Narnia

New York City was supposed to be the city that never slept. Yet, here I was at 11:00 p.m. flipping channels on the small television in my room. Where was everybody? Jules and his girlfriend Sia were in bed, with work the next morning. Pete was hooking up with some guy from the bar at his apartment, an event I was not invited to. My cousin was home with her husband and baby, spending quality family time. I had already spent the maximum time possible with my parents, staying two nights and three days at their loft. Anything more than that, and I would go crazy. This was not an exaggeration, but a scientifically proven fact, backed by years of research, sweat, and tears.

Repeatedly pushing the channel button, I sighed. Not so long ago, 11:00 p.m. was still hours away from bedtime—11:00pm was when my friends and I would leave the house. The fact that it was a weekday made no difference. To show up anywhere before midnight was considered lame—did the times change, or did we? Were we really that old? In LA, I was a working wife, I had no friends or social life—and I was okay with that. But NYC? The city wasn’t supposed to change on me. It was where I returned to remember where I came from, to remember how cool I once was. It was where I hit no less than three spots a night, ate dinner at 4:00 a.m., and retired to bed once the sun was already up.

Having spent all day cooped up in my room writing, high on caffeine, I was now stir crazy and in need of a change of scenery. I always did this—once focused on something, I was unable to step away or enjoy anything else. It’s like the opposite of ADD.

I threw the remote off the bed and stretched my body out. I had hardly moved from the one spot all day, leaving my neck and back in pain. Rolling over, I opened my computer, and typed “24-hour massage NYC” into the search bar. In the midst of shady Craigslist links and ads for Asian Happy Ending Happy Price Flushing, Queens, I found a Yelp review of a place that had an average of three-and-a-half stars from twenty-one reviews. Not great, but I couldn’t expect much at that hour. The price was a little high, but the reviews convinced me it would be worth it— the main draw being that they were mostly written by women. The last thing I needed right then was to waltz into a rub-and-tug, only to have my request for a deep tissue massage rejected— or worse, accepted and delivered poorly from a non-masseuse who would rather be giving a handjob for a a bigger tip. Just to be sure, I clicked on the link to their website. Sure enough, there it was in the FAQ:

Do you offer "tantric/sensual" massage?

We absolutely do not offer tantric or sensual massage. We only provide professional, therapeutic massage by New York State Licensed Massage Therapists. Any suggestion of this nature and you will be escorted out.

I made an appointment for 12:30 a.m., which I figured would give me enough time to get there and enjoy the steam room and sauna for half an hour before my massage. Riding the elevator down, I briefly considered walking over the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan. I’m not sure if it was a newfound maturity-induced logic, or if living in LA for so long had turned me soft, but I quickly decided it would be dangerous, and hailed a cab.

A year before, I would never have considered staying at a hotel in Brooklyn. Although my parents moved off the island years ago, I grew up in Manhattan. Everyone I knew lived in Manhattan. My whole social life had always been in Manhattan. Even as that slowly shifted, and everyone migrated to the other side of the East River, I stubbornly stayed at the more expensive hotels in Manhattan, taking cabs every day over the bridge to see my friends. This current trip was the first one home when I realized that it was time to give in—Manhattan was officially an island none of my friends could afford to live on.

Growing up, I was certain that if I were to have kids, it was imperative that they grow up in the city. New York kids were smarter, quicker, and funnier—I looked down on kids from anywhere else. They were somehow corny in my eyes, sheltered and naive. I grew up with kids of all colors, whose parents came from all walks of life. I was privileged enough to attend a Manhattan private school, which I now realize is practically the equivalent of a liberal arts college education. I had friends who were wealthy, who taught me culture and class—and I had friends from the projects, who showed me street smarts. While kids in most places relied on their parents to drive them everywhere they went, we were free to roam the city on our own as soon as we could read a subway map. We were lying to our parents, sneaking off by train to three-day raves in New Jersey by the time we were in middle school—something that would be impossible almost anywhere else in the country. A good fake ID was easy to get, and*.xhtml even if you didn’t have one, there was always a bodega around the corner that would sell you almost anything you wanted. As a result, my friends and I grew up faster than most.

Looking back now, I’m frightened for myself as a youth. There were so many opportunities for me to be raped, murdered, or even just overdose and die. I can’t believe I took the G train alone at four in the morning, high on acid, practically inviting people to come rape me. While my teenaged self was so sure my own children would grow up in the city, my thirty-year old self shuddered at the idea of raising a child in such an uncontrollable environment.

When the cab pulled up to the curb, I looked around and started to doubt my web-based judgment—I scolded myself for not knowing better. I had been on this street numerous times, mostly to visit karaoke bars after a night of partying, and had never seen anything that remotely resembled a legitimate spa. This time was no different.

I found the building, and got into the elevator. It was in no way inviting, much less zen—old and rusty, it creaked as it slowly took me up to the fifth floor. Had I just made a big mistake? What was I about to get myself into?

