Southeast Asia. I know where I am. I know that sex tourism is a thing. I know that the possibilities for the type of man pampering such as the one pictured above are practically endless and readily available and cheap. Because I am not naive, and also because I have Google with SafeSearch turned off. And I know that if I indulged in the level of man pamper that the chap in the photo’s indulging in I’d lose not only readers (if I still have any of those), but also my wife who still loves me. I also know that decent red wine costs a relative fortune here and that the cost of the indulgence in red wine and cigars illustrated above probably far exceeds the cost of the two party girls who are about to hop in that tub with that chap any second now and that despite the fact that the cost of living here is way less than in the States we’re still on a budget, which this level of man pampering would blow completely, and that level of budget blowing wouldn’t help with the whole wife who still loves me leaving me situation.
No. The level of man pamper I enjoy in country looks more like this:
Not that I judge. Not at all. In terms of what people do in their personal lives, I’m about as libertarian as they come. Enjoy. That’s the point. And the morality? Fuck the morality. From what I’ve seen, people pretty much do what they want to do. My basic idea is that the people who get involved in sex work do so largely because that’s the kind of work that they choose based on their options. They make their choices in the same way that folks who choose to do the work of digging ditches and putting roofs on houses and waiting tables in diners and other important jobs that your more uptown types tend to not want to do because they have more appealing options choose what they do.
“But what about coercion?” you ask.
I think George Smiley’s errant wife Ann nailed it when she points out that coercion is just another word for doing what you want (Carre, John le, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy). Of course, I’m not talking about sex trafficking, which is so obviously bad that I think it should be obvious that that’s not what I’m talking about. Besides, relative to the number of people who get into sex work of their own volition, the number who are trafficked against their will is miniscule. Because with so many women (mostly) in the world who choose to engage in sex work or transactional sex or survival sex of their own volition based on their options, sex trafficking is just way less common, particularly in places where the sort of wildly free market street economy allows for relatively easy access to commercial sex compared to places where it’s illegal and taboo and therefore expensive and exists on the black market. None of this is to say that if you look at the sex trafficking numbers on their own they don’t look, frankly, terrible. They do. I’m just trying to take into account the larger context.
These are just my impressions, which I think are worth considering. On your own as opposed to in the comments section, which is turned off for reasons. But the real point of all this business about sex tourism, etc., is to assure you, gentle reader who I’d lay money is not even close to as liberal sex-wise as I am, though, of course, I could be wrong, that this post on man pampering will stay solidly in the PG-13 to R-Rated realm of man pampering possibilities here in Southeast Asia. And where it does veer into R-Rated territory, you can rest assured that this territory will more closely resemble the sort of R-Rated content of, say, Stripes than the far more shocking type of content that earned The Crying Game an R rating, which will be saved for Thailand.
You did know, didn’t you?
My appreciation of man pampering goes back a long way, probably longer than I can remember at the moment. But from what I do remember, my first real hardcore man pampering experience came when I was in the 8th grade, when a blonde girl whose name was Jennifer, I’m sure, and not just because all the girls were named Jennifer back then, wanted to practice to be a nail technician because I went to the kinds of schools where the girls didn’t have lots of posh and high-paying job options to choose from, and so she wanted to practice on me. Plus, whatever class we were in that period wasn’t very interesting. I was, by about the middle of 8th grade, squarely in the mid-90s alt-rock camp and the Smashing Pumpkins were my favorite band and so I didn’t mind having my nails did so long as she painted them black.
It wasn’t the fact of having my nails painted that appealed to me, and not just because Jennifer really did need to practice and didn’t show a lot of promise as a budding nail technician. No, it was the attention that really rang my cherries. Because everyone craves and enjoys attention. Without it, human babies die. And I imagine the lack of this sort of attention is pretty terrible for incels and the elderly and disabled people and socially awkward people and people who look pretty unfortunate looks-wise and people who otherwise don’t have the sort of social capital that will get them attention from the people they’d like to have attention from. And although I am not one of those people, I recognize the need for attention and as one of the few extremely fortunate people on this planet who can get that kind of attention pretty much on demand and still be relatively well adjusted, I take advantage of this privilege as frequently as I reasonably can. It’s a moral imperative.
