I Got A “Happy Ending” Massage And It Changed My Entire Life

Wendy Miller
Aug 16, 2019 · 13 min read
Photo courtesy of Pixabay.com

Years before I became the Head of Programming at Playboy TV, my husband and I were at a dinner party and someone asked if going to a legal brothel constituted cheating. I said,

“As long as you ask permission from your partner, who cares, right? Plus, for guys it’s totally therapeutic. It’s like your dog getting its anal glands expressed.”

Maybe that’s not the best analogy or perhaps it’s the very best analogy ever. Regardless, everybody was shocked when I said I would have no problem if my husband got a squeezer at a brothel. Seemed pretty simple to me. He gets off. There’s zero emotional connection with the woman. It’s therapeutic, and there might even be a Groupon. No biggie, right?

None of the women agreed with me. All of the husbands thought I was the best wife in the world.

Fast forward a few years later, and I’m working in Las Vegas for several weeks producing a show called Swing, which was all about consensual non-monogamy. If you ever had the misfortune of sitting next to someone chatty on an airplane, you know that many people have a tendency to overshare on the road. One night a few of the guys on the crew start talking about what it would be like to visit one of the legal brothels about an hour outside of Vegas to get a happy ending massage. I think it seems ridiculous to drive an hour just to pay someone to give you a hand job, but I have to admit, the idea of anything sexual you could ever imagine being as close as LAX is to my house on a Friday morning, does seem pretty intriguing. Of course, there’s no way I would drive an hour to get a hand job or really anything from a sex worker but, full disclosure, I’ve secretly hoped every single massage I’ve ever gotten would have a happy ending.

Sadly, that’s never happened. Probably because I patronize really high-end spas and not sketchy strip mall rub and tugs. I’m not some football team-owning billionaire. I’m fancy.

Since even professional sex havers need the occasional day off, one afternoon when we’re not shooting the show, I have some free time for myself. Having been away from home for a few weeks, I decide to find a local corset shop and buy something sexy for when I get back home. I find a place called, The Bad Attitude Boutique. It’s located in a very seedy part of Las Vegas that you’d never see in a clip montage. One of the reviews on Trip Advisor says,

“Be prepared to get robbed as soon as you get in the parking lot.”

Luckily, I’m not robbed in the parking lot that day. I make my way into a small, cramped, unwelcoming store in a strip mall near nothing you’d ever want. The entire establishment is about 20 feet wide and 40 feet deep, with very little lighting and a wood-inspired vinyl floor. I can’t tell if it’s been meticulously art directed to look like a dump or if it’s just a dump. There are a few circular racks with corsets on hangers in the middle of the store and a long, glass display counter runs the length of the left side of the store. On display inside the case are various superhero, fetish and Disney-themed leather corsets. I’m looking for something basic and black, like my entire wardrobe. I tell the 40-something, Busted Up Bettie Page saleswoman what I want. She looks me up and down and then starts pulling corsets from random boxes. I step into a tiny, makeshift dressing room sectioned off by a shower curtain, and Busted Up Bettie Page walks right in behind me to start wedging me into various torture devices.

Observing all of this from about 10 feet away is a woman in a track suit who just seems to be hanging out in The Bad Attitude Boutique. Track suit lady is definitely studying me a little too intently. I could get nervous but I figure I’m already in a David Lynch movie, so all of this craziness makes perfect sense. Finally, as I’m being wedged in to corset #4, she asks, “No offense but are you having a problem with your neck? You seem to have limited mobility.” “Yeah,” I answered. “My neck has been killing me for days. It’s probably stress.”

She reaches into her purse and hands me a card. It turns out the woman lurking in the corset shop is a massage therapist at one of the major hotel spas on the strip. I don’t know why she’s spending her spare time in The Bad Attitude Boutique, especially since she seems to have a relatively good attitude. She suggests I come visit her at the spa and get a massage in order to help my neck issue.

Despite my foray into The Bad Attitude Boutique, I’m completely uninterested in navigating my way through a massive, soulless casino to patronize a spa. I ask if she’d be willing to come to my hotel room instead. Unfortunately, she informs me that’s not possible. Then, she digs through her bag and hands me the business card of a colleague who provides mobile massages. I take the card along with a new, very sexy black leather corset and off I go.

Later that afternoon, I return to my suite. My neck is getting worse. So, I call the mobile massage therapist on the card. Her name is Koi. Luckily, she has an availability that night at 12:45 am.

12:45 am? Well it is Vegas.

12:45 am in Vegas is like 8:45 pm everywhere else. It’s totally normal, right? I have a light dinner, take a shower and try to relax.

12:45 am?

Nah…she has to be legit. After all, some strange lady in a track suit in The Bad Attitude Boutique handed me her business card. Then I start to get worried that at 12:45 am, the folks at the front desk will stop her as she’s heading up to my room.

“Hi, Miss Miller, this is Savannah L. at the front desk. It’s 12:45 am and there’s a sex worker down here who claims you’re expecting her. Let me just enter this information on your permanent hotel record and on your company expense report and I’ll send her right up. Byeeee.”

