I used to be a private person. Sure, I could eat ass all day long, but my own butt was off the menu. My cheeks looked like a sad clown who’d lost his last balloon. So, deciding to get a full-body massage during a trip to Guam was an embarrassment long overdue.

The taxi driver pulled up to a building he called the "Skyscraper of Spread Legs." I wasn’t looking for spread legs, and I’d never been confident in my ability to give a good fuck, but this would be my first-ever massage. The place looked seedy, and I felt nervous, but I had the day off. Why not? If things went south, I was a good runner.

The lobby seemed to be built right into the parking garage. A plush bench sat near the door, next to a healthy looking potted plant underneath some overhead piping. An elegant chandelier hung between concrete pillars, giving the place a classy-industrial vibe. The elevator was padded like a sound booth, and it smelled of the devil’s lettuce.

I took the elevator a few floors up before reaching the massage parlor. Soft music was playing when I entered, and the smell of incense filled the air. A middle-aged woman came out to greet me, clutching her purse tightly to her side. Why does she have her purse? I wondered. Surely she could store it away. Won’t it get in the way of her work? Is she planning a quick getaway? My thoughts drifted from this odd detail as I browsed the menu on a laminated sheet at the front desk. I decided on a Swedish fish massage.

I followed the woman down a dimly lit hallway into one of the back rooms, watching her purse swing into her ass with every step. After directing me to the massage table and telling me to dress down, she left the room. I looked around, taking in my surroundings.

The room was spacious, with a soft orange glow that wrapped everything in the warm hues of a fading sunset. Light seeped from sconces on the walls, casting gentle shadows and giving the space a calm, dreamlike quality. A diffuser sat on a low shelf, pumping out an intense minty aroma that lingered thick in the air, so strong I could feel it in my eyes—but not in a bad way.

Linens were folded neatly in wicker baskets stacked on open shelves along the wall. The soft trickling of a decorative fountain in the corner blended with the ambient music, creating an environment perfect for napping. I was already feeling relaxed as I undressed and slipped under the blanket and onto the table.

After a few minutes, a young woman walked into the room. She was hot, like the girl from "The Karate Kid Part II." Her ponytail was big and sexy, with bangs that framed her face and made her brown eyes stand out beneath her thinly arched eyebrows. Her mouth curved into a small, almost coquettish smile, with cheeks that made her look like a sexy chipmunk storing nuts for the winter. She had a nose. Her purse was bright yellow, the strap crossing her body and fitting snugly between her titties, like a baby bird tucked safely in its nest.

She was smiling softly, like even though she’d made a career of caressing people’s naked bodies, she’d never quite shaken that initial shyness. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, and her big, white teeth were attractive in a way that didn’t make her look like a horse. Her name was Rimjob, and she promised an enjoyable massage. I wish I could’ve said the same for her.

It was incredible at first. Rimjob knew her way around my body, and all my fatigue was starting to melt away like a slice of American cheese in a panini press. With every stroke, I could feel my body loosen, my joints slacken, and my muscles relax. But then she started tugging at my drawers, and that’s when panic set in.

Earlier that day, I had taken a violent and unforgiving shit that plastered the inner crevices of my asshole with the collateral damage of the insidious shitstorm that had seeped from my bowels. Under normal circumstances, an assault like this would call for a shower and a thorough butthole cleanse. But this particular assault had taken place at the mall, and I held the foolish belief that a large wad of toilet paper would be enough to erase my humiliation. I was wrong.

As so often happens, small balls of turd—dingleberries—had become caught in my hairy butthole, and a vigorous wiping was not enough to remove the unwanted pests. The massage moved from my neck to my shoulders and down to my lower back. Instinctively, I clenched up. Have cling-ons taken up residence down below? I wondered in nervous anticipation. I couldn’t be sure, but Rimjob was about to find out.

Rimjob placed her hands on my ass, which actually wasn’t sore for once. But this was a Swedish fish massage, and the ass rub was part of the experience. She kneaded my buttcheeks like she was rolling dough. Rimjob dug her elbow in like a mortar in a pestle, grinding her way into the darkest depths of that cavernous no man’s land, twisting her arm like a corkscrew in a bottle of wine. But all good things must come to an end, and with a sharp cry—"Ahh!"—Rimjob pulled her arm back. Shakily, she asked:

"Suh, dijoo wype?!"

The room had started to spin. I could feel the hot redness of my face, like an oven burning a perfectly good croissant. I struggled to think of what to say. The indisputable evidence was clumped to her elbow. You could say the proof was in the pudding.

"No..."

Rimjob took a breath, her eyes clouded with deep thought. As she held my gaze, I noticed her eyes start to well up. A twinkle appeared in the corner of her eye. And then another. What have I done? I thought to myself. My dingleberries had brought her to tears. As she began to sniffle, Rimjob quickly spun around, her ponytail whipping over her shoulder as she wordlessly exited the room.

I didn’t know what to do. Was my dirty butthole still welcome here? Part of me wanted to throw my clothes back on and sneak away with my shit-covered tail between my legs, but before I could muster the courage to lift myself off the table, another woman entered the room. She was older, with kind, matronly eyes, and a reassuring smile that conveyed a sense of wisdom and stoic resolve in the face of dirty assholes.

Clicking her tongue in a playful, knowing manner, she wiped my butt the way mom used to, plucking out small strands of ass hair and tossing them into a nearby wastebasket. Once I was clean, she patted my ass as if to say, "it’s okay, you silly goose," before continuing the Swedish fish massage. Unlike Rimjob, she made sure to give my asscheeks just as much love as the rest of me, as if to remind me, "shit happens."

As things wrapped up, a sense of normalcy had been restored. I was even starting to forget about Rimjob until I left the room and made my way to the exit. Passing through the hallway, I spotted her in one of the side rooms, sitting at a round table. She was slumped over, her head resting on an outstretched arm, her gaze fixed wistfully on her hand as if reaching for some comfort that would never come. She looked exhausted - almost defeated.

Why did she have such a deeply emotional reaction to getting shit on her arm? The answer, I’ll never know. But Rimjob was a good woman, and up to that point, everything had been going swimmingly. I can only hope my indiscretion hasn’t ruined her one true passion for touching people’s assholes.

Next Chapter: Sourpuss