I do ask that you gentlemen read my post before commenting.

Welcome to yet another post coital report. I had been burning the proverbial midnight oil at both ends for work in recent weeks and decided to take some time, and a chance, for some much needed stress relief. I had conceded some time ago that Ipswich was a coital desert, alas, I hark back to someone here herald of a place of ill repute named Pink Crystal. Despite my better judgment, I decided to chance it.

I arrived to the front door which was locked, I rang the door bell to announce my arrival and a curvy but slim Chinese woman wearing industrial strength makeup answers the door. She asks for how long, with an accent heavier than lead I might add, and I respond with "one hour". Immediately she asks "full service?". "Yes" I reply after giving her a look over. Her breasts were of agreeable volume and her waist was slim without being rake-thin. She leads me to the massage room, she points at the basket for my paraphernalia then leaves. I disrobe and lay upon the table in the heavily air-conditioned room and no towel with which to blanket myself. She re-enters the room and begins speaking Mandarin. I can only understand a word here-and-there and I'll get a lose understanding of what she's talking about. I see her adjusting the air-con and I tell her "二十六" (26). The problem is with speaking even the smallest amount of Mandarin, they always assume I'm fluent. Allow me to settle this right now, I am not fluent. "我不懂. 我的中文不好" (I don't understand. My Mandarin is bad) which only seems to encourage her further. I cease the small talk and allow her to work. The massage was pleasant enough until she started putting the entire weight of her upper body on her bony elbows in an attempt to pierce my ribcage from there rear.

She then moved onto my neck and shoulders and I do wish she hadn't. Each repartition was like a failed Vulcan neck pinch, and when she was done on the left side, she moved to the right. Both sides of my neck will be sore and things will be even this way. "Ok. Full service" she announced with all the grace of a Woolworths checkout clerk asking "How are you today?" for the 7,345th time today. I roll over and she then tells me she needs to go and wash her hands. Which struck me as odd but hygiene is important. Meanwhile, I lay on the table in the chilled air of the massage room. Mr. Wiggly doesn't like it. She returns and disrobes. Now gentlemen, do you recall my telling you of her large breasts? Yes? Well what if I were to tell you t'was all a ruse? It came to pass that what I perceived as large breasts was simply a push-up bra being worked past its maximum load limit. For when she removed it, they hung low. Not low enough for me to leave in disgust, but still low enough for me to be disappointed. Like a child unwrapping a birthday present expecting to get what he wants but instead finds something good enough. Not good enough to be excited about, but too good to complain about.

Now that I'm on my back I can see her face properly. On this merit she gets a pass, albeit not with flying colours. But a pass is a pass. The body, likewise. She fondled Mr. Wiggly and he stood erect. She then cleans him with hand sanitiser that possesses all the heat of an arctic tundra. She plays with Mr. Wiggly again, he stands up, and she puts the condom on... inside out. But she doesn't know it at this time. She begins what will be an entire 5.5 minutes of fellatio before realising her mistake with the condom. She removes it USING HER SURGICALLY CHARP FINGER NAILS and puts another on. She then tells me that she's lying down and that I'm on top. So much for customer selection. She guides Mr. Wiggly in and I feel, nothing. This has not happened to me before. She has either used far too much lubricant, or, I am the sausage in the hallway. I try with all my might to finish the event promptly but was distracted by her overacted moans of pleasure. It would've been more arousing for her to simply lay there like a cold fish. But finish I did, with much effort.

After the bout of disappointment broken by overacted moans of ecstasy, she cleans me up and tells me the massage isn't yet completed. I was overcome with indifference. I lay there and she asked if I wanted a head massage, "no" I said in Mandarin. "Leg" I said in Mandarin and she proceeded to massage my legs. The small talk reconvened. This was one of those rare moments where I spoke more Mandarin than she spoke English. During this conversation, I notice something about the masseuse. Something I'd not noticed before, but now cannot un-notice. Her teeth. They were all there, but, she will make a dentist quite wealthy one day I should think. I try to ignore her grey discoloured dontia, but my speaking broken Mandarin has had an unwelcome side effect. I was proposed. She made a point out of telling me she was single and looking for an Australian man, then insisted I take her personal phone number. It would seem that my skills in Mandarin have made me quite the catch. Lucky me. I enter her number into my phone (with her watching), say my good byes, leave, then delete her number before the night rain has a chance to make me damp.

What did this cost me I hear you ask? All too much indeed. Her name was either Amy or Annie and I'd not recommend.