in the 70s
One of the
parlor’s owners decided to redo the oldest of the session rooms.
It happened to be the largest and had a larger than usual massage
table in the center. The room featured an old
fountain in the corner and Mr. NoTaste decided to leave the fountain.
the walls with…you guessed it, shag carpeting. That
hideous deep red that shouted whore house. Not limiting himself to the
floor and walls, he carpeted the ceiling. The room was resplendent with
gilded the room’s sparse furniture entirely in gold, thick gooey paint
that he just knew was sure to last.
telling him the rest of the House looked great, without being overdone.
I also reminded him that when he laid carpeting on the ceiling,
it would have to be vacuumed like the walls. Shag (as
anyone who can remember it knows) holds dust like a bitch.
care. He saw himself as a talented decorator.
His partner was the one who’d picked out the rest of the
interior. Unfortunately the partner was in London
when this guy made his decisions.
he’d finished the work (mid evening on a Friday…busy time) I stood
leaning against the doorframe looking into the newly decorated room.
Let me just say that this man thought south-western to be the
height of sophistication, so he had arranged cacti around the stone-look
fountain. It sat near the only window in the room, a
narrow, shadowed window, replete with the old stained
glass of the original Victorian architecture. I loved
that window but it failed miserably with the newly hung bamboo roll-ups.
I held my
sleeve over my mouth and nose to keep out the harsh chemical smell of
the carpet glue and with a glance at the now-red-shag overhead, I shook
my head and stepped back, shutting the door to that awful space.
Even the old décor sang with semi-classic charm against this
mess. He readied himself to leave, saying something in passing about the
glue drying quickly and that the room should be ready to use in just a
little while. Yes, sure, I thought. Twat.
were complaining of the smell and we had two and three waiting for
sessions with the women in the remaining five rooms. Not
the best time to have a room unusable, not to mention the stench in the
By the time
I got to the main floor, I found general calm with Sophie, the other
hostess bringing order out of the chaos. I’d opened
all the windows upstairs (thank god it was summer) and hoped we could
get that room usable soon.
stood in front of the reception desk, getting a credit card out of his
wallet while trying to describe the kind of girl he wanted. He had that
insistent tone of a guy who is rarely told “no”. You’ll
take what you get, buddy….and like it, I thought.
I told him
that unless he’d had a session and could describe her to me or he knew
her name, he’d be having his session with the next lady in rotation.
His double chin tripled as he harrumphed and I thought the top
his head might just blow off.
heard a dripping sound and it seemed very close to me.
I looked up
as the next drop hit the floor at the front of the reception counter.
The trail of water was unmistakably coming from the newly
decorated room. I sent one of the girls up to shut off the fountain and
she screamed as she got to the door of the room. Sophie stayed at the
desk while I ran up hoping it was just another ordinary histrionic day
at the House.
the door of the room, I knew that wasn’t the case. The
hallway shag carpeting was squishy with water, but inside the
acid-test-gone-wrong room, the shag carpeting on the ceiling now lay
over the fountain and massage table. The gooey glue
made it impossible to get over to the fountain to turn it off.
only a few times, we got the ceiling décor rolled back instead, finally
uncovering the fountain. The cacti he’d so carefully placed in the
shag room with the Victorian window had been knocked into the fountain,
heartily clogging the drain. It was a mess. We shut
the fountain off and left, our feet squishing in the soaked shag carpet,
that felt like a scummy pond bottom.
When I got
back to the front desk, Mr. ThreeChin stood at the counter, obviously
infuriated but too worked up to leave without our services. He
was still grumbling about not having a parade of ladies to show him.
I looked at Sophie and she just shrugged, laughed and returned to
taking Mr. ThreeChin’s money.
refused to sit in the lounge upstairs because of the soaked rug (nothing
worse than a bunch of high-maintenance women with a water problem) and
so were there for the grumbler to see. I could tell
he had a real thing for one of them and couldn’t help but laugh at it
not being her turn.
all the way up the stairs, but he still disappeared for the hour he’d
purchased with the shapely redheaded “masseuse”.
was redecorated…tastefully, by the other partner. No
shag on the walls or ceiling, but he couldn’t resist red shag on the
At least he
ditched the fountain.
Do not reprint without permission
Part 1 False
Eyelashes and Fresh Towels
Part 2 Can
you hear me now?