Juicy Juicy GI
Mike's been working a normal shift this week so he's been at the computer at night after the kids are in bed (my only blogging time). Hence I haven't posted a thing since we got back. It's fine though, since I've been in bed early and he's retrieved almost all of our vacation photos. All but maybe 100 which is awesome! Gotta love those rescue programs... and a good man to sit down and figure it all out.
So many of you have inquired about the massage parlor incident. It isn't quite as exciting as all that. In fact, I might have misled you by saying I was thrown out. Thrown out, I wasn't. Escorted out is more like it. Humiliated. Enraged. But too embarrassed to speak out. Yes. Yes. Yes. But THROWN out? No. Not exactly. Remember, I'm a hefty ass pregnant American cow. Ain't nobody in all of Asia could actually throw me.
Here's the deal. We checked into an absolutely gorgeous, marble floored, gilded railings type hotel in Halong Bay. As we made our way through the hotel with our gaggle of screaming banshees (AKA the beasties), a large poster type sign caught my eye. "One hour massage -- $12," it screamed out to me in not only English but the almighty American dollar. Now, who, who, I beg of you, who in all of our lazy culture would turn down an hour long massage for just 12 bucks? Certainly not I, your beloved Fat Housewife, heavy with belly and lousy with aching back.
Mike and I agreed to tag team the kids and the massage parlor. Being the generous gal that I am (not to mention lazy wife that just can't give a massage with these delicate hands), I let him take the first appointment at 8pm while I got the kids in bed. Then my appointment would be an hour later at 9pm. I called and made the appointments, told them I was making the reservations for my husband and me, that we'd be coming consecutively. No problem. It was all set. So off he went at 8pm. He returned at 9pm, full rested and excited for me to go down and get my turn.
"It was great. Really relaxing. You'll enjoy it. They're expecting you," he said as I rushed out the door filled with anticipation of the impending nirvana.
I waddled my way through the hotel to the massage parlor. It was located directly below the swimming pool and fitness center. In fact, there were large signs indicating which direction to go to get to the massage for just $12. Big signs. In full view of all hotel patrons. I came to the check in desk and a beautiful Vietnamese women in the traditional dress called aio dai greeted me.
"Hello," she said. "Are your children sleeping well?"
The hotel staff were all very friendly, spoke English comfortably, and were dressed in traditional Vietnamese garb with name tags clearly visible. This beauty was no exception. She had me sign a tab to bill the $12 to my room and then asked if I wanted something to drink. Just as I was saying no, that I was fine, a Korean man walked up to the desk. First, let me tell you, there were many Koreans staying at this hotel. It must be a favorite of Korean travel agents. Interestingly, though, Korean men largely outnumbered Korean women. Tables of Korean men drinking bottles of Russian vodka and eating plate fulls of steamed whole crabs filled the restaurants of the hotel. I paid little attention, really, figuring they were there to golf or some other manly activity.
"I want to see her first," said the Korean man standing next to me. "I want to meet her and then I'll pay."
"Yes, yes," said the gracious hostess with a charming smile, "Please allow me to take care of this customer and I will be right with you."
The man swayed a bit. "Just have her come out. I want to see her first."
The hostess then guided me to the waiting room and asked me to have a seat. I looked back at the swaying ajoshi (Korean word for "dude") and started to have feel some red flags go up. Why would he need to see a masseuse before the massage, I wonder. Ah, but Mike just had a massage and didn't mention any funny stuff. Plus, I reassured myself, the woman even remembered I was putting my kids to sleep. Nothing to worry about... until... she walked in.
Standing in front of me was a curvaceous Vietnamese woman in a skin tight micro mini topped with a hot pink, low cut, wrap around blouse, and 6 inch platform heels. I hadn't seen a woman who looked so much like a street walker since leaving Korea (yes, many Korean women mistake the stereotypical dress of a common whore with high fashion). I was shocked and nervous. But again, I thought, there is no way there's any hanky panky going on. Mike was just here. Mike just sent me down here. It has to be completely innocent.
"Follow," was all my street walker turned masseuse managed. It wasn't accompanied by a smile or even a warm hand gesture. Just a cold stare and "Follow." So I did. I waddled my way down a long, sterile looking hallway of shut doors till the end where a room stood open. She led me inside and without closing the door said, "Strip. Go in sauna."
