I was dodging the traffic when I nearly bumped into her, or perhaps she just skilfully scooped me up from the throng of visitors preoccupied with avoiding being run over by one of the thousands of motorbikes, scooters, buses, taxis, and cars that are omnipresent on Ho Chi Minh City’s filthy streets.
She was holding a leaflet and the beautifully manicured finger on her left hand was pointing at Full Body Massage. “Herro sir,” she chirruped. “You want full body massage?” She was nodding. “200,000 Dong,” less than $9 US.
As it happened, I was on my way to a massage parlour around the corner where I’d been mercilessly assaulted a few days beforehand, for 800,000 Vietnamese Dong. I looked at her. She had long brown hair, bright dark eyes, a broad flat nose, thick, full red lips, and a gorgeous white beaded, strapless mini-dress that fit her like a glove. “Yes, sure” I said, noticing her much plainer friend sitting beside her, and a pile of flip-flops by the front step of the massage parlour.
Massage is common in Soutrh East Asian countries. I’d been in Kuala Lumpur where you can see massage menus displayed outside the spa in many hotels, often listing massage with a “Happy Ending” as a premium option. I’d had three massages in Vietnam. The two in parlours were professional, and both right up there in terms of quality. The third was a disaster, involving a sauna, a soapy bath, and a masseuse puzzled by the absence of any erection. With no common language I thanked her profusely—how does one mime “You’re lovely for sure, but I honestly only came in for a massage.” This in a four star hotel.
Anyway, back to Foong—we’d managed to exchange first names. She was from the Ho Chi Minh City, I was “Engrish.” She took me up two flights of stairs, all the while gazing back at me, smiling, and laughing. I think she thought I looked funny. She led me into a tiny room with four massage tables that were so close as to be almost touching. Curtain tracks on the ceiling allowed each table to be isolated. She laid a bamboo tray on one of them and pointing at it said to me “You put thing.”
She continued to smile and laugh as I began to undress. I prefer to be naked for massage, but I didn’t want to give her the wrong idea so I left my pants on and hopped onto the table, my face embedded in the hole at one end. I felt her cover me with a fresh towel, which was a promising start.
This parlour had air conditioning, rather than a fan and it was actually a bit on the cool side. She began to press on my thighs, bum, back, and shoulders through the towel. I’d had a couple of pretty intense massages in Vietnam, so I was relived she was a little more gentle. I also recognised the technique and felt pretty sure it would be a good massage. “Can I have 90 minutes?” I asked. She didn’t understand immediately but soon returned with the price list she’d shown me earlier. We agreed on 350,000 Dong for 90 minutes. Less than $15 US.
She was shorter than me and very slender. She probably weighed no more than 98 pounds, which was just as well because next she climbed onto the massage table with me and began to kneel and trample all over me. After a few minutes of this she climbed off and removed the towel. She also pulled my pants down to my thigh creases, bringing my pale bare arse into full view.
I heard the squirt of massage gel before I felt the cool of it from her hands as she quickly began to spread it all over me. It felt good. Really good. One of the things about being single, and being a solo traveller is that touch is in short supply. There might be the odd handshake, someone might grab your upper arms to gently manoeuvre you out the way. There may even be the odd hug from a friend or one of your children, but there’s never any skin-on-skin, flesh-on-flesh, sensual caress or touch, and certainly for me, that is so nourishing. It feels like a basic need. And I’m not talking about sex, I’m just talking about touch, skin to skin. It’s even better if there’s a lingering embrace. I also miss intimacy, and again I’m not talking about sex, I’m talking about private, shared experience.
Foong however was back on top of me, using her hands, knees, elbows, and feet. She was straddling me and as she reached for my neck and shoulders I could at times feel her dress and her crotch rubbing against my bum cheeks. I’d be lying if I denied it was erotic. It was and I had a sense it was intentional. Normally in this situation I would go out of my way to avoid becoming aroused, but this time I decided I would just stay present and hand myself over to the experience.
For me arousal is generally either visual or imaginative. I like to see my lover’s eyes. I want to witness her watching me looking at her, as I take in every tiny detail. Women sometimes squirm slightly under such scrutiny until they warm to the pleasure it gives me. I also like to whisper filth in my lover's ear. Nothing crude, just cheeky, hopefully playful.
