Emily Watari Erotic Massage ❤️

About Yokohama

Last week, I tried it—sketchy parlor downtown. Neon sign blinkin “Massage,” but ya know it’s more. Walked in, smellin like lavender and bad decisions. Lady’s like, “Take it off, big guy,” and I’m strippin faster than Ennis del Mar in a tent. “I can’t quit you,” I mutter, half-jokin, half-hopin she don’t hear. She starts, hands strong as hell—lumberjack approved. Then it gets weird—good weird. Fingers dancin near my ass, I’m like, “Oi, that’s new!” Felt like choppin wood but backwards—relief, not work. Got me happy as a pig in mud, but also pissed—why’d I wait so long?

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Then, outta nowhere, this guy bumps into me. I spill my drink all over myself. I’m like, “Are you serious, man?” He just shrugs and walks off. I’m fuming. Like, come on! But then I see the performer again, and I can’t help but laugh.

Grandfather’s notebook yields new book of Japanese American poetry from WWII Portland Assembly Center