"No. No, thank you," I smiled, "I don't want a sauna. Just as massage."
"Strip and go in sauna. Sauna good," she said sternly at an elevated volume.
"I can't," I quietly whined like a teenaged girl with her period during swimming class. "I cannot go into a sauna. It is bad for the baby," and I pointed to be protruding midsection.
"You have baby?" said my almost-a-whore in disgust while also pointing to my midsection.
I nodded.
"Follow," she said and strutted off back from whence we came
Her heels made a loud, angry clacking noise as we made our way back through the hall. About half way down, she began angrily shouting in Vietnamese. Almost instantly doors opened and out popped similarly dressed girls to see what was going on. She stopped and pointed at me, continuing on her Vietnamese tirade, none of which I understood literally, but the gist of which couldn't be missed through nonverbal cues. The other prostitute-like characters looked at me in disgust as I walked by them, head hung low, eyes brimming with shame and pregnancy hormones.
Honestly, if I hadn't been in such a vulnerable position, I would have been enraged. But feeling big and balloonish while waddling through a country where even the pregnant women are tiny and gorgeous, I was not about to confront a clan of women who make their money from massaging the Mr. Happy of drunken Korean boors. I just wanted to die, really. Right there. In the massage parlor of the Halong Plaza, surrounded by their cut rate call girls.
"Sit," she ordered and pointed to a chair in the waiting room. I did. And I looked around for the Korean man who was here just minutes before. He was gone. Probably getting his "massage" behind one of those closed doors. I'm sure I interrupted it, actually, since his gal had to stop what she was doing to come out and spit upon the arrogant, pregnant American. (no, not really, no one actually spit on me, but I think they might have if they thought they'd get away with it -- such really was the hate filled look on their faces).
I could hear an animated conversation going on between the gracious hostess and my juicy juicy girl. I couldn't see them as they were behind me, but there was plenty of back and forth going on between them. It stopped abruptly and I saw the scantily clad one click clack her way past me and into the hallway, but not without turning back for one last glare and a slam of the door.
In a flash the hostess was next to me, gesturing for me to rise.
"I'm sorry. You are pregnant?" she asked.
"Yes..." I said as I pointed to a belly even a blind man couldn't miss.
"I'm sorry. She says that massage is too dangerous for pregnant women. Too dangerous. I'm sorry," she said, her smiling growing in size and phoniness.
"I don't understand. What's dangerous?" I asked.
"I'm sorry. Too dangerous for you and for the baby," she nonanswered. "But," she lighted up, "we won't charge you!"
"Oh, gee, thanks." And I waddled my way back to our room.
You know as soon as I got into the room, I let all kinds of accusations fly at poor Mike who sat innocently enjoying his post massage endorphin buzz. He claims, even to this day, that his masseuse was dressed in plain white shorts and a tshirt with flip flops on her feet. Yeah, right. Although, convincingly he added that if something other than a massage had happened he sure as hell wouldn't have sent me down minutes later.
I just have to wonder what kind of shift change takes place at 9pm and how did I get fucked into taking the juicy juicy GI shift.
Also, for those wondering, this incident while cruel and unusual had nothing to do with our close call with a divorce lawyer. Honestly, we just don't travel well together. We never have. Mike is a horrible traveler. He hates to travel. Hates it. Oh, sure, he loves to see things and do things, but he's miserable and grumpy the whole time and likes to bring everyone else on the trip down with him. I'm pregnant and can't drink or smoke to deal with him. Plus, we had the kids. Needless to say, I spent a good portion of every dinner in the bathroom sobbing. It really was a fun trip.
Now you see how desperate was my need for a massage. The pregnant woman always gets fucked. And not literally. Don't eat this. Can't eat that. Don't smoke. Don't drink. Can't even get a decent happy ending massage by a cheap Vietnamese harlot. And I hadn't even packed my vibrator.
So many of you have inquired about the massage parlor incident. It isn't quite as exciting as all that. In fact, I might have misled you by saying I was thrown out. Thrown out, I wasn't. Escorted out is more like it. Humiliated. Enraged. But too embarrassed to speak out. Yes. Yes. Yes. But THROWN out? No. Not exactly. Remember, I'm a hefty ass pregnant American cow. Ain't nobody in all of Asia could actually throw me.