Just lying there receiving is too passive for me, and although I can enjoy the attention, the touch, there’s usually little sexual charge in it for me. Foong continued to work up and down my neck, shoulders, back, and bum using lots of gel. She has a few different techniques, but with 90 minutes to fill I began to wonder if she might run out of things to do to me. Climbing off she once again covered me with the towel and repeated the pressing thing before uncovering my left leg. She began by bending my knee and punching the sole and heel of my foot then moved on to massage it, my ankle, my calf and my shin. As her hand went up the back of my thigh she encountered the scrunched up pants in the creases. “Sir!” She exclaimed and without further ado pulled them off and tossed them on the floor.
I enjoyed her certainty, her directness, and her disregard for the offending item. I let myself enjoy it, savouring each and every detail. She worked into the top of my thigh, inside of my thigh and over my left buttock. It was nice to be naked in her presence, and I felt myself opening to her. She had a cold I think, but it may just have been a reaction to all the pollution on the busy street corner where she touted for business. Either way she was sniffing. Continuously.
In Northern Europe and the West this is considered inconsiderate and mildly disgusting. In Asia it is considered normal. I was glad she was being herself and in keeping with my decision to allow things to simply be as they are, it didn’t bother me in the slightest. When she reached for my knee I realised she had lifted my leg and had spread my legs wider. I felt certain she now had my family jewels or at least a crushed rear view of them, within her gaze.
My suspicion was reinforced when she began to work further up my thigh into my groin. My God! Groin massage. It felt divine. Parts of me that had never known relaxation before began to let go. Finishing with my left leg she moved to my right where she repeated the process, including further leg spreading. I suspect no part of me was any longer concealed from her, and she went on to spend perhaps 10 minutes firmly massaging my buttocks, thighs and groin, gently grazing my penis and scrotum as she did so.
Every so often she emitted a tiny chuckle. She felt friendly, present, intimate, and close. She’d also gradually been drawing the curtain around us to increase our privacy. “Sir” she whispered in my ear. “You turn over?” I turned over and she draped the towel over me before again climbing into the far end of the massage table and laying my left leg across her lap. The room was so small that from there she could lean against the wall. After about a minute, she leaned forward to lift the towel to uncover my genitalia.
Again she chuckled and smiled as she switched her gaze from my eyes to my tackle and back again. All the while running two hands up the inside of my thigh. There was an elephant in the room that arguably had a trunk but no ears. I placed my hands behind my head so I could look at her. She was so pretty, and smiley.
She saw me looking at her, and she laughed and said something I didn’t understand. I laughed too and told her in English that given my lack of Vietnamese and her lack of English this was likely to be a short conversation.
“No speak Engrish,” she shrugged and continued to laugh in a slightly coy way. She worked on my foot for a while then up my leg until once again she hit my groin and then using two hands on my groin began to graze my genitals, at one point stroking my cock and balls. Pointing to my dick she laughed and said “Sleeping. Him sleeping.”
True, my dick was sleeping, but the rest of me was wide awake and very aroused. I sat up. Her legs were spread and her minidress had ridden up to reveal a crotch covered with pale blue cotton briefs with little red flowers on them. I looked at her. She looked at me. I looked at her lovely, feminine underwear. She gazed at my cock looking for signs of life. I told her I thought she was so pretty. She didn’t understand, but she was aware she had my undivided attention.
Eventually I reached between her legs and ran my fingertips across the taught cotton covering her vulva. “What about her” I asked? “Is she sleeping?” She looked puzzled. I began to manipulate my flaccid dick, whilst drinking her in with my eyes. She wasn’t young, perhaps late 30s early 40s, but she was gorgeous. She spoke to me in Vietnamese again, “Give me a moment I said. He won’t be sleepy for long.”
She climbed off the massage table and returned with her phone. After stabbing the screen a few times she presented it to me to look at. On the screen was the number 1,000,000. I looked at her. Making a fist she swung her free hand slowly back and forth and nodded at my by now semi-erect member. “You want?” she said smiling warmly once again. I met her gaze. God she was beautiful and sexy. She tapped the screen. “One million” she pointed between my thighs and simulated wanking me once again.
One million Dong is around $43 US. In truth it sounded like a lot of money for something I could do myself for free, but this was a seller’s market, and she was here. Now. Having given me the most erotic massage I’ve ever had, offering a hand job while looking so good and spreading her legs to show me her pants. I would have paid two possibly three times as much.
“Yes” I agreed my hard-on now fully erect. She pressed my chest to indicate I should lie down. “No”, I told her. “I want to look.” Again she was puzzled and reaching for her phone opened some kind of speech to text App that would also translate anything I said. I spoke into it. “I want to look at you.” It felt odd saying this to a phone.
