The Four Handed Massage Is A Slippery Slope

This is the post that will keep me from one day becoming an elected official. My reputation is about to be cached forever.

Four hand massages are popular in Bali, so I thought that I would take one for a spin. I booked with a spa and housed some seriously tasty sushi on the way to my appointment (I don't know what a butterfish is but man, it tastes like it breathes Land O Lakes through its gills).

I made it to my appontment early and was led right to a dkand cool massage room - my skin was happy just to feel air below 70 degrees. My guys walked in, both Balinese. The dudes here all seem to have this slender-but-not ripped thing going on. You'd be more likely to see Jesus than a Balinese muscle queen.

I was asked to undress, which is when I became a bit shy and slowly took off my clothes. I am this way for all massages. Had I known that I would have two fingers up my ass in ten minutes...well...there would be no point in acting like a nun if I saw that one coming.

Ding and Dong set to work as soon as I was facedown on the table. They split my body up, each working on a different half. In the case of Ding, this came in the form of some intense backwork. In the case of Dong, this included anal exploration, testicular fondling and the occasional reach-around. A finger seemed to be fraternizing with my nether-regions every time I would recover from a knot being pushed out of a shoulder.

It should be said that I hadn't gotten laid in over a month. It should be said that I knew that this was one of Those Places. It should be said that I never anticipated anything this hardcore. Ever.

"Why didn't you ask them to stop?", you ask. Well, my reader, why don't you shut the fuck up? Because until you are bing probed like an alien abductee, you can't have any concept of your vulnerability. It is now my belief that all balinese massage therapists are trained on spaceships by creatures with big eyes and massive fingers. ET is way more into your colon than he is Reese's Pieces.

There was a constant shift between pain (long deep elbow rubs) and pleasure (shaft manipulation). This went on for about thirty minutes. Until it hit me.

Sushi had, of course, been a terrible mistake. Nothing makes me crap faster than a dynamite roll. I had to stop this assplay before somebody got hurt, or at least left smelling like half-digested edamame. And so, The Battle For My Anus began.

The fingers would go up my legs and I would clench. At first, Dong thought he had not oiled his hands enough, pouring another quart over his fingers to be sure. This man was not going to be happy until he mainlined my intestines. He began to play tricks, rubbing my ankles then possibly levitating over me for a quick jab. I remained as vigilant as George Bush on 9/12. My ass would not be pried and the terrorists would not win. Eventually Ding and Dong concentrated on my arms, which left my taint blissfully untouched.

I finally relaxed and eased into the massage. My thoughts started to wander, the way they always do during a good rubdown. The part of the brain that keeps me from taking a dump went back on autofunction, thankfully.

Then, things moved to the fingers. My hands are roving hands by nature. Sleepovers almost always evolve into pre-dawn fumblings because I cannot control my handjob gene, even while sleeping. So when my hands were moved into Ding and Dong's crotches, well, you can do the math. They both had boners in nanoseconds. I'd flipped over by now and was pitching a tent, minus any fabric. They took notice and each lended an oiled hand.
I was finally having a Bel Ami moment.

You would think that the next minutes were earth-shattering. Perhaps you have fantasized about how this goes. How electric the air would get, this sinful event. How it would build and break, a riptide breaking through your insides. Let me give it to you straight.

I came in about nine seconds.

I don't see how anyone could hold out longer, unless you are one of those annoying people that can't cum unless _______ (insert your issue here. You are the people I dump on date three, by the way). It had been suggested for so many minutes and my boys had been sufficiently riled - there was no way my sperm were hanging out. They were well ready for trapeze life, backflipping to their death all over Dong's arm.

The walk of shame has nothing on the post-orgasm massage. Ding rubs his hands through my hair in an attempt to make me feel like nothing has happened. But something has, and we both know it. It involves my children being splattered all over his partner. I have been DingDonged.

I count the seconds until we are finished, both of them slinking out. I pay and spot them each a 200 rupee tip, not sure of protocol (and fearful that they will send the aliens after me). I walk back to my hotel less satisfied than with any massage I've ever had. However, my oiled backside allows for poop to Nascar out of me with incredible speed and grace. Maybe I should re-think the concept of fisting...