of giggles he was having such a grand time. His attitude was infectious and the girls went into hyper-mode taunting each other between their laughter with who’d finish first. More water and more soap were liberally applied as the need arose. A skilled soapy massage masseuse takes pride in providing a hands-free happy ending. And both of ours were highly skilled indeed.

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Rick came first. Loudly and with plenty of forewarning. It was a beautiful sight to see. And then, after allowing his blood pressure to drop back from its I’m About To Die level, he did what any straight buddy in a straight massage parlor with his gay friend would do and came over to perch between my legs staring me in the face with the shit-eating grin that had found its way back to its normal home. And he was still giggling, urging me on. With the proper visuals now in place, it didn’t take long. The masseuse hoped off to begin the cleaning up process, and Rick took her vacancy as an opportunity to spread himself out on top of me, faces but inches away.

“Dude! Wasn’t that awesome!” he crowed as happy about my orgasm as he was of his. “ I told you you would love it!”

“If you’d told me you were gonna give me a happy ending to my happy ending I’d have been easier to convince. I think you’re getting hard again.”

“You are such an asshole!”

Rick was right. Again. Even freshly sated, I’m still an asshole. And I did love it. But those few brief moments of feeling his naked body stretched out across mine reminded me of how much more enjoyable the experience would have been with a guy. There are still a few straight massage places in Bangkok that specialize in soapy massages. And do them right. There is still no gay massage places in Bangkok that offer the true soapy massage experience. And none, that I’ve heard of, that offer the room and luxury that Rick and I had shared.

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I was a regular reader of Mack’s blog, hoping that at some point he’d review a place that didn’t sound like it was either tiny and cramped or sleazy. Or both. Maybe if he’d had kept blogging he would have reported on one some day. I prefer walking into a gogo bar and seeing every square inch of a guy I plan on taking back to my hotel with me. But I feel an obligation to you, my readers, as well as to those countless souls surfing the net looking for the advice that Mack used to provide. So I’ll make the sacrifice and start hitting the happy ending places on your behalf. Or maybe I’ll give Rick a call and ask him for the name of the place we went to. I might enjoy visiting it with Noom as much as I did with Rick.

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