# The Happy Endings Playbook (Warning: Explicit)



## DannyMullen

This is part one of my written account of trying to get massages with Happy Endings in the Sacramento area. Please read on with caution. 

*    *    *​“Is there some sort of code word? A signal?” I ask, slamming the car door. “What about a hand shake? Surely there’s one of those…”

“Just let me do the talking,” says Jacobin, pulling on a black jacket, eyes darting around the parking lot of Massage et Russia. “And don’t worry–not only are these girls hot; they’re fucking professionals. Prepare for 45 minutes in heaven, buddy.”

Well, it was comments like this that really got my brain to cranking out the fantasies. In retrospect, I can understand why. When the night’s game plan more or less consists of wandering into a decrepit building in the ghetto, lying naked on a table, and waving around fistfuls of cash while pointing to your cock, certain mental defense mechanisms become necessary.

And I’ll admit it: on the walk up to the front door, the fantasies were so vivid,_ so_ exotic, that no jerk off parlor, much less one in this seedier part of Sacramento, would have even been able to touch them. 

But “unable to touch” is, in this case, an understatement of criminal proportions. To say I was “very disappointed” upon entering the building also falls miles short of the truth.

Let’s conduct a fun little comparison of my fantasies and reality, just to show you what I mean.

What should have been a clean, well-furnished waiting room with dim, sensual lighting appears more like a last resort veterinary clinic in South Central Los Angeles. There are missing linoleum tiles, the dominant smell is that of mildew, and what looks suspiciously like a puddle of vomit decorates the floor over in one corner. 

Where there should have been a suave man in a tuxedo serving as receptionist–silvery hair, nice jawline, master’s degree in English literature–there is a five-foot-tall mousey girl with severe acne.

 Where there should have been a proper harem of Russian girls–mostly model types, one or two with big tits: all of _them_ illiterate, and squawking about inside a big cage of chicken wire–there is a one fat woman in a bonnet, waiting patiently on a steel chair.

I could go on, but these are my most pressing objections.

“Two massages please, ” says Jacobin, slipping a stack of bills over the counter.

I swivel to face him. Stare hard.

“What?” he says.

Through gritted teeth: “Everything is _what_.”

“Relax,” Jacobin with a grunt. “The masseuses are all in the back.”

“You don’t pay til after,” says the mousey girl, rejecting the money. She then rounds the counter to collect Jacobin. Looking up at me, she shrugs and adds, “Uh, and I guess _your_ massages will be with–”

Here’s a nice opportunity for reader participation.

Of the four people currently in the waiting room–me, Jacobin, the Mouse, and Fat Bonnet Woman–guess which one will provide my erotic massage. Go ahead. Take a stab.

“–Olga.”

On cue, the fat lady rises from her steel throne and lumbers over.

Let me tell you about this “Olga.”
–Olga has a prominent, hairy mole at the corner of her lip.
–Olga appears to have patches of dirt and dried sweat caked onto her cheeks and forehead. 
–Olga’s fat is carried exclusively around her stomach and lower back, as if someone has sewn a boulder into her abdomen.
–Olga is also wearing a dirty brown apron, and looks to be about 45-years-old.

A 19th century potato farmer’s wife has traveled through time to give me a hand job.

“Eh, come,” snorts Olga, beckoning for me to go with her down the hallway.

I stand blinking on the spot, arms limp at my sides.

Olga, frustrated, looks back and calls again, “Eh _come_!”

This startles me into following. Christ–I let her lead me all the way to a massage room in the back without a fucking word of protest.  “Eh, a-go inside, get into underwear, and wait,” says Olga before leaving me alone. “I be back.”

Well, this is fucked, I think to myself. Are you really going to hang around and go through with this? Let Olga here put her filthy peasant mitts on your penis?

Wait a second…

_Olga_.

Is that woman–the fat one in the bandanna bonnet–really named Olga? I mean, do we have any proof?

I begin pacing around the room.

She did seem to answer to it, yes–out in the waiting room–but there’s also a chance that the name doesn’t belong to her at all, that she’s just some kind of whorehouse zookeeper…

I start working my jeans down now, semi-convinced by my own argument.

I mean, imagine that _you_ own a fine operation such as Massage et Russia. Think about the issue of employment. Now, I won’t say for sure that applicants for this type of work don’t have Ivy League degrees…fancy resumes. But I do know that one part of the job is non-negotiable: a willingness to trade hourly wages for sexual contact with strangers who wander in off the street.

