Unleash the Beast

Chapter 1

The Massage Parlour

I was shocked beyond words to find myself welcomed into the inner sanctum of an alien place known as a massage parlour. Initially, my thumbs ached at the prospect of pummelling muscles. My initial thoughts seem quite naïve on reflection. However, here they are for your delectation.

Can it be possible, I ask myself, that whilst I have busied myself with television soaps and the price of cod, there exists a world I was completely unaware of, a parallel universe in which there exist females who own a selection of vibrators, leather underwear, and flavoured condoms; conversations that tackle the benefits of KY gel, blow-up bras, basques, lace-top stockings, string-back knickers and wigs; a place where a girl’s emergency phone numbers include hairdressers, nail technicians, coloured contact lens specialists, and twenty-four-hour tanning centres. Lord, these women know how to take care of themselves! They seem to have found the magic formula that keeps a man interested. The amount of money these girls spend looking after their appearances is phenomenal. Some may call it complete and utter vanity, but think on. What kind of man fancies a slob! Without these girls, one wonders how beauty salons would survive, not to mention Ann Summers. You can almost hear the wives and mothers screaming that ‘it is all well and good’ when they don’t have to look after the kids and wash the old man’s socks. But many of these women have to do exactly that—juggle their lives around work, study, and home.

There is no getting away from it. Some of these women work part-time to supplement an income—the rest of their lives are normal. Life is not Oprah—there is nothing fair about it. If a woman thinks it is a ‘done deal’ when she says ‘I do’ and then proceeds to steadily decline in her personal appearance and loses interest in her husband, then that is their choice. It matters not that the husband may also go to seed. Rest assured he will still find attractive women desirable. If he discovers that he can purchase the attentions of an attractive, interested, enthusiastic female, then what is he to do?

Then there is the epiphany of splitting up with a partner—a time for introspection. Speaking from a female perspective, when one gets dumped for a younger or prettier woman, there is clearly something inherently wrong with the man! Think again. Men are indeed fickle, but we already know that. How common is it that when a woman gets dumped, a remarkable transformation occurs? It is time to get back out there on the social scene to show the ex-partner exactly what he is missing. In order to do this, it is often necessary to pay some long-overdue attention to appearance. It is not easy to attract your next victim without putting a bit of effort into how one presents oneself. Perhaps losing a bit of weight, revamping the wardrobe, new hairstyle, attention to nails, and so on? In fact, all the things you thought were unnecessary whilst still with your man. Is this beginning to make sense?

So the (now single) female emerges from the despair a new woman. Supported by friends, who all agree the ex is a shit, every attempt is made to make oneself noticeable in the places that one is sure to bump into him—just so that the new persona can ignore him. If one plays one’s cards right, then after an evening of drinking, dancing, and flirting, a lucky lady bags a man. A man doesn’t have to work very hard to assure himself of a sure lay for the evening when a woman is clearly out for a good time. No need to wine or dine this female—just keep your eye on her until she is so drunk she will shag anything.

Time for a taxi! Along comes a very helpful gentleman who appears at the right moment. At this stage of proceedings, the erstwhile woman is convinced that her husband/boyfriend was a fool to let her go, and it is time to prove to a total (but lucky) stranger that she is really hot property. Once indoors, it is time to throw off the clothes with gay abandon and become the sexual predator her previous partner would probably have loved. It’s a win-win situation for the man. He has had a cheap evening, and there is no need for a visit to a massage parlour—he’s getting his for free.

Come the morning, the story is not quite so exhilarating. Riddled with remorse, the headache kicks in, and it’s difficult to detach the tongue from the roof of the mouth. Grim reality is a bitch. Last night’s Mel Gibson turns out to be Bob the Builder. Top all that with the possibility that unprotected sex could result in more than stained sheets, then one seriously has to question the wisdom of such behaviour. All you wanted to achieve was a modicum of self-worth, but that is rarely found in a night-club—when pissed. One-night stands are definitely not one of the most ‘healthy options’ to help get over a failed relationship.

Women who have chosen to make an effort with their personal appearance, just to spite their ex-partners, frequently condemn the activities of working girls. Professional providers of sexual pleasure have already sussed out that that men like women who look good and do not moan continually about the injustice in the world.

Successful whores look, and feel, attractive. They can have a good time and remain in control. There is no need for them to nag. If a guy is reluctant to toe the line, then they simply walk away. There is no commitment involved in their agreement other than that they will do their utmost to please a man for a given amount of time for a set price—money upfront.

Prostitutes tend to get very bad press, although I suspect this is due to the fact that it would be journalistic suicide to condone their activities. Geisha women have always been a source of Oriental mystery and fascination, and yet, their western equivalents are scorned and berated. Then there are the Ladyboys in Thailand. How intriguing are they? Tourists flock from all over the world to photograph them. They speak freely in documentaries about their sexuality and the money they spend transforming themselves into people who can earn a great deal of money. They make no attempt to hide the fact that they sell their bodies in an attempt to make better lives for themselves and their families. I mention these groups of people in an attempt to highlight the fact that paying for sex is acceptable if one is in another, more exotic, part of the world, but it is frowned upon if it happens in the United Kingdom.

It occurs to me, in a very uncertain world, we all do what we have to do in order to get by. If society is so concerned about corruption and the destruction of moral values, then its representatives may be more gainfully employed examining the conduct of the government, clergy, local councils, absent parents, smugglers, benefit fraudsters, wife-beaters, paedophiles, criminals, and feudal landlords—to name but a few.

