Story Codes:  MF, Consensual,  Exhibitionism,

by Mark Howard

“Marry me” the text message on my phone said.  It might have been a good idea, if I wasn’t on my third
marriage and had two teenaged kids, a house with a 20 year mortgage and credit cards stretched to
their limit. And, if I was younger than the 60 years old I am or still able to clip my cracked toe nails
without bending over in pain.

I had already sent Miki thousands of dollars. Whenever she called or texted to say she needed
money, I gave it to her. She usually ignored the countless times I told her I was broke. But I couldn’t
say no for long and she knew it. Now, the short Asian woman I met at a massage parlor for a quick
fuck six years ago said she wanted to get married.

I found the aptly named Heavenly Exit online. I had long accepted massage parlors and escorts as my
true sexual home. I have no direct magnet of handsomeness. I can get some women to glance my
way, and I have been married twice before to fairly good looking women. But I’ve never been the
seducer I dreamed about. Paying for sex has been easier, simpler. It’s been my way from the first time
I got fucked, with a silver toothed Mexican prostitute in an Arizona whorehouse.  

I stopped at HE as it was called, on my way home, leaving early from my nearby place of work as a
writer for XYZ business news.  The lies we tell to sell Wall Street to Main Street. That’s the real

That first time there, I got Candy, a big boned woman with brown hair and green eyes and a brutish
body of sun tanned skin and animal tattoos. Her breasts were plump, round and easily grabbed. She
was efficiently cordial and easily spread her legs for the $250 I offered. She quickly dressed after
wiping off the leftovers of our meeting.  “Thank you and do come again,” she said without irony.

I went back the following week and left to another “come again” farewell.

The third time, Miki was at the front desk. She said Candy was not there. I didn’t want to try a new girl
and risk not getting fucked. I’d learned that I might have to come back a few times before a girl feels
like putting out for a new customer. Some are like that. Some, like Candy, are not.

I walked out into the August summer sun and headed to my car parked around the corner from a
building that was home to Heavenly Exit as well as to a karate school, a Chinese take-out and a liquor
store that offered free pickles with every purchase of a bottle of red wine.

But I turned around and went back.  Why not try the woman with jet black hair and rosy cheeks and
almond eyes? Her large breasts poked through the light colored blouse. At least if I got hold of those
breasts I might feel better. I had long lost interest in my wife. We hadn’t had sex in three years.  Our
good days were behind us. There would be none ahead. The insults swallowed in the beginning
became vomit. I couldn’t keep it down any longer. The problems people have at the beginning are the
ones that are still there at the end.

“Are you available?” I asked.

“Yes,” Miki said.

The rooms were down a thinly carpeted hallway that smelled of foot powder and lavender. The walls
inside were bare and painted white. A single floor lamp held a red light bulb that threw maroon
shadows on the ceiling. The massage table covered in thin white sheets had an opening to put your
face in.  A radio station played 70’s music—Fleetwood Mac, Paul McCartney --through a floor speaker
in the corner. A chipped maple wood table in the other corner held bottles of oils, towels and a
fragrance candle of Sandalwood.

“Are you police?” Miki asked a question in her Asian accent.


“What’s your name?

“James.  What’s yours?”


“Where you from?”

“I born in Hawaii but my family came from South Korea.”

“You’re very beautiful.”

“Thank you. You handsome. I like bald men. You have a good body, not fat. And you tall.”

“You get undressed,” she said as she left the room. I was naked after taking off my blue shirt and
khaki slacks and lying on the table when she came back just minutes later with a long white towel and
red flannel bathrobe.

She placed the towel and bathrobe on a nearby chair. She moved her arms up and began to unbutton
her blouse. Each movement of her hands revealed the soft skin of her breasts nestled in a black silk
bra. She then unleashed the button of her jeans, pulled down the zipper and put her hands on her
hips and pushed the blue cotton pants toward her feet. Her hips swayed from side to side as she
forced the jeans off her pear shaped hips. She revealed a triangle of blackish small curls.  She kicked
off her white pumps that held tiny feet and toe nails covered in purple and pulled off her pant legs one
at a time and dropped them on the floor.