Here's the deal. We checked into an absolutely gorgeous, marble floored, gilded railings type hotel in Halong Bay. As we made our way through the hotel with our gaggle of screaming banshees (AKA the beasties), a large poster type sign caught my eye. "One hour massage -- $12," it screamed out to me in not only English but the almighty American dollar. Now, who, who, I beg of you, who in all of our lazy culture would turn down an hour long massage for just 12 bucks? Certainly not I, your beloved Fat Housewife, heavy with belly and lousy with aching back.
Mike and I agreed to tag team the kids and the massage parlor. Being the generous gal that I am (not to mention lazy wife that just can't give a massage with these delicate hands), I let him take the first appointment at 8pm while I got the kids in bed. Then my appointment would be an hour later at 9pm. I called and made the appointments, told them I was making the reservations for my husband and me, that we'd be coming consecutively. No problem. It was all set. So off he went at 8pm. He returned at 9pm, full rested and excited for me to go down and get my turn.
"It was great. Really relaxing. You'll enjoy it. They're expecting you," he said as I rushed out the door filled with anticipation of the impending nirvana.
I waddled my way through the hotel to the massage parlor. It was located directly below the swimming pool and fitness center. In fact, there were large signs indicating which direction to go to get to the massage for just $12. Big signs. In full view of all hotel patrons. I came to the check in desk and a beautiful Vietnamese women in the traditional dress called aio dai greeted me.
"Hello," she said. "Are your children sleeping well?"
The hotel staff were all very friendly, spoke English comfortably, and were dressed in traditional Vietnamese garb with name tags clearly visible. This beauty was no exception. She had me sign a tab to bill the $12 to my room and then asked if I wanted something to drink. Just as I was saying no, that I was fine, a Korean man walked up to the desk. First, let me tell you, there were many Koreans staying at this hotel. It must be a favorite of Korean travel agents. Interestingly, though, Korean men largely outnumbered Korean women. Tables of Korean men drinking bottles of Russian vodka and eating plate fulls of steamed whole crabs filled the restaurants of the hotel. I paid little attention, really, figuring they were there to golf or some other manly activity.
"I want to see her first," said the Korean man standing next to me. "I want to meet her and then I'll pay."
"Yes, yes," said the gracious hostess with a charming smile, "Please allow me to take care of this customer and I will be right with you."
The man swayed a bit. "Just have her come out. I want to see her first."
The hostess then guided me to the waiting room and asked me to have a seat. I looked back at the swaying ajoshi (Korean word for "dude") and started to have feel some red flags go up. Why would he need to see a masseuse before the massage, I wonder. Ah, but Mike just had a massage and didn't mention any funny stuff. Plus, I reassured myself, the woman even remembered I was putting my kids to sleep. Nothing to worry about... until... she walked in.
Standing in front of me was a curvaceous Vietnamese woman in a skin tight micro mini topped with a hot pink, low cut, wrap around blouse, and 6 inch platform heels. I hadn't seen a woman who looked so much like a street walker since leaving Korea (yes, many Korean women mistake the stereotypical dress of a common whore with high fashion). I was shocked and nervous. But again, I thought, there is no way there's any hanky panky going on. Mike was just here. Mike just sent me down here. It has to be completely innocent.
"Follow," was all my street walker turned masseuse managed. It wasn't accompanied by a smile or even a warm hand gesture. Just a cold stare and "Follow." So I did. I waddled my way down a long, sterile looking hallway of shut doors till the end where a room stood open. She led me inside and without closing the door said, "Strip. Go in sauna."
"No. No, thank you," I smiled, "I don't want a sauna. Just as massage."
"Strip and go in sauna. Sauna good," she said sternly at an elevated volume.
"I can't," I quietly whined like a teenaged girl with her period during swimming class. "I cannot go into a sauna. It is bad for the baby," and I pointed to be protruding midsection.
"You have baby?" said my almost-a-whore in disgust while also pointing to my midsection.
I nodded.