Oh fuck. My hotel bill is going to go to my company’s accounting office and they’re going to see a line that says “Sex Worker Visit at 12:45 am” and now I’m totally going to get fired for being a pervert and FUCK my neck is getting SO MUCH WORSE!

Gahhhhhh!

Then I hatch a plan.

Go down to the lobby. Watch for Koi to enter, and escort the possible escort upstairs yourself. Genius!

I text Koi and tell her that I’ll meet her in the lobby. At around 12:30 am / 8:30 central, I go downstairs to hang out all by myself in a hotel lobby. Nothing unusual here, just a married suburban mom/TV executive sitting all by herself in an empty hotel lobby after midnight. Not at all sketchy.

I’m sitting there for about a minute when a van pulls up to the entrance and 15 members of my production crew, who are also staying in my hotel, stumble out from a night on the town. My face drops as one person working for me after another falls out of that van.

Five seconds ago, this entire lobby was deserted. Just me and Savannah L. Now it’s filled with 15 eyewitnesses who all work for me. The one night in my life where I’m waiting alone in a hotel lobby after midnight for someone who is possibly not a sex worker, and every single person working for me just so happens to be gathering right there! Then, the host of our show, Dr. Jessica O’Reilly steps out of the van. Great! It’s my entire crew AND now the host! Jessica notices me sitting in the lobby alone. As everyone else drunkenly carouses, she walks over to me and asks,

“Wendy, why are you sitting down here?”

Through clenched teeth I reply, “I’m meeting someone.”

Immediately, Jessica downloads every single piece of this scenario. She is a sexologist after all. My dear friend, Dr. Jessica O’Reilly, spins around and informs all of the drunk and semi-disorderly crewpeople working for me that they need to head upstairs immediately as they’re making a bunch of noise and we don’t want to upset the hotel. Quite efficiently-yet-Canadianly, Jessica herds all of them into the elevators and within seconds they’re gone. Jess gives me a wink and heads upstairs, too. Despite the fact that she’s foreign, I know I will always love Jessica O’Reilly.

A few minutes later at 12:45 am, a tall, thin redhead with a messenger bag slung over her shoulder, walks into the lobby. It’s Koi.

The first thing I notice about the mobile massage therapist is that she doesn’t have a massage table.

Okay. They can be heavy, I guess. Before Savanna L. at the front desk can enter anything into my permanent record, I whisk Koi to the elevators and we ride up to my floor in silence. Koi follows me into my sprawling, one bedroom suite. We exchange pleasantries. She glides into the bedroom and removes a large, black, bed sheet from her bag. She places it on top of the white duvet cover on my bed. Koi explains her sheet will protect my bedding from the massage oils she’ll be using on me. She then asks me to disrobe and lie face down on the bed as she steps into the living room. About a minute later she returns to the bedroom and I’m lying totally naked, face down on her black sheet on my bed.

About 5’9” and built like a dancer, with stunning, long red hair and flawless, alabaster skin, Koi works very hard at appearing warm and casual, her hard work betraying exactly what she’s trying to accomplish. As she pours oil into her hands, I make massage small talk and discover she’s from Connecticut. When she first moved to Vegas she quickly found work as a showgirl but eventually realized she needed something much more sustainable. So in between Fire and Ice shows, Koi studied massage therapy. Now she primarily makes a living as a mobile massage therapist.

She asks if I have any trouble areas and I explain that my neck has been bothering me. She starts there. Since I’m not on a proper massage table, she has to climb on the bed next to me. As far as massages go, her technique is okay-ish but I take that as a trade-off for the convenience of a house call. She claims one of my chakras is out of whack and spends a lot of time on my neck and shoulders trying to work out the knots. Then she starts moving down my back. I’m still on my stomach with Koi kneeling at my side. Her knees are tucked in the curve of my waist. When she gets to my thighs, she moves her body lower so her knees are now perpendicular to my thighs. She asks me to raise my leg nearest her, which she then rests on her lap. With my legs slightly parted and one of them elevated on her lap, she massages my lower back, my thighs, then reaches between my legs and starts to massage my vulva.

Wait what!?!?

Just…WHAT?

Okay, to be clear, this woman clearly knows her way around a vajayjay! Instantly I’m on overload and I don’t know what to do. I certainly don’t want to stop her but I think that maybe I should. Unfortunately, I had somehow neglected to ask my husband if I could get a hand job from a redheaded hooker in my hotel room. On the other hand, there is NO WAY I want to stop her because this feels unimaginably good.

I don’t know what to do.

Interestingly enough, what Koi is doing down there definitely feels terrific but it’s really more clinical than sexual. Ever get a great foot massage? It’s exactly like that only instead of my feet it’s my vaj. Even though a very sexy woman is rubbing on a place where good things occasionally happen, it is actually not sexual. I’m not touching her, there’s no flirting going on. There’s no Prince playing. There is zero sexual energy in this room. She isn’t saying a word.