Wrapping her arms toward her back she let loose the bra and her large breasts were set free. She
moved forward and got on the table over me.

Her jet black hair fell over her slumped shoulders.  She rolled her hands over my dick and then placed
her breasts on me. My hardness was immediate. Then she licked me. With each stroke of her tongue I
came without coming. Her face revealed a devil as she went up and down. She stared at me. I stared
at her.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. I didn’t want to say it but I did. I couldn’t hold back. I couldn’t wait. I might have tried to lick
her pussy like I normally do to keep from coming.  But I couldn’t hold it.

She took out a condom from her rumpled jeans and gently pushed it down my erection. She stretched
her short figure out on the table and grabbed me toward her. I stared at her breasts.  I smelled the
sweet lilac perfume.

She took my cock inside with her small hands. She was tight and warm.  We rocked each other back
and forth. “Fuck that pussy,” she said. “Fuck it.” With that, there was no time to stop. There was no
time to say “Wait, I don’t want to come yet.”

It was all feeling. It was all body. It was all soul. It was white skin against Asian yellow. It was blue eyes
staring at black. It was no hair and a shiny head swept over by tufts of dark mane.

The explosion was complete. I fell on top of her and she put her arms around my neck. My lips
touched hers, she touched mine.  It was their first rendezvous. We struggled to breathe on top of each
other, first going in different directions, but slowly melting into one another until our inhales and
exhales were mirrors of one another. We were breathing together.  Our breaths having their own

I pulled myself up to look at her.

“Are you married?” she asked.

“Yes.”  My 14 year old wedding ring was sitting in the glove compartment of my car.

“Too bad,” she said. “All the good ones married.”

I wondered how many other she asked. I knew I wasn’t the first.  There was something sad about the

“I want to smoke,” she said getting off the table.

“We can smoke in here? I want my cigarettes too,” I answered.

“You smoke? I don’t smell it on you.”

“I don’t want to smell like an ashtray. I keep the smoking down. I do it mostly outside.”

“I’m glad you smoke,” Miki said.

I loved to smoke. I had a dream growing up as a kid that smoking cigarettes cured some Latin named
disease I had.

I loved that I could take out a slightly bulbous red tipped stick, strike it against the blue sulfur laced
strip of a match box—or even flip open a silver plated lighter—place it at the end of a white finger like
cylinder stuffed with tiny brown leaves, wrap my lips around the lightly tanned tip and slowly suck the
heated pale whiffs of air as they curved their way down my throat and into my waiting lungs, and then
lazily push the ghost like fumes out of my mouth until there was no more air in my chest.    

Sitting on the table next to Miki, I felt drugged.  She was injected into me.  Her needle was still in my
arm. I felt her pushing through me as we dragged on our cigarettes. We smoked one then two

“I have to go,” I said. I did have to pretend I liked my wife, daughter and son. Dinner would be in 30
minutes. I would lie through my teeth if I had to, denying where I had been.

“You come back?” Miki asked.

“Yes, I will.”

I got dressed and gave her all the cash in my wallet--three hundred dollars. She wrapped herself in
the robe. I kissed her on the lips, something Candy and countless others wouldn’t do. Miki did.

I saw Miki once a week. Then it was twice a week and then three times a week. I was giving her all the
money I could, even cashing in stocks I had inherited when my father died. I got hard when I gave her
money.  It was a turn on. I felt the power to make someone like me.

We kept fucking. We fucked in the massage parlor room, we fucked in the basement of the place
when I was short of cash that day, and she sucked me off in my car before I took her to the train
station on her way home to New York City.

One day, I can’t remember when, but the words ‘I love you’ flowed from our lips. We were coming
together. I meant it. She meant it. Was she the final woman for me? It felt that way. I wanted her to
take me away from my family. She wanted me to take her away from Heavenly Exit.  She seemed to
know me better than myself.

“You have money for an extra girl?” she once asked.

“Yes, why?”

“I bring in a girl with us. I know you want to. Her name is Anna. But you can’t touch her breasts or I will
get jealous.”