"Follow," she said and strutted off back from whence we came
Her heels made a loud, angry clacking noise as we made our way back through the hall. About half way down, she began angrily shouting in Vietnamese. Almost instantly doors opened and out popped similarly dressed girls to see what was going on. She stopped and pointed at me, continuing on her Vietnamese tirade, none of which I understood literally, but the gist of which couldn't be missed through nonverbal cues. The other prostitute-like characters looked at me in disgust as I walked by them, head hung low, eyes brimming with shame and pregnancy hormones.
Honestly, if I hadn't been in such a vulnerable position, I would have been enraged. But feeling big and balloonish while waddling through a country where even the pregnant women are tiny and gorgeous, I was not about to confront a clan of women who make their money from massaging the Mr. Happy of drunken Korean boors. I just wanted to die, really. Right there. In the massage parlor of the Halong Plaza, surrounded by their cut rate call girls.
"Sit," she ordered and pointed to a chair in the waiting room. I did. And I looked around for the Korean man who was here just minutes before. He was gone. Probably getting his "massage" behind one of those closed doors. I'm sure I interrupted it, actually, since his gal had to stop what she was doing to come out and spit upon the arrogant, pregnant American. (no, not really, no one actually spit on me, but I think they might have if they thought they'd get away with it -- such really was the hate filled look on their faces).
I could hear an animated conversation going on between the gracious hostess and my juicy juicy girl. I couldn't see them as they were behind me, but there was plenty of back and forth going on between them. It stopped abruptly and I saw the scantily clad one click clack her way past me and into the hallway, but not without turning back for one last glare and a slam of the door.
In a flash the hostess was next to me, gesturing for me to rise.
"I'm sorry. You are pregnant?" she asked.
"Yes..." I said as I pointed to a belly even a blind man couldn't miss.
"I'm sorry. She says that massage is too dangerous for pregnant women. Too dangerous. I'm sorry," she said, her smiling growing in size and phoniness.
"I don't understand. What's dangerous?" I asked.
"I'm sorry. Too dangerous for you and for the baby," she nonanswered. "But," she lighted up, "we won't charge you!"
"Oh, gee, thanks." And I waddled my way back to our room.
You know as soon as I got into the room, I let all kinds of accusations fly at poor Mike who sat innocently enjoying his post massage endorphin buzz. He claims, even to this day, that his masseuse was dressed in plain white shorts and a tshirt with flip flops on her feet. Yeah, right. Although, convincingly he added that if something other than a massage had happened he sure as hell wouldn't have sent me down minutes later.
I just have to wonder what kind of shift change takes place at 9pm and how did I get fucked into taking the juicy juicy GI shift.
Also, for those wondering, this incident while cruel and unusual had nothing to do with our close call with a divorce lawyer. Honestly, we just don't travel well together. We never have. Mike is a horrible traveler. He hates to travel. Hates it. Oh, sure, he loves to see things and do things, but he's miserable and grumpy the whole time and likes to bring everyone else on the trip down with him. I'm pregnant and can't drink or smoke to deal with him. Plus, we had the kids. Needless to say, I spent a good portion of every dinner in the bathroom sobbing. It really was a fun trip.
Now you see how desperate was my need for a massage. The pregnant woman always gets fucked. And not literally. Don't eat this. Can't eat that. Don't smoke. Don't drink. Can't even get a decent happy ending massage by a cheap Vietnamese harlot. And I hadn't even packed my vibrator.
posted by The Histrionics of a Fat Housewife at 6:38 AM
4 Comments:
ARE YOU FREAKIN KIDDING ME? WTF!!! I'D BE PISSED AS HELL! COME HOME AND GO TO HEAVENLY MASSAGE! lol!!
Holy Smokes, Woman! No happy friggin' ending for you!!
Being preggers just sucks... end result is good but the trip is the pits.
I hate to break it to you, but massages can be dangerous while you're pregnant unless you're getting a pregnancy massage which you have to be specially trained for. If those gals weren't trained for one like a normal day spa would be, then they could have gotten into big trouble if they had given you a massage and something had gone wrong.
I'm not surprised though because when you first mentioned about the massage parlor the first thing I thought of was cover for a prostitution ring! Sorry you didn't get your massage.
Everyone is different, I enjoyed both my pregnancies.
Damn girl, you should always pack your vibrator!
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