I pull off my shirt, toss it on the floor.

That trait alone–the money/sex/strangers thing–would fill me, an owner, with a profound distrust of my employees. And, therefore, it just couldn’t hurt to have some good ol’ fashion muscle hanging around the premises during business hours. 

Hence, Fat Bonnet Woman. An ice-cold Soviet Union hag hired by Massage et Russia to lay down the goddamn law. I’m almost certain of it now. It’s like Jacobin said–all the hot girls are in the back. Fat Bonnet Woman is just here to summon them when their services are needed, to revive them when they overdose, and to break out the whip when they get to whispering about mutiny and armed rebellion.

Yes–the real Olga, _my_ Olga, will be here soon.

Fat Bonnet Woman reenters the room, shutting off the lights and slamming the door behind her.

About 30 minutes later, I am covered in gritty, smelly oil, having every crevice of my body accosted against my will. In the dark of the room, you can’t tell that my teeth are clenched, that my eyes are two furnaces of rage, but they are.

“You tense,” Fat Bonnet Woman observes. “Why you tense?”

Oh, where to start, _Olga_? Maybe because when Jacobin Taylor danced into my living room an hour ago, promising to pay for my trip to second base, he referred to this place as (and I’m quoting here) “sexual paradise”? And maybe because the second baseman he spoke of was supposed to be (get this, Olga) 20-years-old, and _not_ look like a festering polar bear? Maybe because this massage, even taken as its own legitimate entity, is fucking abysmal?

“I’m…stressed,” I say. “I had a long day at…work.”

Olga takes this in. “Ahh–I know what-a you need.” She’s already across the room and pulling open the door. “I get something–you stay.”
I shake my head, stare up at the ceiling. _Well, here it comes, Danny. Your parents would be oh so proud.
_
If I were a model citizen, I’d be capable of getting up and leaving at a time like this. Or, at least I’d possess the discipline to tell Olga she wasn’t allowed to touch me anywhere between the waistline and mid-thigh.

But come on, people–it’s _me_. Was this a hard choice? Yes. But not as hard as one might think. The problem is, in my case, being “on the fence” about a sexual scenario is a misnomer–it’s not really even a thing. If the internal debate is that close, that balanced in terms of pro v. con, then the side pushing for rationality and reasonable decisions has already lost.

For those still confused, let’s try this. It’s a little scene that might help one better understand what was going on inside me atop Olga’s bed:

INT. SMOKE FILLED OFFICE - NIGHT

_THE RATIONAL MIND is invited to take a seat before THE GROIN’s mahogany desk, to discuss the matter at hand.
_
*The Rational Mind
*“I’m not so sure about this…”

*The Groin
*“What are ya talking about?”

*The Rational Mind
*“I mean, not only am I not attracted to this woman; she actively repulses me.”

*The Groin
*“So _whatt_?”–takes a big puff off his cigar–“When has that ever stopped us?”

*The* *Rational* *Mind
*“I don’t know, man. The thing is–”

*The* *Groin* 
“Listen–do you want a hand job, or do you not want a hand job?”

*The* *Rational* *Mind
*“I do! But I’m sober right now, and it’s a little chilly in here, and I––”

(The Rational Mind is interrupted here by a big slap across the face)

*The Groin
*“Shaadup!”

*The Rational Mind
*“Ok! Ok!”

*The* *Groin
*“I’ll ask again: do you want a fuckin’ hand job?”

*The* *Rational* *Mind
*“…Yes”

*The* *Groin
**“*Are you presently in a position to receive a hand job?”

*The Rational* *Mind* 
“…Yes”

*The Groin
** “*And don’t ya think it would be a _little_ ungrateful for you to just waste Mr. Jacobin’s money? To piss all over such a generous offer?”

*The Rational Mind
*“…yes.”

​(Here The Groin blows a cloud of green smoke into The Rational Mind’s face. A _very_ disrespectful gesture)

*The Groin
“*Then we got nothin’ more to talk about. Lie down, shut up, and let the nice lady do her thing.”

​(The Rational Mind is pretty upset after leaving The Groin’s office, but he finds comfort in thinking about the future. He knows that, after Orgasm, he’ll be the boss again–at least for a little while…)

So now, back in the physical world, a new question presents itself: how do I get this monster to jerk me off?

