Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
“Get over it, and just live a little.” – Michelle Obama
I weighed the clippers in my hand. Fuck! Here goes nothing. I flipped the switch. The heavy clunk of the magnet came before the buzz. I held the blade to my hair and eyed my nappy hair in the mirror. Dropping, dropping, black stringy cheese puffs fell towards the ground. I feared they wouldn’t let me in with those or raise their eyebrows uncomfortably at me. Fear, fear, fear! A constant factor of existence to ruffle feathers wherever I go. But you can’t let fear define yourself. You have to leave your hood.
Awkward in my job interview suit, I looked back at the yellow and purple basketball jersey with the number 6 on my bed. I’ll be back for you! Don’t worry! I’m loyal! I stepped out of our big brownstone five-floor high building. The super Roger was standing in the street. He didn’t do a lot of work. Most of his contribution was simply security by his presence. He had a big belly and a stance used to standing for hours under that giant elm tree from before the neighborhood turned black. The old folks say that the elm tree witnessed George Washington’s battle.
The subway was the usual. A Guatemalan lady with a baby wrapped to her back was holding up churros for a dollar a piece. An Asian grandpa played slot machines on his phone at full volume. An orange-haired black momma in a colorful hippie jumpsuit with pink glasses gave me the up and down with her eyes before she pointed her nose to the sky. She was telling me that she was better than me. Some little, white college kid was squeezed way in the corner of the packed subway, scared for his life, benefitting from the cheap rent.
Next stop Port Authority, if anything feels like going into combat, it’s that hell hole of a bus terminal. At the underground entrance from the subway, three national guard soldiers in khaki camoflage uniforms held machine guns with the finger on the trigger guard. Not two, but they needed three! The moment you step through the swinging doors, you leave the dirty, grimy subway, riddled with rats, and stagnant sewage water, and cross into something nastier. The lights are dim to save money. The white floor tiles are a dark gray with damage furrowed into them. There is no underlying grandeur but a cheap place from the beginning. More authority in the form of police officers standing around, showing off their extra thick bulletproof armor.
Climbing up a floor of the giant multi-story bus stop, the crowd thinned out. Fear climbed up as I entered a more isolated space. People looked poor here: Shabby clothing, sad faces, and patience to put up with anything. I entered the staircase to the 183 line. Nobody was here. A long, narrow, steep staircase to the third floor to pop up right next to the bus. You never knew what you’d find in those staircases out of shouting range from anyone: A passed-out druggy, a fellow with a knife, or your garden variety corpse. It was alright today.
At the gate, a quiet line of people was waiting at the door to the bus. We were waiting. The bus arrival time came. We were waiting. A worker came out. She mumbled something unintelligible. A passenger asked her a question. She stared and said nothing. The passenger repeated. She kept staring at him and then turned around to walk away. The heat sweltered in the glass box of the waiting room. A fan in one corner did nothing. I was covered in sweat.
The bus pulled up to the first door. Passengers got off. The bus pulled up to the second floor. Our pilgrims entered. I asked the bus driver if I needed to scan and held my phone up with the mobile ticket. He mumbled something unintelligible. He seemed upset that I was still standing there. I felt the pressure of the crowd behind me. I walked into the belly of the bus. Was I unintentionally fare evading because I didn’t follow the right procedure? I had no clue.
We entered the Holland Tunnel directly from the bus terminal. Somewhere above us was the immense water body of the Hudson River, water weighing gazillion tons. The bus had a loose panel. It rattled. When we hit a pothole, a cacophony of clinks, bings, and clacks sounded around the bus. We pride ourselves on being a first-world nation because we don’t have chickens on our buses. That’s our glorious distinction.
The first thing you notice about Jersey is the stench. We weren’t even far enough out of the tunnel to see daylight when the stench took up its squatter home in my nose. You want a lesson on what it’s like to be a landlord? Go to Jersey and try to evict he stench out of your nose. You can’t! Supposedly, it doesn’t come from the people or industry but from the marshes.