She read the translation and again began to laugh shaking her head slowly from side to side in mild disbelief. She put the phone down and grabbed my cock and balls in her oily hands and began stroking me. We were sitting face to face. I was trembling with excitement. I couldn’t help myself. I reached between her thighs and worked my index finger into the leg of her pants to I could stroke her soft, hairy pussy with the back of my finger. She didn’t flinch and continued to smile warmly at me.
I felt like a teenager, and just like a teenager, in no time at all I came. All over her foot. Given my initial reluctance, she was surprised by my haste, and reached for a towel to begin to clean up, all the while laughing. She smacked my thigh admonishingly. And she was right to do this. If I had laid back as she’d asked me to I could have come over her hand, but mainly over myself. Not over her foot! Oi Joi Oi! As the Vietnamese say—OMG!
I climbed off the table apologising for the mess I’d made, but she brushed me off, and grabbed towels from the adjacent table to set ours up again and made it clear that we weren’t finished. I was surprised. Typical guy, huh? I’ve come so we must be finished. I followed her instructions. She made sure I was wiped down and climbed onto the table beside me to hug me and kiss my cheeks. I wasn’t expecting this. So much affection.
I had no sense from her at all that I’d taken anything from her. The hand Job was a natural extension of the massage and she’d earned five times as much as her original offer from it. It felt fair. Our hugging and kissing was accompanied by much laughter. The ludicrousness of it all. Two strangers, one naked, one clothed, the tiny room, one ejaculating over the other's foot!
After a few minutes she climbed off and after massaging my arms, face and head for 10 or 15 minutes she announced “Finnis!”. I climbed off and began hunting for my pants. She wondered what I was looking for. I mimed adjusting a waistband while bending and straightening my knees. “You took them off!” I told her. That seemed to jog her memory and after looking around she swept them off the floor and passed them to me.
Fully dressed I gave her 1,000,000 Dong saying “That’s for you” and a further 400,000 Dong for the massage.
She handed a 50,000 Dong note back to me.
“No. That’s for you too,” I told her.
Again she embraced me. “Sank-you,” she said.
I led the way downstairs, and retrieving my socks and shoes from the doorstep put them back on. It was raining. Foong was still with me. A mother with a small child had joined her friend. They sat on low stools while the mother bounced the little boy and sang him a song. Foong passed the 400,000 to an austere looking man sitting in a red plastic chair. He took it without speaking and handed her 50,000 Dong, the tip. I wondered if he was her husband, boyfriend, or pimp. I think he was the business owner.
This spa offered footbaths and facials as well as all the massages. I never saw the million Dong again. My hope is that a Foong got all of that. I turned to say goodbye to her. Speaking in Vietnamese she held her hand out, looked at the sky then at me with a questioning gaze? She was inviting me to wait until the rain passed. I felt welcome, but the rain wasn’t heavy and I wanted to go and grab a beer from the bar on the corner. “It’s fine,” I said. “I’m not going far.” And with that, bade them all goodbye.
Later that evening as I headed out to dinner, I passed the parlour once again. In the midst of the heat, the noise, the chaos of the traffic, I heard a familiar small voice.
I turned to see Foong smiling and waving frantically at me. I smiled and waved frantically back. I know nothing about her but her name, the name of the city she comes from, and perhaps still lives in, where she works and that she’s a masseuse. I’m a tourist, a Cultural Tourist, our guide called me to differentiate me from the other kind of tourist—a Sex Tourist.
I came to Vietnam to visit my son who lives and works here, and decided to take a tour to meet people and see the country. I didn’t come to Vietnam to buy sex. That wasn’t, and isn’t, my primary aim. When I first went to Kuala Lumpur my Malaysian boss in the UK told me a massage with a happy ending was not to be missed, and when I met the Australian CEO of the company, he passed me a piece of paper on which he’d written the name of two areas of KL where I could enjoy “Entertainment of a more adult nature,” as he put it.
Just because such things are common, doesn't necessarily make them right though, does it? I'm aware Foong and I come from very different parts of the world, and our life opportunities are likely to be worlds apart, but what do I know? Did I exploit Foong? Did she exploit me? Or was it just a transaction that has taken place between women and men for a very long time?
The average wage in Vietnam is $148 US. Foong offered me the sexual service within the context of my massage. I didn't solicit it, but in the moment I bought it and she earned $45 US for my Happy Ending. No surprise then perhaps that she was waving enthusiastically at me later that day. I'm not young, but I'm clean, not repulsive. I paid handsomely without quibbling and took no time at all. It didn’t feel tacky, it felt natural.
I do regret cumming on her foot though. It was remiss of me.