My Thai masseuse

I'm 99 percent straight and one percent lesbian. By that I mean I've had sex with at least 99 men and only one woman, did I have sex with that woman!

I was on a twelve month secondment with the UK Government's trade mission in Bangkok, Thailand. I was 27, unattached, and taking men home with me when I could find them. In Bangkok that wasn't as easy as it sounds. The eligible men like Thai girls who are cheap, willing, and attractive. A round-eye woman like me often gets left out.

I pulled the girl down on top of me and locked my arms around her in an embrace, her long black hair falling on my chest

On the recommendation of friends I hired a Thai masseuse to come to my house after my Sunday morning tennis game. I had never had a Thai massage and I didn't know what to expect although I knew that when men went to a Thai massage parlor the culmination of their purchased hour was a hand job. More than that was an extra cost option. But my massages were innocent -- although sensual as the nearly naked little Thai girl crawled all over me and came very close to making me purr.

I say girl because my masseuse was named Lina, was small, about five feet tall, less than 100 pounds, and with a bra size about 32 AA. Compared to her I was a moose at 5 feet eight and 150 pounds. She was 25 years old, but looked a teenager.

Lina worked during the week at a large and well-known massage parlor, located in a five story building and employing 50 girls. She told me to telephone her at the massage parlor if I wanted a massage during the week. One slow afternoon in the Embassy, man-less and horny, I did just that. Lina was available and she told me to come to the side door of the massage parlor where I would be met and escorted to her room. I didn't want to go in the front door of the massage parlor to be seen by a dozen or more male tourists picking out their female masseuse -- and sex partner -- by examining them through a fishbowl window. In Thai massage parlors, the girls awaiting a customer all sit in a brightly lit room on a stairstep platform. They wear short, white dresses and have a red number pinned on her chest. You stand outside the fishbowl in a darkened room and select one by telling the attendant the number. "I'll never forget number 23" is a standard joke among men in Thailand.

I took a taxi to the massage parlor and nervously found my way to the side door. Waiting for me was an older woman with a small flashlight. I slipped in through the door and the woman led me down pitch black corridors and up a freight elevator to Lina's room. The corridors were dark to ensure that surreptitious customers like me would not run into their boss or spouse or priest there.

Lina's room was partially lit. It contained a bathtub and a massage table covered with a mattress. Lina was dressed in a nurse-like uniform although the dress was too short and the zipper down the front open enough to reveal what little cleavage she had. She had the number 42 pinned to her chest.

We exchanged air kisses and she said, "You want bath?" I said yes. She gave me a plastic hair cover to keep my hair from getting wet and while I took my clothes off she filled up the bath tub. She knew I liked very hot water. I slipped into the bathtub, leaned back, and relaxed. It had been a hard week at work.

To avoid getting wet while bathing me, Lina pulled her dress over her head and hung it up. She was wearing only lacy panties. At my house, she hadn't taken her clothes off and I marveled at how truly small she was. Her pointed tits were mosquito bites and her nipples were like licorice jelly beans. OK, that's a bad, but I can't think of anything better. I like jelly beans.

Lina bathed me with hands and loofah sponge, dried me with a big towel and I laid down on the massage table. Lina was a good masseuse. She climbed all over me and pulled, tweaked, pressed, and squeezed every part of me, including standing on my back and massaging me with her toes. She finished by sitting on my upper legs and leaning over me with hands spread on each side of my groin pressing down, letting up, pressing down, and letting up in a move to ensure that the customer was ready and eager for the finale -- which for men was masturbation.

I was ready and eager that day. With my clitoris feeling as swollen as a pumpkin, I pulled the tiny Thai girl down on top of me and locked my arms around her in an embrace, her long black hair falling on my chest. Lina pointed to her panties. "I take off?" she asked. I nodded and she slipped them off and we lay together. For the first time in my life I felt another woman's naked pussy pressing against my own. She was shaved; I had a narrow triangle of hair.

Lina anticipated that I wanted more than a finger massaging my clitoris -- she also knew that I tipped well -- and she slipped down the bed, looking up at me for confirmation, and stuck her tongue into my slit and began to lick and suck on my clitoris. In three strokes of the tongue, I came, bouncing my body wildly up and down on the massage table while she kept her tongue working on me.

I was still shaking with ecstasy, that tiny Thai girl in my arms, when I decided I wanted more. I lusted for this girl. I kissed her, a long lingering kiss in which our tongues met. I put my hand between her legs and began to feel her. "We fuck?" asked Lina.

I wasn't sure what that meant for women, but I said, "Yes." I got up from the bed, rolled her over on her back, stood beside the narrow massage table and began to kiss and caress her body. I've done a "round the world" many times with men but with a woman it was different. She was brown as a bean, hairless, tiny, silken, and her black hair cascaded over her shoulders. I would kill for such hair. I completed my round the world with my tongue in her vagina, her hips gyrating moving back and forth to capture my tongue.

She seemed to be near a climax when I got back on the massage table and got on top of her. I wanted to feel what it was like for a man when he mounts a woman. Her hand slipped down to my clitoris, my hand to hers, and we brought each other to climax. Mine was real. Hers? She was a professional, after all, working for money, not love.

That was the beginning of an affair that lasted more than a year. Every week or two, I would sneak away from work to meet Lina in the massage parlor and I would enjoy an hour or two of being bathed and having my clitoris massaged by Lina's talented fingers or mouth. Each time, I went back to work with a bright smile and a tired happy body.

We developed a relationship. Her English was pretty good, and I could speak a little Thai. We had our terms of endearment and language of intimacy. Our favorite was "flying a kite." In Thailand, kite flying is a popular sport. The devotees make elaborate fighting kites and try to win a contest by cutting their opponent's kite string. In manipulating the kites they jerk the strings up and down. Thus, "flying a kite" has become a humorous reference to masturbation. Near the end of my massage, Lina would always ask me, "We fly kite now?" That would break us both up. I would usually nod yes, but sometimes I wanted more and I would respond, "No, we fuck." We would then lie together on the table and finger and tongue fuck each other.

I didn't give up men during that year. I took three or four home with me, but my purchased sex with Lina gave me more satisfaction than most of the sex I have had with men.

There's a denouement to this story. Just before I left Thailand for another assignment I visited Lina at her family's house in northeastern Thailand. Most of the bars girls and masseuses in Bangkok are from the poverty stricken eastern part of the country. Her house there, where her parents and several younger siblings lived, was surprisingly luxurious: three rooms, concrete, with a metal rather than a thatched roof, a television antenna, and several acres of rice land. Lina had purchased the house and land with her earnings as a masseuse. She was doing well -- and the fortunes of her family were on the upswing.

And, by chance at a drunken partly not long before I left Thailand, I heard three men talking about a girl named Lina. I perked up my ears and listened. It was my Lina they were talking about -- and they had all been fucking number 42. Lina, I realized, was servicing half the men and women in the American Embassy -- male and female. More power to her. I got my money's worth -- and more.