Before we had our big texting meltdown the ex-girlfriend and I went last night to a massage-and-swim health club on Wilshire and Mariposa. She had called and reserved a massage for me as well as herself. She went into the women’s salon and I naturally went over to the guy’s entrance, which is on Mariposa. I paid $60 for a massage with my card and walked downstairs to the dressing area and froze in my effing tracks. For there were five or six older undressed Asian guys sitting and standing around, all wearing disgusting rubber flip-flops and two or three in towels and two or three without towels with their flabby white hairless bellies and ugly members hanging out. “Good fucking God!,” I said to myself. A red light began flashing in my brain. I turned right around, bounded up the stairs and got an immediate refund. “Is anything wrong?,” the lady said. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Just cancel the payment, please.” Never again. Crunch, my Manhattan health club, has private shower stalls with little shower curtains. I never again want to look at a beefy old guy with his schlong hanging out…ever.
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