I Got Barracuded in Singapore and Paid for it

I Got Barracuded in Singapore and Paid for it

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A few weeks ago, I went out for cocktails with an old friend of mine who had just returned from her honeymoon in Bali. She and I had always spoken about sex quite openly, and after an hour or so of the obligatory wedding chat, our conversation became more interesting. She had often divulged to me that, while she and her partner enjoyed a healthy and regular sex life, her orgasms were few and far between. I half-humorously asked her if there had been any improvements in this department since the wedding, to which she replied, “Well, it’s funny you should ask me that.”

Unfortunately (or perhaps not so), they’d chosen a rather stormy time of year for their honeymoon, and had ended up spending a lot of time in the resort spa. After a few days of Swedish full-body and hot stone massages, the only option left unexplored was the couple’s tantric massage, which happened to include a ‘Yoni massage’ for the woman. Without going into much detail, she told me the experience had completely adjusted her attitude towards sex, and that she’s enjoyed more orgasms during this month than her life’s total beforehand. “You have got to get one,” she said, “I really think it would help you settle down and look at sex a bit differently” (being 12 years my senior, she looks upon my tally with slight condescension and disgust).

I spent a few days mulling over the pros and cons – at worst I’d feel really uncomfortable paying some dirty creep to feel me up, and at best I’d become addicted to paying for sex(ual stimulation). It was probably more intrigue than anything, but as a selfish being I very much enjoyed the sound of “receiving without feeling the need to reciprocate” – except with the cash of course. I talked myself into it (actually it wasn’t that difficult), and started Googling my options. Who knew there’d be so many! Despite the 40 or so Craigslist offerings, I steered clear of the classifieds and had a look at some of the more professional websites. There were plenty of Yoni services mentioned half-way down a mass of male-oriented Asian “massage” sites, but I have to admit that felt a little bit seedy. I finally settled on somebody who described himself as an attractive 32-year-old ex-army officer. His website was professional, tailored to women only, and he even had a designated studio for the massage to take place in. Totes legit.

I called Michael on a Tuesday afternoon (I’d have felt a bit cheap using the online booking form). He was very polite and chatty, and before mentioning anything about an appointment he asked me to tell him about about myself and my sexual history. It wasn’t exactly the shortest conversation on record, because he wouldn’t leave any stone unturned. I didn’t want to allow myself too much time to back out, so I arranged to meet him in a hotel the following afternoon.

I arrived in the lobby an hour early to check in and get ready – I still wasn’t sure what for. When I got up to the room, I had a shower and without thinking about it, washed off my makeup and ran the water over my hair. When I got out and looked in the mirror, I thought “Oh fuck!” I was about to have some kind of sexual experience with this person, no matter how clinical, and I’d just undone the hour I spent making myself look pretty and girly for him. I had a mild panic attack before realising I didn’t want to be late to meet someone when I’m paying them by the hour, and so headed downstairs feeling altogether less glamorous.

When Michael first walked through the revolving lobby door, I honestly thought he was too good-looking to be the man I was waiting for. He was tall and blonde with a pristine smile and friendly green eyes – this really wasn’t helping me feel any more comfortable about being bare-faced. He walked straight up to me, shook my hand with both of his and said, “Let’s get upstairs, shall we?” The 22 floors worth of seconds spent in that lift felt like the longest of my life, and I’m sure he heard my heart beating. I opened the door to our room (our room?!) and he told me to take off my shoes while he did the same. I stood awkwardly by the desk as he started unpacking myriad oils and lotions onto the bedside table.

Without saying a word, he went into the bathroom and, to my surprise, got into the shower. We weren’t going to fuck, were we? Surely he should just wash his hands? What was even more unnerving was that he’d left the bathroom door open! Was I supposed to join him? Thankfully I decided against it. I closed the curtains, stripped naked and lay down on the bed. He emerged a few minutes later, fully clothed. He put on some music and kneeled down next to me in a hippie, yoga-esque pose before beginning his services…

Despite me being naked and uncovered, the first half an hour or so was very tame. Michael gave me a professional massage from head to toe, perhaps only spending a little too long on my upper thighs. He then moved my legs apart and sat in between them. He poured the rose-scented oil over my nipples before leaning in and massaging my breasts, expertly! I was definitely turned on, but not in the way that I wanted to wrap my legs around him and pull him deeply into me. As he moved his hands down my stomach and closer to my clit, it became more erotic. I was no longer lying passively still, but arching my pelvis up in the direction of his fingers, almost begging him to touch me… and then he did.

The Yoni part of the massage was very slow and extremely sensual – more akin to a Sunday afternoon session with a long-term love than a one-night guy who feels like maybe he should make you cum too (oh, how generous). After spending an excruciating amount of time circling me, he gently put his middle finger inside me, shortly followed by another one. So far the massage had been exactly what I was expecting – it felt great, I was pretty close to an orgasm, and he’d been very professional. The way he had touched me was perfectly in line with what I’d read about Yoni massages, and so I was completely underprepared when Michael (albeit gently) slid one of his fingers into my ass.

I’m not sure if it was the shock of what was happening, or that it felt good, but I came almost immediately – and it was definitely top five material. My body convulsed around his fingers for what felt like minutes and my heart was racing. He continued to touch me and told me to fight the sensitivity, and before I knew it my body was shaking all over again! Kudos to Michael, no man has ever given me two orgasms so little time apart. He left me on the bed in my comatose state and returned with a ginger and lemongrass tea for each of us. Michael propped me up, slid in behind me and rubbed my back for twenty minutes or so while I drank my tea. Neither of us said a word – he knew I was satisfied and I didn’t feel the need to praise his performance. Win-win.

The most awkward part of the whole experience was handing him an envelope of cash and showing him the door, but no part of it ever really felt cheap. It’s definitely not something I would consider doing again – as great as it was, I’ve had better (and for free) – but it was a very different sexual experience to anything I’ve had previously. For once, it was entirely about me, and I still can’t work out if that made me feel a bit lonely at the time, or if it made me wish that it was all about me more often. Whatever Michael did to me, it certainly got me thinking, and I’d recommend him any day of the week.

Cover by Mauro Francosini

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