“Any time you beg another man to set you free, you will never be free. Freedom is something that you have to do for yourselves.” – Malcolm X
I stepped off the bus. The enormous Hudson River lay behind me. Around me was flat land, the emptiness of being outside of Manhattan. In front of me was the towering spa building with gleaming ergene escort windows across a multi-story entrance lobby. Everything was doused in muted grays from the fog hanging in the air. Tiny little water droplets hovered and stuck to my face as I walked forward.
Luckily, I wasn’t the only one who took the public bus to a fancy spa. There were three other people who had gotten off the bus. They ran across the street like hurried animals dodging cars shooting by at suburban speeds. I ran with them, not wanting to fall behind my pack, my adopted people. My heart beat easier. They looked like me: Regular people. So normal people go to the spa as well. I had stressed myself out too much about how out of place I’d feel. The last of them, a friendly Latin guy, held the door open for me.
When I looked inside, something didn’t feel right. It looked like a utility staircase. That’s not how a fancy spa is supposed to look like. I had paid a hundred dollars for the reservation. I felt confused. That’s not what spas look like in the movies. The Latin guy smiled big at me. I remembered the giant big multi-story lobby with the gleaming glass. This didn’t lead to it. And then it dawned on me. This was the employee entrance. They had taken one look at me and where sure that I was another employee. And no, those regular people weren’t spa guests. They were workers. I smiled. I waved. I stepped back.
I walked to the real entrance. A worker opened the door for me with an attitude like my hands were too good to touch a door handle. I walked to the nearest line. A worker behind a register asked me for my ID and credit card. The worker started working furiously. I didn’t know what he was doing. I feared that somehow I’d run into a snag. The minutes stretched on. Everyone waited in really dignified patience like we were in a venerable space. When he handed me my things back with a wristband key, I asked him what to expect. It were my first time. He told me to go explore. Also, there’d be many helpful attendants to answer my questions. Then he called, “Next!” looking at the person behind me.
Feeling lost in the big auditorium, I looked for what might be the entrance but found only closed gates. Then a guy with latex gloves behind a table waved me over. He asked for my backpack. I showed it to him. Without hesitation, he unzipped my backpack wide and pulled everything out to look insight. I felt taken aback but also scared to complain. He handed me my water bottle and my turkey sandwich. “Throw these out!” he told me matter of fact and pointed to a row of three trash cans for different types of garbage. At their bottoms, I saw that I wasn’t the only one who had gone through that treatment. It felt like airport security. I felt somewhat alarmed.
From his nod, I took that I had to keep walking to the left. A young, white woman told me, “Take your shoes off! This is a shoe-free facility.” She pointed at a pretty wooden bench, seemingly handcrafted from a trunk of an Alpine tree. I couldn’t help shake the feeling like I was entering prison and was being stripped of my personal clothing. That two well-off-looking ladies were happily stripping their heels of while chatting was reassuring.
The white lady walked me into the next room. Rows and rows of shoe lockers filled the room. She showed me how to tap my wristband to the lock of my personal shoe locker 4371. The door opened. I put my shoes inside. She led me to a gate where I tapped my wristband again to be allowed into the hallowed halls. A group of us was herded to an elevator anteroom. I call it an anteroom because it felt so festive. There was a giant table in the middle with an even more giant bouquet of flowers on top of it, each flower more exotic than the next. I could tell the air felt already different – softer, balmier, cleaner. We looked like goofballs standing around in our socks waiting for the elevator.
Coming out on the fourth floor, I quickly eyed the men’s locker room sign and entered. A guy came rushing towards me with a robe and towel in hand. He warned me that pulling out my phone could get me evicted. The dignified atmosphere of a spa was here. Everything felt hush. Everything moved slower. Nothing drew attention. You had space to drift in your own thing.
I found my locker 4371. There were no benches. I got the bottom locker. I started stripping down. I felt awkward getting naked, but there wasn’t anyone to see me. Why does it feel so awkward to be naked? If you are a guy, you become a threat to people. If they see you naked, they become hostile. You always have to cover yourself, hide yourself. Hurried like an animal I was quick to pull my trunks. Relief! I was covered again. I threw the robe over.