The first time I experienced truly next-level man pampering attention was when I had my first professional massage. This was in a lady’s apartment whose name I don’t remember but which very well could also have been Jennifer, who lived in Riverside Apartments in Tampa on the east side of the river just north of MLK, which a shocking number of people in Tampa still called Buffalo when I was younger. I remember the name of the apartment complex because this is where I rented my first apartment just about as soon as I could when I turned 18, which at $375 per month was just about as reasonable cost of living-wise as the housing in Vietnam. When I paid the massage lady, who I’d met while working as a stock boy at the health food store on MacDill in Tampa, I said, “I could get a massage every day.”
“Nobody can afford a massage every day,” she laughed.
And I was all like, Oh, yeah? Because I am ambitious. I have goals in life. Plus, I already knew who Matthew McConaughey was from Dazed and Confused and I’m pretty sure that guy gets a massage every day and I wanted to be just like him. So I took the lady’s comment as a challenge. And now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure the foxy and probably only like five or six years older than me massage lady was probably into me because she gave me more like a two-hour massage instead of the 45 minutes I paid for, and I should have gone back for more massages, maybe even every day just to prove her wrong. But at 16 I hadn’t yet developed the worldliness and sophistication I have today and I was still pretty shy and probably nervous about the whole situation and also probably pretty embarrassed because I’m sure that during the two hours of pretty direct and hands-on attention from this lady I got an erection at some point and didn’t know that this was perfectly normal and happens all the time during massages and which certainly didn’t phase the massage lady one bit.
If I were the MPA, I’d rate the previous section PG-13 for the sort of light coming-of-age comedy sexual references you find in, say, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, rather than those in American Pie, which despite receiving an R rating is really a charming film that I would argue on Common Sense Media is still perfectly fine for a little Friday evening family movie night with adult supervision viewing.
But then I sort of forgot about the really satisfying and pleasurable attention of a professional massage for the next ten years. During this time I enjoyed massages, of course, but these were the sort of mutual massages you get from chicks who are into you or sometimes from chicks and dudes at the same time because it’s the late 90s and you’re on ecstasy at a party because, well, it’s the late 90s and the club mix of “I Do Both Jay and Jane” was on the hi-fi and times were different.
Point is, I didn’t really get to have the sort of focused attention and care you get from a professional massage until I moved to Brooklyn in my late 20s and my life was blown wide open possibility-wise and I went with Jessica, who was my roommate at the time, to the Asian massage place on 5th Ave in Bay Ridge for a massage because the massages at the Asian spots in NYC are like $40 an hour and the massages are really quite good. Since then I’ve been on a mission to find the massage places that provide the perfect balance of affordability and relaxation and attention without being shady and which I could recommend to friends and family and my wife who still loves me without their opinion of me taking a serious hit.
For years in Brooklyn, this perfect balance was to be found at Kiki Massage, which was owned and run by Kiki, who was kind and gentle and supremely attentive and who never massaged your legs with such force that you struggled to walk the next day, which is surprisingly common on the NYC Asian massage parlor scene, and who never engaged so far as I know in any extra-curricular activities massage-wise, but whose place shut down around the same time they busted all the Asian massage parlors in Bay Ridge anyway. Kiki’s place wasn’t busted, by the way. I think she probably shut it down out of fear. Because it turned out that none of the places that were shut down by LE were done so because of sex trafficking or prostitution or any other shady-spa stuff, which is also known as the free and equal exchange-type exploitation that turns the wheels of any capitalist economy. They were busted, so far as I know, because of anti-Asian discrimination that is abetted by workers compensation and similar red-tape-type requirements that none of these places could afford because who can lay out for that kind of juice on $40 massages after paying NYC rent and taxes? It’s extortionate.