I, on the other hand, am on full blast chatter in my head.

In the 25 years I’ve been with my husband I’ve never once been tempted to be unfaithful. It’s not my thing. But am I cheating now? Or is this okay? And wait; have I just become bisexual? Is that what’s happening here? Did I get turned out by Koi? Who, by the way, has the softest and most knowing hands.

WAIT, WHAT?!?

Unfortunately, I’m incapable of processing anything in my brain which is racing at the speed of HOLY FUCK!

This is the first sexual encounter I’ve ever had with a woman. Even though I have friends on every part of the sexuality spectrum, I’ve always been the boring straight one with no variances. But why was I so defiantly heterosexual? That alone should have been suspicious. My friend Sharon once told me that all women are two cocktails away from being a lesbian. But I don’t drink!

I never even made out with a girl back in college when I was supposed to be a lesbian. Wait, is this a lesbian encounter? Really? I’m suddenly queer? That’s it? Gee, I would hope that having sex with a woman would be a lot less transactional than this. Whatever the case, every possible scenario imaginable is running through my head all at once. Plus, miracle of miracle, wonder of wonders it’s happening! I’m finally getting my happy ending massage and I’m also multitasking by having my first same sex encounter! Two for the price of one!

Even though it feels amazing and it’s what I’d fantasized about, I’m having a hard time processing what’s happening and/or enjoying any of it. Then I start to worry about Koi. I fear she’s going to think she’s not good at her job, so I decide I’d better have an orgasm quickly, otherwise she might feel bad. Yeah, uh, we all know how well that works. As I start worrying more and more about Koi’s feelings I get further from the goal line than ever. I decide I should start making some happy sex noises to let Koi know that I’m enjoying myself. Ya know…just to keep her encouraged?

Yes, I’m now worried about the self-esteem of the girl I’ve paid to give me a hand job.

Okay, maybe I should just fake an orgasm and get this over with? Yeah. Wait, who the fuck hires a sex worker and then fakes an orgasm?!?! Not me! So, I start rifling through my spank bank.

“Quick, think of something really dirty you’ve done in the past that will get you off!”

Then I realize, nothing I’ve ever done is dirtier than what’s happening to me right now. Dumbass! Now I’m mocking myself instead of focusing on the task at her hand. I’m such an idiot. Here I am having the most sexually indulgent moment of my entire life and I can’t get out of my own way to enjoy it. Why should I care about Koi’s feelings? This should be entirely about MY sexual gratification!!!

Suddenly, a red light bulb goes off.

I realize, right then and there, that the reason this is so difficult for me is that I’ve spent all of my sex life focused entirely on the other person’s pleasure and then taking whatever is left for myself. For some misguided reason, I’ve always been much more concerned about the guy and whether or not he was having a great time. I can come later. Literally. And this was all my doing. At this very moment, I realize that’s how I’ve been rolling sexually. All these years of sex with dudes and it takes one redhead giving me a hand job in Vegas to realize I’ve been sexing all wrong. I seriously doubt any of the guys I’ve hooked up with were concerned with my needs in bed, they mostly wanted to get off and I was more than happy to facilitate (enable?) that.

Holy shit. I’m fucking backwards!

So, at that very moment I decide that bullshit has to come to an end. Instead of worrying about Koi, I focus on nothing other than receiving pure pleasure. I stop caring about her feelings. I quit freaking out about my new sexuality. I quit freaking out about enjoying what’s happening. I quit freaking out about how long it’s taking me to have an orgasm. I quit freaking out entirely. I just relax and give myself permission to receive pure pleasure with no strings attached.

And I get off.

Koi wraps up the massage by uncurling the toes on my feet. She rolls up her sheet, takes her money on the counter and leaves. I never touched her. I didn’t want to touch her.

She definitely touched me.

When I get home two days later I’m really nervous because I haven’t told my husband what happened. Despite my earlier “no big deal” dismissal of a transactional hand job for other people, I really don’t know how he’ll react if it turns out I’m the one on the receiving end. I deeply regret that I didn’t call him immediately after Koi left. It was late but I should have done that. My guilt is like interest compounding by the second. Plus, I’m the world’s worst liar. I don’t want to keep this secret. I know what I have to do.

So, after our kid goes to bed, I tell him what happened. I explain I wasn’t expecting it to happen and there was no way I could call and ask permission while it was happening. Even though she was touching my sex parts, it really wasn’t sexual and I never once touched her. It was a completely non-sexual hand job.

Thankfully he doesn’t get mad. He understands. Best husband ever. The weight of the secret is lifted off of me and with that I feel closer to him than ever before. We cuddle for a while which leads to the usual naked things. After he gets some welcome home fun it’s my turn. But this time it’s entirely different. I get out of my head. All I do is focus on receiving pure pleasure and nothing else.

And I get off.

Thanks again Koi.

To hear the full performance of this story and so many more, check out the podcast Sex Ed The Musical.

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Wendy Miller

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