Mad Atoms

The last time I went to a Thai massage place in Koreatown, I was worked over by an old hag who looked like Yoda's stand in.

She cracked my joints, dug into my shoulders, hammered me like a speed bag.

Then she massaged my legs. She jammed her wizened thumbs into two pulse points on my inner thighs.

I sat up.

And almost shot a load into her face.

“I have to go to the bathroom. Now,” I screamed and ran blindly down the hall, clutching the too-loose culottes all Thai places have for some reason. I made it into the bathroom and did that Asian trick you do when you’re banging a hot chick – squeezing near the base of the shaft. I prayed – “Don’t come. Don’t come. Don’t come.”

Finally, I was able to pinch off my boner. I returned, threw on my clothes, and left. I was shamed. I was annoyed.

I could never go back to the Thai place again. I don’t want to come from some 70 year old touching my legs. What if I got addicted to it? I’d be with a hot girl and unable to skeet unless she put baby powder in her hair, talked in a chop-socky accent, and walked on my back.

I went home to my girlfriend. I told her I had an odd request, then stripped down and had her try to find the pulse points on my legs. It didn’t work.

Sometimes, I still think about that old Thai woman.