Contrary to my concerns, the doors opened to something quite unexpected. Classical music was playing, and the spa entrance was beautiful—tranquil even. It was as if I had walked through a closet door into Narnia. Coming from the urine-covered streets of New York, through a rickety elevator the size of a small pantry, even colors looked different here.

A young blonde woman greeted me from behind the desk.

“Hi there,” she warmly smiled. “Do you have the appointment at twelve-thirty?”

“Yes,” I smiled back, “This place is so nice! I was getting a little worried in the elevator.”

“A lot of our first-time clients say that,” she laughed. “Now it’s Asa, right? Am I pronouncing that correctly?”

“Yes,” I replied. “You pronounced it perfectly.” My whole life, this was something I struggled with. Ass-a, Ay-sa, Asia—at least ninety percent of the time, my name was pronounced wrong. And who could blame them? Even in Japan, my name is not a regular one. Since I was a young child, I swore that if I ever had kids, they would have normal, easy-to-pronounce names.

To my envy, the woman introduced herself as Sarah, and asked me if I had brought a swimming suit. I hadn’t.

“No worries.” She bent down and grabbed what looked like some tissue paper, and placed it on top of a robe. “You can wear the disposable one we provide.”

I looked at the tissue paper once again, and realized that it was a disposable bikini. “Can I go naked?” I asked.

“I’m sorry, we require all clients to cover up in the public area of the spa. Of course in the massage room, you can go nude if you’d be more comfortable,” she explained.

I nodded my head, and she handed me the robe and bikini before leading me to my locker. “Once you’re changed, just walk through those doors,” she pointed past the showers, “and I’ll give you a tour.”

The locker room was empty, and like the entrance, clean and pretty. Having worn a sweatsuit and no makeup there, it took me hardly any time to get changed. I looked at myself in the paper bikini and made a mental note to bring my own swimsuit the next time. It was clearly a “one-size-fits-all” deal, which, as I knew from years of buying stripper outfits, almost always meant “one-size-fits-nobody.” The top was baggy even on my fake C cups, and the bottoms looked like adult diapers, coming up above my navel. I used my phone to take a photo in the mirror, and sent it to Toni, laughing on the inside, remembering that these goofy photos I sent him throughout the day had once been sexy ones. I made another mental note, this time to send him a photo he might actually find attractive once I was back at the hotel.

After adjusting the bikini, rolling it down to look as normal as possible, I stepped through the doors into the spa. My eyes immediately went to a couple who were sitting in one of the Jacuzzis with glasses of champagne, and I noticed they had brought their own swimming suits. The spa was gorgeous—everything made of stone, and stations of cucumber, pineapple, and orange water were placed every few feet. Sarah showed me around the Jacuzzis and various rooms, and I quickly settled into the empty sauna. It seemed the couple in the Jacuzzi were the only other people here, and I laid down and enjoyed the silence.

Silence was something I’d always been good at. As an only child, it was my default mode. Sitting in a room with nothing, staring at a blank wall, left with nothing but my imagination was something I’d always been able to do for hours. It was a great thing, knowing if I ever became homeless, I could probably excel as a nun or prisoner.

When it was time, my masseuse came to get me. I was relieved to see she was Asian—Sarah from the front desk had me secretly worried. It wasn’t a racist thing, just a fact—old Asian ladies gave the strongest massages.

As she rubbed my body, I realized I had not been massaged for over a month. Back home in LA, a massage was a treat I usually indulged in at least once every two weeks. There was always, without fail, a moment in the session when I was convinced that my masseuse wanted to fuck me—it didn’t matter if she was a non-English speaking Vietnamese lady who could have easily been my grandmother. There always came a point, usually when she was somewhere near my thighs, when I was fully convinced we were only a matter of seconds away from her touching my vagina. Of course, this never happened, and I always walked out of the spa feeling like a fool for once again imagining such a thing.

Such was the case this time. As she sat me up and hit my back one last time with her fist signaling the end of our session, I once again felt like an idiot.

Walking back out into the public area of the spa, for a second I considered going back to the sauna—but decided against it, as it was already two-thirty in the morning. I entered the locker room, to find a girl getting undressed. As she removed her top, I saw that she had the one of the worst tit jobs I had ever seen, which was saying a lot, considering I lived in LA.

“Did you just get a massage?” she asked, catching me by surprise. I hoped she had not seen me staring at her botched surgery. “I just love this place.” Her eyes were half open, and I realized this girl was definitely high on something, something that looked like something I would love. She probably didn’t notice me looking.

“Yeah,” I answered. “It’s my first time here, this place is amazing. And it’s twenty-four-hours, I love that.”

“I come here a lot,” she slowly slurred. “I’m Kiki.” She stuck out her hand for me to shake, and I quickly assessed the situation. She had fake tits. She was comfortable shaking my hand while topless. She was high. And her name was Kiki. This was getting interesting.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Asa.” I took her hand.

“Are you here alone?” She asked. I nodded my head. “I’m here on a date,” she said, eyes almost closed, and took three full seconds to form a smile. I immediately wondered what kind of date she meant. I hated to stereotype, but this girl was definitely at least a stripper.