Background covered, we can now move on to the subject of this report: man pampering in Hanoi, which so far is the only place in Southeast Asia where I’ve been man pampered. In my field research for this report, which my wife who still loves me would say has been extensive, but which I would insist hasn’t even begun to scratch the surface, I’ve visited three types of massage places. None of these, I hasten to remind you, were like the one that the chap in the photo above apparently enjoys. There were no bubble baths, which is a shame really, because I do like a nice bath and our apartment in Hanoi only has a shower. There was no red wine or cigars or other budget-blowing consumable luxuries. And the massage therapists at the places I reconned were definitely not in the same sort of man pampering business as I imagine the girls in the photo are in. The massage places I’ve been man pampered in are of three kinds: the rough and ready massage, the basic cheap massage joint you get waved into by the foxy lady whose job it is to wave you into the massage joint and who doesn’t give massages ever, and the truly posh level massage places where they don’t wave you in and where they give you tea and biscuits and a really soft robe to wear while you wait.
Gina chose the rough and ready place. My idea was to go to a place called, no kidding, Spa for Men Young and Beautiful Therapist, which I thoroughly vetted by reading the reviews that gave every impression that although the massage girls were indeed young and beautiful and enthusiastic and attentive therapists, this was not the sort of place I imagine the place pictured above definitely is. But as we approached Spa for Men Young and Beautiful Therapist, a young and beautiful therapist hailed us from where we were on the street because the sidewalks in country are too packed with street food vendors and motorbikes to walk on:
“You want massagee?”
To which invitation Gina didn’t hesitate to say no and so we kept walking and I got my first massage in country at the next place, which was way more rough and ready than Spa for Men Young and Beautiful Therapist.
The careful reader would be forgiven for assuming that Gina got a whiff of the sort of free and equal exchange happening in Spa for Men Young and Beautiful Therapist that she’s uncomfortable with and so determined that it was a no-go. That’s what I thought. And so we moved on to the next place where the lady who turned out to be an enthusiastic and attentive therapist and who I’d have to be a lot older to consider young gave us “a welcoming wave,” which is how Gina put it. And so that’s where I went. The therapist told Gina, “You go away now,” as she led me inside for an hour of man pampering while Gina walked around in search of a cute bag that was small but which could still hold both of our Kindles. She found one too. And the bag has the extra appeal of being a traditional-style Vietnamese bag that’s made by local craftspeople who work in a sweatshop just outside of Hanoi.
So here’s the deal with what I’m calling the rough and ready massage places: The pampering is minimal. It’s about the least amount of pamper a place can provide and still qualify as pampering. There is no tea or biscuits or cozy robes to wear. You will be asked to take off all of your clothes right there and your nakedness will be visible not only to everyone in and just outside of the place, but also to the keen-eyed passersby in the street who are really quite a ways off because the rough and ready spa is always in an alley. You will lay down on the piece of plywood on stilts that serves as a massage table on a sheet behind where in less rough and ready places they’d have drawn a curtain but where in the rough and ready places curtain drawing is optional. You will be given an enthusiastic and attentive massage by a by-no-means young, which is not to say unbeautiful, massage therapist who’s probably eyeing you up for possible premium marriage to her daughter and so wants to do her due diligence suitor-for-young-and-beautiful-daughter-wise and so maybe isn’t too concerned that the sheet always covers your man bits 100% all the time. And the massage will be really very, very good.
It’s worth pointing out here that the assumption that Gina smelled something fishy going on at Spa for Men Young and Beautiful Therapist and that’s why I wound up at Rough and Ready Massage Spa instead is dead wrong. It turns out that the real reason she said no so quickly to the young and beautiful therapist at Spa for Men Young and Beautiful Therapist, who, by the way, also gave us a welcoming wave, was that it was twice the price as the next place down the block.
When it comes to Southeast Asian massages, you get what you pay for.
Sometimes.
For example, it turns out that the massage at Spa for Men Young and Beautiful Therapist is definitely worth paying twice as much as you pay at Rough and Ready Massage Spa. Easy. I know this because I went there the following week when Gina and I went out to explore the city alone, her to see culture and stuff and buy goods made in sweatshops and me to seek out the ever-elusive perfect balance of value and attention-that-Gina-wouldn’t-disapprove-of at the local man pampering options in country, which I think is a good habit for two people who’ve been together for a long time and who need to get out separately so they can have new stuff to tell each other about every now and then.