In view of the fact that modern society is able to boast many flaws, why is it that one of the oldest professions in the world continues to be the target for such overt criticism? Although my awareness of this conundrum was thrust upon me in peculiar circumstances, I confess to being secretly titillated by the whole concept. In a blinding flash of inspiration, it occurred to me that ordinary women did this thing. Ordinary in the respect, they were also capable of living otherwise inconspicuous lives. They shopped at supermarkets, did housework, looked after their children, studied, had friends and family, and generally kept their part-time prostitution out of the equation.

What makes these women extraordinary is their sense of reality, self-assurance, acceptance of moral judgement, and above all—their ability to close the door quietly to their alter-egos and absorb their experiences without bleating about them to anyone who cares to listen. Self-pity is one of the few luxuries these women do not indulge in. They know their feet are not nailed to the floor unless they hold the nails and bash them in themselves. The job is often associated with drink or drug addictions, but it is not prostitution that causes these problems. It merely helps to sustain them financially for a limited period only. Ultimately, no man will want a flea-bitten addict, and their days in the profession are soon numbered.

The thing that intrigues me is the women who conduct themselves in a professional manner—the confidence they show when they are asked to introduce themselves, in their underwear, to a waiting punter who then has the pick of the bunch. They practice safe sex and generally ensure that they do not put themselves, or others, at risk. They have excellent knowledge of communicable diseases and refuse to touch a client if they feel there may be any risk.

How can all this be possible? The answer: sound management. A madam of a massage parlour may be many things, but the one I have had experience of is a modern-day Boadicea. Her honesty to herself, and others, is somewhat disconcerting at first exposure. This lady has found her niche in the market by allowing women to earn money in an establishment she owns. There are no job contracts, bullying, coercion, threats, or repercussions involved in the arrangements. This madam looks after the women she knows better than any social worker I have ever come across. No drugs or alcohol are permitted on the premises, and condoms are provided in abundance. The whole building is decorated like a four-star hotel, food and kitchen facilities are available, lockers are used for storage of personal belongings, notice boards provide information and medical contact numbers, and above all, the madam is always available if one needs to speak to her.

How many employers could boast the provision of such conditions, in addition to being assured of a willing workforce who are prepared to turn up for work and understand the concept of ‘no work, no pay’? There is a moral to be learned here, if only in motivational terms. You will find no pompous line managers involved in this business, as the owner has contact with the employees every day.

This lady has grasped the concept that a pleasant, friendly environment encourages co-operation. She never demands that her staff do anything other than what they had agreed to do at interview. If they don’t like it, then they can leave. If they are good at their jobs, they can choose their shifts and work when they want to, provided they turn in when expected. Holidays can be taken at short notice, provided they are not with punters. The upshot of this arrangement is that new employees are practically gagging to get their foot in the door—as it is a very busy club. Girls who lower the tone of the establishment and fail to comply with the rules are quickly identified and ousted. Such a shame that the government has failed to identify and embrace such a simple concept when it comes to managing the cabinet in Westminster!

In addition to this lady’s managerial genius, she is, without doubt, a tremendously funny adversary. Her talent to listen to complete bullshit with a frank and attentive expression on her face is legendary. When an erstwhile girl feels that she has a point to make, and tackles the madam in front of other girls, everyone present grabs a magazine and pretends not to notice. They have no intention of leaving the room as they don’t want to miss the debacle, but neither do they wish to show the expressions on their faces. She is the human equivalent of a Rottweiler with rabies if she gets annoyed.

Nobody, in their right mind, would want to tackle this lady if they had already seen her in action. The woman is a human cyclone. Her aggression is unequalled; her vocabulary cuts through you like a chainsaw. Despite all of this, there is no one I would rather have in my corner when the shit hits the fan. She is the only woman I have ever seen who can placate a group of drunken men with merely the force of her personality. I don’t quite know what she has got, but if the police force or armed forces could bottle it and dispense it, there would be a lot less trouble in the world. Although there are male minders in the club, they don’t get a sniff of sorting out any trouble when she is around. Whilst they are more than happy to stand around being a bit of muscle, they need not do anything except hold the door open for when she kicks the troublemakers out.

Like a Mafia Godfather, she sits and listens to excuses, pleas, denials, and ridiculous requests whilst nodding appreciatively, encouraging the hapless petitioner to open their souls as they gradually feel they are winning her over. Only when they hear the, by now, famous words ‘Not as long as there is a hole in my arse’, do they suspect that they may have been rumbled. Should a girl be foolish enough to pursue the issue, then she is encouraged to remove herself from the premises whilst she still has movable lips. Simple really! Do not bullshit the boss! She tells you to jump—you ask, ‘How high?’ All you can really be sure of is that she would never ask you to do anything that she would not be prepared to do herself.

In a completely female environment, where hormones ooze from the woodwork, someone has to introduce a regime of reality orientation. The madam is under no obligation to restrain herself from commenting on what she thinks of her employees. No pussyfooting about for her! If she thinks you have halitosis, it does not require a management meeting. She just hands you a tube of toothpaste and supervises you until you pass muster. She has heard every excuse in the book and some that exist well outside the book. It is a well-known fact that the madam has an exceptionally good memory, so when girls go to her with excuses for not being able to come to work, she reminds them of the previous occasions that they have cited the same