The Hobbyist

The little rusted bell clattered against the blinds and glass of the door as it was pushed open. The waiting room on the third floor of the nondescript medical building was dim and decorated with all the prerequisite “Oriental” kitsch, which gave it the air of something “mystical.” Ying Yang symbols, pictures of Shinto shrines, and paper mill degrees adorned the walls. One of those cheap, fogging miniature rock waterfall displays sat like a centerpiece on an end table between couches that looked like they had never ever been sat in. An aquarium with no fish flanked the furniture on the other side. Jeremiah Hirsch had stepped about two feet inside when he was greeted by the mama-san sitting behind the counter.

“Place must’ve been a dentist’s office at some point,”

he thought as he looked around then at the little woman that had stood upon his arrival. Framed as if she were the star of the most boring television show, she welcomed him from the receptionist’s box. “Hi, baby, what can I do for you, baby?” Delivered in a deadpan tone with a disingenuous smile.

“30 minute massage?” Hirsch asked. “Forty dollar. You want table shower?”

Her smile became more real as she was handed the money. She unlocked the door to the right of the window, and he walked into the hallway that led to the rooms.

Thai or Filipino, she wasn’t bad looking for someone probably in her early 50s with just a tiny potbelly and a flat-landing-pad-like-ass. Her tits seemed proportionate to her frame, not too big nor too small but not necessarily just right either. He was in somewhat of a hurry and cheap, so he weighed whether or not he wanted a “table shower.” He had no idea what it was.

“No, thank you. Can I use the bathroom first?”

If he would have said yes then that would have meant more money out of his pocket, which probably would have meant an even bigger show of teeth on this lady’s behalf.

“Sure, baby, it just down the hall.”

She pointed to what looked like a laundry room and then continued,

“You go into room number 2 when you done, okay?”

He nodded as he walked down past each of the closed doors on either side of him. When he approached where she had gestured, he saw a restroom complete with a normal shower. He shut the door that seemed like it was just a little too big for its frame. Closing it, he had to give it a great push to get it to match up correctly. Once it was, he locked it. The walls were extremely white, which contrasted the orange tile floor in an odd way.

He had been coming to these types of places every other month for the last year. Anytime he felt one of three things: horny, self-loathing, or a combination of either. They were always both at high levels of extremity and seemed to run parallel. He shook with nervous energy as he fumbled with his zipper, while using his foot to lift up the toilet seat. As he pissed, he thought about how quiet it was in the hall. There weren’t any other customers, and he wasn’t even sure if there were any other “employees” either.

He gave himself an almost comical, animated shake. Making sure there wasn’t anything urine left in him. His foot again came up to lower the seat, but this time to flush as well in one fluid crescent kick of a motion. Even though his hand had only made contact with his member, he washed up.

Splashing his face, droplets of water collected along his hairline like condensation on glass. Both his hands rested on either side of the sink, staring into the dingy-mirror for a second. It felt like an eternity, but he forced himself to make eye contact with his reflection for a moment at least. His intense gaze crumpled into a smirk followed by a scoff. It was an act of self-assurance as to say that this was what he wanted because he liked, needed, and desired it. Coming here wasn’t a crutch or escapism. No, the act itself was an adventure: something to keep him from feeling anymore scared or ugly than he always felt. It wasn’t that he was physically unattractive. He looked like someone’s youthful, fit yet paunchy uncle still with his sandy blonde, surfer haircut and hazel eyes. Meeting women had never been the problem, but keeping them was. There had been so many missed opportunities.

As he dried his hands, the name Sandra popped into his head. She had been awesome. A little Argentine Olivia Newton John that he had met through a dating website. They had hit it off, but he had really, really liked her and had decided to take it slow; that hadn’t been the best idea, because she called him one day that she was moving to Oregon to move back in with her ex. Thinking about the slight shock of that revelation, he crumpled up the sopping wet paper towel he’d been using and tossed it into an overflowing wastebasket, then Jeremiah wrenched the door open and made his way back to the room that she had assigned to him.

“#2, baby, #2.” Mama-san yelled from the front.

He didn’t say anything, shutting the door that closed much more smoothly than the last one. He knew the drill and got undressed quickly. Stripping almost completely nude, he left his socks on because he tended to get severely cold feet during his sessions. Grabbing the “fresh” towel off the massage table, he draped it around his lower torso and climbed onto the elevated surface.

Lying down, he stared at the floor through the table’s face-shaped hole. A minute or two went by before there was a tender knock as the door was pushed ajar.

“You ready, baby?”