“No I won’t.” How did she know I wanted this? She read my sexual mind.

I sucked the breasts of a dark haired Latina who stood over us and rubbed my back as I pushed
myself in and out of Miki on the table.

“You look so hot on top of each other. Fuck her. Fuck Miki,” Anna said.

My mouth easily moved to Anna’s exposed chest. She had removed her pink blouse and white bra. I
came in Miki and sucked on Anna.

“Bye guys. That was fun,” Anna said as she left the room.

“You sucked her! I told you no,” said Miki.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” But I did mean it.  We did a threesome once more.  Her name was Storm.  I
didn’t suck her breasts.

As often as I saw Miki, I managed to get home clean and seemingly free of my crime. I kept giving her
money. She needed money for her phone bill, a doctor’s  appointment,  her mother and seven year
old son back in Hawaii. We kept fucking. I kept paying.

But it all quickly changed. Miki got busted by the local police at Heavenly Exit. She and the manager
were picked up by police. The johns were let go.

Miki’s picture was in the local newspaper. “Forty-two year old Asian woman arrested for prostitution at
local massage parlor,” the caption said. I guess when she asked the customer if he was a cop, the
answer came back yes.

I did not get the details on the arrest. Miki’s accent always got in the way when we talked. I could never
quite understand her on the phone or in person.

“My accent is hard for you?” she asked one time.

“No, it’s fine.”

I became a mimic. She laughed, I laughed. She cussed, I cussed. She talked, I said “yeah, yeah,
really?” I talked, she said “yes, yes baby.” I asked a question, she said that’s not what she said.

Miki went to court but her lawyer got the charge reduced and she would be on probation for two years.

This started her vagabond life and constant cries for money. She couldn’t work in New Jersey
anymore because of her arrest. She followed a circuit of Asian massage parlors from Florida to
Virginia to Ohio, to California to Washington and back again.  She had no place to live other than the
massage parlors she worked in.

“I miss you.” “Call me, I need money. Can you send?” “Luv U baby!” “Call me. I will text you my friend’s
bank account to send me money.” “Did you send money?” I need bus fare to Phoenix. Can you send?”

I owe $12,400 on my credit card.  If I just pay the minimum monthly of $318 it will take me 31 years to
pay it off and cost me $30,904 in total.

Somehow I can’t say no to Miki. I do say no, to myself and occasionally to her. But in the end I send
her something.

I saw Miki last week. She came to New York from Cleveland. I put her up in a cheap motel in Queens.

“You’re not leaving your wife,” she asked after we fucked. (“Don’t look at the blood. I have my period”)

“I can’t afford it,” I replied. “My wife lost her job as a teacher and my daughter starts college in three
months. I’m broke baby.”

Miki looked older than her 43 years. She looked tired. She gained weight. Her wrist was swollen and
she threw out a tendon in her knee. She had lost a tooth.

We went to eat at a Korean restaurant. I could barely get the food down.  Some sort of fatty beef dish
she ordered for me. Miki played a Korean game on the new iPhone I bought her. There was no
talking.  I was anxious to leave.

She said she needed money to send a package to her family, she needed money for her tooth, she
needed money for the bus fare to get here.

We went back to the motel.

“You go to other parlors?” she asked.

“Oh, just to get a hand job or two. I can’t afford much more.”

I never asked Miki if she fucked other men. That was her job if they had the money. I knew she did.

“Thank you baby. I sleep now. I love you,” she says after getting $500.

“Yes baby, anything you want.”

I didn’t call Miki for two weeks.  Finally, I sent her a text.

“Sorry baby, been busy,” it said.

“Call me now,” she replied.

“Okay baby. How much money do you need?”

“I tell you. Call me now.”

Copyright© 2013 Mark Howard

Mark Howard is a long time TV and web journalist who occasionally writes memoir and short story
pieces for publication.  He is a long time fan of works by Henry Miller, Anias Nin, Walt Whitman,
Camus, Rimbaud, Rabelais and other writers who push the boundaries of art and life.

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