I walked back towards the spa. One of the bathroom attendants came up smoothly to me from the side. There was something jolly about it like we were best buddies. I guessed that he was trying to be friendly. Then he whispered at me, “You are ermenek escort not allowed to wear underwear or shorts under your trunks.” I realized that he was that friendly because he felt awkward about lecturing me about such personal things. I wasn’t sure if he wanted me to show him that I was bare under the shorts or if that was inappropriate. I kind of mumbled, “no.” He smiled and told me to enjoy.
My plan was to start at the top and work my way down. I kept telling myself that this is a safe place for relaxing, but I kept feeling so out of place. I couldn’t stop worrying. I stepped out of the elevator onto the outdoor roof. The view was expansive onto the Hudson River, the giant estuary. The skyline of Manhattan, only shadowy figures in the fog, looked dramatic. The infinity pool was a watery plane right to the edge of the building with steam wafting off the surface like a mystical place in an exotic world. This was straight out of a commercial for a fancy place.
Okay! Relax! Bertrand! There were hooks for the robes. Two dozen rows of white, identical robes. Taking the wrong one would be a huge faux pas. Not returning the robe might get me charged an arm and a leg. How was I to remember how to pick my robe up after? Panic! Panic kept emerging in me. I couldn’t relax. I put the thing down. “Third from the right! Third from the right!” I kept repeating to myself.
I walked to the pool stairs next to the lifeguard, watching YouTube on his phone. I dipped my toe in the water. Such a pleasantly warm temperature! I let myself glide into the waters. With my knees bent low, I got the water all the way up to my neck. I slowly drifted forward into the bands of the steam lifting off the surface. I felt like I was exploring a jungle in Cambodia, not knowing what was obscured by the thickness of water vapor in the air. I felt excited and light-hearted.
All the wall space with a view was taken by groups of friends and couples. So I hung back on a wall without a view. I felt the pleasantly warm water and let myself relax. A woman was particularly loud, telling her friend, “How expensive her vacation in Turks was.” A cute girl told her friends all the clothing brands that she liked to buy. A group of college girls discussed with credit cards had the best benefits. I felt so out of place. All these people obsessed about was spending money on luxuries. I felt poor. They also felt very suburban – vapid consumerism lives. I never fit in anywhere.
Lazy in the warm water, there isn’t much to do but look around with cast eyes. A Jewish woman stepped up next to the lifeguard to enter the pool. She looked average. She wasn’t in shape. She was right at the age where women turn from young to old. Her facial features didn’t have anything wrong but she wasn’t drawing any eyes with them either. She seemed like an average woman, struggled through some college courses, made enough money, and watched TV shows in the evening. Step by step, she glid down into the water. She drifted forward towards the Hudson.
When she found her free space in the pool, she led her head dip back underwater. For a while, she was gone. She re-emerged, nose first, so that the water ran down her hair and smoothed it back. With her face wet, she looked five years younger. All the corners, bumps, and pimples were smoothed out of her face by the wetness. She looked stunningly hot. Her hair was slicked back smooth. The wetness made her appear luscious and sensual. She had re-emerged a nubile goddess. She let out a deep sigh. The tension in her face lifted and gave her a beautiful expression. All the worry and tiredness gave way to youth and energy. The water had morphed her into a totally bangable babe.
I noticed the transformative magic around me. A wet face looks so much smoother. When you take worry out of people, their natural beauty shines through. I started seeing in the hotties that I had seen before the underlying structure of how forgettable and regrettable they might look outside the spa. That explained why I had felt that I was surrounded by stunningly hot people.
“Eroticism is the acknowledgment of the power of the sexual within the human experience.” – Bell Hooks
It was time to explore the next spa adventure. I roused my chest above the water into the frigid air, attacking me like a swarm of seagulls, pecking at my chest. I found my robe on the third hook from the left. My bare feet left dark footprints on the rock tiles as I walked to the wide-open staircase, inviting me to meander to the lower floor. I left the robe untied. Hot steam wafted off my chest. I felt very manly, almost like a beast, because images of ninja warriors with steam coming off their bodies flashed through my mind.