Jeremiah lifted his head up and looked behind him, not even surprised to see the mama-san. These places advertised on online with pictures of young Asian fashion models or pin-ups, but that was rarely ever what you got, unless you wanted to pay more. Looking her over again, he smiled at her and placed his head back into the hole that it had been in. She fumbled with a cheap boom box before some antiseptic New Age-soundscape flooded the empty space in the room.

“You want oil, baby?” “Just a little, please.”

Hirsch could hear the suction noise as she squeezed out a meager amount into her palm before rubbing it together in both hands to warm it with her own body temperature.

“You just get out work, baby?” “No, I didn’t have to work today. I just needed to relax.”

He mumbled as she began to rub the oil into his shoulders and upper back.

“What you do, baby?” “I teach adults.” “Oh very nice, baby, very nice. What you teach?” “English,” he said curtly.

Jeremiah hated the small talk portion of it, but he also liked the masquerade of being a “patient” and her being a “masseuse.” It was the sort of role-playing that he felt mirrored the rest of life in general, but in almost a farcical manner. The massage was a cursory formality and they both knew it.

“Very nice, baby, very nice. Teacher good job. Good money.”

The irony that her English needed work wasn’t lost on Jeremiah, which made him smile but he tittered inside at the idea that his supposed job paid well. He wasn’t potentially breaking the bank by coming here, but he wasn’t affluent to any extent. It dawned on him that there was no need to really reveal that much about him. He could go incognito if he wanted to. Besides… he liked to lie to them: these women. He thought that next time, he would say he was an insurance agent or maybe a truck driver after that.

She brushed her dyed auburn bob out of her face as she started to work her way down his back. Grinding her thumbs into it while doing more harm than good. She then moved onto his legs, making her way all the way down to his feet and then back up again, teasing his inner thighs with graceful, light strokes, moving in-between both legs while just stopping inches away from his sack, before moving back down to less erogenous regions.

Without warning, his towel was tugged free from his lower body as she began to rub his ass with a firm grip that actually felt good in comparison to everything else she had tried. Spreading them in rhythmic, butterfly-like motions, she continued to massage, but none of this excited him. This woman was old enough to be his teenage mother. There was nothing erotic about this interaction and Hirsch considered this as routine as taking his car in for an oil change.

“Okay, turn over, baby.”

He did and revealed his still flaccid member. He could tell that she was pissed that he wasn’t ready to go yet. Regardless, she oiled up again and began to caress the area. When that wasn’t working, she lifted her tee to reveal her breasts and placed his right hand on them. With a gentle touch, he began to pinch her nipples, and he began to feel turgid in her hand. She too noticed and presumed to start stroking, which helped.

“Very nice, baby, very nice.”

The strokes were dull and slow at first, but this woman was all about business and for her, this was as exciting as filing paperwork was for Hirsch. The cadence picked up after a minute or two, as it was evident that she wanted him to hurry up and finish. He fought the urge as much as he could, edging every time he felt like he was going to blow by asking her to slow down.

After her hand moved at a breakneck pace, she began to elicit fraudulent moans that were coupled with fake coos and panting. Mama-san knew what she was doing and Jeremiah also knew that however cheesy and unreal those sounds were, they were going to be the climactic lynchpin as he began to tweak her nipples more. His pelvis squirmed. He couldn’t keep it at bay any longer and placed a firm grip on her free forearm. As he expostulated his off-white payload, he just exhaled while she made muffled orgasmic sounds.

“Baby! So much. Such a lovely mess.” “I haven’t… you know… in a couple of days,”

He lay there, still feeling the intoxication of the orgasm that had been a decent one, but as that fleeting pleasure began to fade, it mingled with the revolting notions that were also coming to him.

“I be right back, okay?”

Hirsch tried his best to smile, but all he felt was crushing shame and repulsion. Not towards her, but for himself, and he wanted to be out of there. All he could think about is what his mother would say if she knew what he did with his time and his money. He thought about what Sandra would think of him if she knew whom he had devolved into. The guilt and his disgust for himself sat anvil heavy on his chest.

Upon her reentrance into the room, she administered a hot towel to his area and cleaned off any excess of his love and then told him to get dressed. She left the room again, and he dressed.

Once he had pulled his Hawaiian shirt and khakis back on, he began to make his way out. Mama-san blocked the doorway as he made his way towards it.

“You have good time?”

Without a word, a forty-dollar tip was given; he strode back into the waiting room towards the outside. The little rusted bell clattered against the blinds and the glass of the door as it was pulled open and then swung shut behind him.