So here’s what level of man pampering is to be had at Spa for Men Young and Beautiful Therapist, which, if I’m honest, is just above your typical basic cheap massage joint you get waived into by the foxy lady whose job it is to wave you into the massage joint and who doesn’t give massages ever type of spas in terms of attention and effort at poshness, but which is definitely below the level of the truly posh type places. But I’m not going to add another category of massage place for Spa for Men Young and Beautiful Therapist in this post, which is already clearly too long and which nobody but Gina and maybe my life travels soulmate Ruksana is likely to read this far into.
So, as I was saying, here’s what you get at Spa for Men Young and Beautiful Therapist: You get invited in by the owner who is a kind and enthusiastic dude whose English is really good and who takes the business of making sure you enjoy your man pampering experience at Spa for Men Young and Beautiful Therapist seriously, indeed. He will enthusiastically encourage you to go for 90 minutes “because more relax” in a way that’s not at all pushy, which is refreshing. His foxy wife and child will be there too, sitting across from you as you soak your feet during the initial stages of the man pampering experience.
The foxy wife’s short-skirted foxiness seems to exempt her from taking on any other jobs in this family-run business besides keeping eyes on the young and beautiful therapists to ensure that Spa for Men Young and Beautiful Therapist keeps getting the kinds of innuendo-free Google reviews that assure wives that it’s okay for their husbands to frequent the family spa. Because husbands are the bread and butter around here. This work-marital arrangement is pretty progressive compared to what I gather is typical in country, which is that the women and children do all of the jobs except for the job of sitting and smoking and drinking bia hoi, which is left to the men. Their youngest child, a boy of about three-ish, is particularly keen to check me out because, as the father put it, “First time he see someone like you,” which cannot be true because someones like me are the bread and butter around here.
After your feet have been soaked, you will be treated to a little foot massage action. This is fine, but I started to get a little worried that this was a foot massage only place like the place on Decatur St. in New Orleans where you get your feet massaged by a Vietnamese guy who brings shame and dishonor to his family because he’s not good at fishing. So I asked, “Don’t you do full-body man pamper here?” And the guy assured me, “Yes, full-body man pamper experience after pre-man-pamper-experience foot pamper.”
Then the enthusiastic young and beautiful therapist looked at the heels of my feet and decided they were nowhere near the level of bottom-of-the-smooth-bottomed-baby smoothness that they ought to be and that they clearly needed to be vigorously had at using a device that I’ve only ever seen used to zest citrus. And she was right too. Because after she grated my heels until there was a pile of excessive callusy skin on the stool my feet were resting on, just a few seconds before, that reminded me of finely shredded Parmigiano Reggiano, my feet were way, way smoother. Then she determined that, in her professional opinion, my toenails needed a little trim and buffing. And who am I to argue with the professionals? So she commenced to trim and buff and the owner guy, who knew I had to meet my wife who still loves me for lunch, jumped in on the other foot to help trim and buff because he didn’t want the trimming and buffing action to cut into the premium man pampering experience that Spa for Men Young and Beautiful Therapist is known for and which puts the food on the family table.
“Four hands experience,” joked the young and beautiful therapist who clearly didn’t think much of the owner guy’s skills with the nail scissors and buffer.
After the pretty extensive pre-pampering experience, you will be led upstairs by the young and beautiful therapist, followed by the foxy and hawkeyed mom in the short skirt, to the massage room. There you will be asked to put on some really pretty goofy looking loose-fitting flowered shorts over your underwear for extra protection in case of accidental erection, which is really pretty common and no big deal except for the foxy hawkeyed mom, whose foxiness her son’s friends are sure to give him grief about in about ten years, ain’t having it, not in her respectable family-run establishment.