What I _don’t _want is even the faintest trace of romance. God forbid Olga bounds back in here wearing bra and panties, and Satan forbid she tries to kiss me.

I sit up on the edge of the bed, work my underwear off, add them to the pile of clothes on the floor. There. That should give Olga the right idea.

…but also not great would be more time with her shitty massage. She may come back in, _love_ that I’ve cut the BS and gotten naked, but still want to Do Things Right, as it were. To build up to the hand job with a long and sensual neck rub or something.

I don’t want this happening either.

The solution I dream up: _don’t lie back down_. Stay sitting. Maintain the edge-of-the-bed-spread-leg-perch at all costs.

The idea here is to make myself a difficult target for any conventional massage techniques. Take Olga out of her element. The secondary benefit, of course, is that it will probably help corral her towards my cock, like a kind of confused farm animal.

Also–and this is just for the sake of flash–I post both palms on the table behind me and hit a nice tricep flex. Tighten up the abs a bit, too. While doing this, one last thought occurs to me–an extreme thought. I look down at my package, lying there limp between my legs.

Olga, back, comes shuffling through the door. “Okeih,” she says, sounding pleased with herself, and toting some kind of bottle. “I bring-a you a–”

Catching sight of me brings her to silence.

In my pre-arranged position, and perfectly illuminated by the light of the hallway, I am (1) grinning like the Cheshire Cat, (2) flexing every muscle in my body, and (3) stroking my now semi-hard cock.

Olga begins shrieking.

“Wait…what? No!” I hop to the floor, hands held up in a gesture of peace.

But Olga is in full retreat. She's still howling, and fumbling and feeling blindly behind herself for the door. Too fearful of me to risk turning her back. 
By the time I locate my underwear, Olga is gone, and the damage has been done.

For quite some time, the terrified chant of “Clothes! Please! Clothes!” can be heard ringing through the halls of Massage et Russia.



“Well, that was fantastic,” I’m saying to Jacobin on the way home. “Just _fantastic. _Some perfectly nice Russian woman trying to run an honest business, and I just stroll in and expose myself to her.”

Jacobin, too, discovered that the staff of Massage et Russia did not in fact offer Happy Endings–that the employees were, in all likelihood, not even familiar with the concept. But being more conservative in his approach, he managed to avoid a scene comparable to mine.

“I’m sorry man,” says Jacobin. “I don’t know what to say–Vinny told me that place was the real deal. A bad tip, I guess.”

“A bad tip? I could be in a fucking jail cell right now!”

“Jail?” Jacobin chuckles. “For what?”

“I don’t know–for indecent exposure?” flailing my hands. “For attempted rape? She could’ve gotten that idea, man–I was very…_poised_.”

 “Yeah–why _were_ you doing that stuff?” says Jacobin. “I told you–you just have to let the girls do their thing.”

I frown darkly. “_Girls_? We’re throwing around the word_ girl_ to describe Olga now?”

“She wasn’t _that_ bad.”

This comment has me stuttering. It is so outrageous, so vulnerable to attack that I can hardly isolate a point from which to start.

“Anyway–forget about tonight,” Jacobin continues. “We _can_ make up for this. We’ll do some research, some scouting–our perfect yank parlor is out there somewhere, man.”

He looks over to me, hoping for enthusiasm, but not finding any. While I can't be sure–I never can be about these things–I have a strong hunch that that was my last attempt at any of these parlors, that my Happy Endings saga, however unsuccessful, has already come to an end.


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## Mudgeon Ramblings

I could only skim after Olga's description but you're writing looks A-OK. Do not attempt this again without  help. You will likely get burned 20 times minimum before you learn half the ropes.


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## DannyMullen

Hahah oh, I got burned bad. If only I had that advice earlier...


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## dither

Living 'nd learning eh?


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## DannyMullen

Haha is there any other way?


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## DannyMullen

Does anybody else have an opinion on this piece? On what parts are interesting/not interesting, funny/not funny (assuming you aren't revolted by whole thing). I respect the members of this site and would love to get some more feedback.


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## Lucydity

I  like some of the descriptions you use for Olga "_19th century potato farmer's wife"_ 

Was fun to read and i enjoyed it.


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## Mudgeon Ramblings

from experience 90% of women over 40 will hate this just based on the topic alone. They make up 70% of the population here so you're not likely to get a lot of feedback on this imo.  All numbers guesstimated by me.


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## DannyMullen

Haha I think you're probably spot on. Oh well.


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