Beautiful rows of planters with plants lined the staircase as it curved at a gentle angle around the corner to deposit me at the entrance to the hydrotherapy pool. In contrast to the serene infinity pool, this was a cauldron. Water bubbled up eryaman escort around people holding buttons. Jets shot through the air to pummel the backs of people. A waterfall drizzled water sheets onto the surface. The jets hissed. The bubbles coming up roared. And the water coming down drummed. Faces looked forgotten to the outside as the people were focused internally to feel the water jets massaging their limbs.
I found a free spot on what looked like a submerged armchair. The curved bottom made me recline, set my butt into a ditch to keep me from floating off, and propped up my head to be just above the water’s surface. The big blue button didn’t seem to recognize me. Maybe, they made those buttons to only recognize white people’s hands. But after a while, I felt bubbles crawling up the sides of my body that turned into a gentle stream and then a pulsating onrush of water.
The jet had a startling strong center that made me feel uncomfortably touched in public. I felt strange being so focused on my butt being pummeled among all these people in public. My butt is intimate. But there I was next to a retired senior couple talking about their next European vacation plans. It was also so relaxing. There was something deep under my skin that got itched by those jets. And then the water was so suffocatingly warm that you just had to let go. Finally, I gave up trying to keep my mouth shut. I let my mouth drop open as I surrendered to warmth and pummeling.
Even my anal sphincter let go. I was panicked about that for a moment, but I had used the restroom well recently. I just couldn’t see holding onto tension anywhere, even there, any longer. And my head dropped lower. One of the jets started pulling on my swim trunks. I panicked about losing them for a moment, but then they get caught on a spot where my butt cheeks widened. I couldn’t see getting the determination together to adjust. And then I let go off the worry of those trunks flapping under the force of the jet. They were on good enough. Try not to drool with that mouth open!
I was definitely hazy, but after minutes had floated by, I kind of got my bearings on being in a hazy state. I started taking in more of my surroundings. There was an adult daughter and mom. The spa was eighteen and over. They were Korean. The water did its magic of beautification and young-ification on them as well. However, being Asian, they looked so young and sexual. I couldn’t help but imagine having sex with both of them. Mom and daughters hate the fantasy of having sex with the same guy. There is a discomforting distance between them. However, having sex with a mother and daughter is like… You already like the daughter. And the mom is like a second version of the daughter. It’s like twice as good.
I watched them with my eyes barely above the water. The daughter displayed an obedient attitude towards her mother. The daughter listened more and carefully phrased what she said. The mother took up more space. The mother seemed to feel empowered to demonstrate and take the charge. I pictured them both eating my cock. I definitely wanted the daughter to take me in her mouth because she was younger and cuter. However, the mom felt the need to be in charge and to show her daughter how to do it. The mom had a pride in being more experienced for having been around the block. So both the daughter and I would patiently wait for the mother’s lips to glide up and down my dick. She’d show the lip swirl tricks and show her daughter how she could take me until her chin touched my balls. She’d watch my face’s struggle as I’d get overpowered from the sensation of her throat on my cock. She’d rejoice in seeing me squirm as it would demonstrate her daughter how good she was.
And when the mother would finally relinquish control of my dick, the daughter and I rejoiced silently without showing it to the mother. And the daughter would be so clumsy, so try-hard, and so ineffective, but driving me so wild with that beauty of her face and those big eyes looking up at me from my cock.
The hot water and hydromassage made me physically relax and all the dirty fantasies tumbled out of me. But the daughter and mother played out their parts in the real world so well. In their conversation, I could see the deferral of the daughter. I could see their close tenderness. I could see how the mother received such a glow from being the mother hen to her daughter, leading her to live life. And I kept picturing my dick in between them and them focused on my dick.
Those pale, white Korean faces were like porcelain. Their features were so delicate. There was so much refinement in how they lived life – or at least how I imagined it. The ambiance of the Korean spa gave them an air like maybe we were in Korea in an ancient time, and they were the ceremony mistresses of an intricate bath ceremony that included the servicing of my member according to a strict rules.
I hadn’t noticed but my dick was raging hard under the water. I needed to move. I needed to get away from these seductresses. They were turning me crazy. I knew that if I’d get out of the water now, my dick would be like a tent pole while the rest of the wet trunks would cling to me. I drifted into the water I found a new station.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32