It’s worth pointing out here that the major difference between the man pamper experience at Spa for Men Young and Beautiful Therapist and your slightly lower level but not enough to justify a separate category basic cheap massage joint you get waved into by the foxy lady whose job it is to wave you into the massage joint and who doesn’t give massages ever type of place is the pre-pamper foot pampering. There’s also the fact that in the other more mid-level place I visited, I was not given silly shorts to wear but was instead asked by the beautiful and young therapist to “keep on sock.” I thought this was strange, but who am I to argue with the professionals? And to be fair, she thought it was strange when she entered the curtained-off massage area before I was ready and found me standing there naked like baby except for my socks, which I’d kept on. This is how I learned that, in country, “keep on sock” can be roughly translated as keep on underwear. I hasten to add that this incident wasn’t embarrassing for either of us and was actually fun and she laughed at me because she thought I was cute and after sizing me up probably thought I’d make good husband for premium marriage except that I’m already in a premium marriage and she’s not the kind of girl who breaks up marriages. The massage was really very, very good. And she was kind enough to take a selfie with me afterward.
And so back at Spa for Men Young and Beautiful Therapist, the massage therapist is indeed enthusiastic and attentive and the massage is really very, very good. And Hawkeye doesn’t stand there watching the entire time but does stand there watching some of the time because you can hear her coming into the massage room every once in a while through the door with the pretty large window that just screams “no funny business in here, fella.” And Hawkeye’s constant entering and leaving can be a little disappointing because you might start to think the other young and beautiful therapist working the shift might be coming in to treat you to a little extra-premium four-hands action and also to check out premium American man for possible marriage because she’s exactly the kind of girl who has no qualms whatsoever about breaking up a marriage if it will improve her options in life.
The third kind of place I’ve visited is the truly posh level massage type of place where they don’t wave you in and where they give you tea and biscuits and a really soft robe to wear while you wait. These are enjoyable, of course, but they cost way more than your more typical basic cheap massage joint you get waved into by the foxy lady whose job it is to wave you into the massage joint and who doesn’t give massages ever type of place, and so they don’t really get it done in terms of perfect balance between value and attention. The only things I’ll say about my truly posh man pamper experience in country is that the massage is really very, very good, and that I did in fact splurge on a premium four hands experience there.
The premium four hands experience isn’t nearly as R-Rated as I’d imagined it’d be. There was no danger, in fact, of any accidental and totally normal erection situation at the truly posh place. One of the ladies whose left hand made up a quarter of the quartet was attached to an arm with the word family tattooed on it and was old enough that I just assume her daughter’s already made a pretty premium marriage and whose granddaughters are too young still to start looking for husbands for them. I’m pretty sure the other one didn’t size me up for premium husband potential either. Although this is hard to say because I interacted with her less because she came into the room, Hawkeye-like, after the massage had already begun.
The four hands experience was fine. But like I said, it didn’t justify the expense in terms of value-attention balance. And there was a little bit of a cognitive dissonance thing going on because a lot of their maneuvers and techniques were clearly meant to be synchronized so it felt like it was literally one person with four hands providing the pretty sedate, if I’m honest, yet attentive four hands man pamper experience. Except that the synchronization was pretty regularly off, like trying to listen to The Flaming Lips’ 1997 experimental dream pop album Zaireeka that came on four CDs which you were supposed to listen to by playing each CD on a different CD player to get the full effect but which never worked right and which when more people got computers and they were able to sync up the four CDs digitally it became clear that the four CD player method was never gonna work, even if each person started their CD then paused it and skipped back to the beginning while it was on pause and then everyone pressed play at the same time, which was how you were supposed to do it. And so the four hands experience was just okay, and I probably won’t try it again until we get to Thailand, where I imagine the ladyboys who give the four-hands-that-are-suspiciously-large (if you don’t know how to spot the difference) massage experience don’t try nearly as hard, or even at all, to synchronize their maneuvers. But the massage at the truly posh level massage type of place where they don’t wave you in and where they give you tea and biscuits and a really soft robe to wear while you wait was really very, very good.
Point is, initial research suggests that the man-pamper situation in country is pretty next level. More research is needed.