Just then, two more girls came walking in. They were dressed in short bright-colored dresses and carried expensive purses.

“Hi ladies,” the one in yellow sang, in a voice probably too loud for a spa. She turned back around to her friend in neon pink. “So I told him I’m a businesswoman—I don’t play those games.”

I opened my locker and tried to hide my excitement as I continued to eavesdrop. I unwrapped my towel.

“So anyway—are we meeting those guys for dinner tomorrow or what? I was gonna...” The yellow one stopped mid-sentence and looked at me. “Damn girl, I like your breasts! Are they real?”

I shook my head. “I went to Dr. Hidalgo on Park Ave. He’s the best,” I smiled.

“I’m Mercedes.” She held out her hand. “And this is Nikki,” she nodded toward her pink friend. Again, I didn’t want to stereotype, but their names were Mercedes and Nikki. And they were in short, neon dresses.

“I’m Asa,” I introduced myself again. I looked toward Kiki, who was paying no attention. She was now wearing a thong bikini. Something about this surprised me—somehow, a thong bikini felt more obscene than actual nudity, especially for a spa.

“Kiki?” Mercedes asked when she saw her. “Girl I didn’t even recognize you!”

Kiki laughed. “I’m on a date. Like a real one. He’s a lawyer.”

Like a real one. She had said the words I needed to hear. These girls were hookers. For the second time that night, I felt like one of the Narnia kids.

Right then, I decided that 2:30 a.m. wasn’t so late after all. I sat down on the bench in front of my locker.

“He’s so hot, here let me show you a picture,” Kiki continued, taking out her phone. She was speaking so slowly, it was almost painful—it reminded me of the days when I used to do opiates and I thought I was acting so natural.

As if she were reading my mind, Mercedes laughed, “Girl you are high as fuck. Speaking of which, do you think I can party in here?” She took out a baggie with white powder.

“No girl, you don’t wanna do that here, are you crazy?” Kiki slurred. I thought she was talking about the locker room, when she continued, “You’re here to relax. You want the opposite of that. That stuff’s gonna make you all hyper.” I realized she was suggesting that Mercedes not do coke here. Not: not do coke here.

“Don’t worry, this stuff doesn’t affect me like that.” Mercedes looked offended. “I’m just asking if it’s safe to do here.”

“Better in here than out there,” Kiki replied. I didn’t know if she meant out there, the spa, or out there, the streets. This was like decoding another language, a wonderful, beautiful hooker language.

Mercedes turned to me. “You party?” I took a second to try to understand what she was asking. Usually, when someone asked if you partied, it meant they were asking if you did drugs. But here, I wasn’t so sure—was she asking me if I hooked? I thought about it, and then realized it didn’t matter—the answer to both was the same.

“No, but thanks,” I politely smiled. “Do you guys come here a lot?” I decided I wanted these girls to be my best friends for the rest of my spa visit.

“A lot of the girls come here, but I’ve only been here a couple of times,” Mercedes answered. “Are you from here?”

“I grew up here,” I answered. “But I live in LA now. This is my first time here—” I paused and realized I didn’t want her to think I was judgmental, or worse, a prude. “I do porn,” I said as casually as I could, in my best I’m one of you voices. I immediately felt corny, like a mom trying to bond with her hip, teenaged daughter.

Both the other girls, who had been rummaging through their lockers, turned around to look at me.

“Euw.”

“Why?”

The girls were clearly not impressed. Not in a good way, anyway. A moment ago, their guards had been down, talking about dates this and drugs that. In a matter of seconds, it was as if an invisible shield had gone up, separating me from them.

“I like it,” I smiled as friendly as I could. “I’ve always wanted to do it. I know it sounds weird, but it’s just always been my dream.”

“You want to do porn?” Nikki, who had previously been silent, asked. “Girl, that’s crazy.”

Nervous and not knowing how else to react, I laughed. Were these girls actually judging me? Weren’t we all in the same sex-for-money boat? “I know, it’s crazy to most people,” I tried to reason. “But I just love it.”

The girls each turned around and went back to changing, not saying another word. As they silently left the locker room, I heard them burst out into laughter as soon as the doors closed behind them.

“Cunts,” I murmured under my breath. They were the ones talking about heroin versus cocaine in a spa, and I was the laughable one? And I had just been looking forward to spending an extra hour or two here, chatting it up with them. Maybe, if things had gone well, we could even have gone to brunch the next day. I quickly got dressed and left the locker room, to find a man arguing with Sarah at the front desk.

“Why do I have to give you all this information?” he asked, holding a clipboard. “I’m paying everything upfront.” He looked up at me as I walked out, and I could tell he knew who I was. For the final time that night, I stereotyped: middle-aged white guy getting a massage at 3:00 a.m., and knows who I am—he must be here for a “date.” I rushed out before he could ask me any questions.

When I got back to the hotel, I got back on my computer and pulled up the spa’s website. Regardless of how the hookers had Mean Girl-ed me, I had discovered something magical—it was something I needed to know everything about. Was this a happyending place? Was it somewhere hookers took their johns? Was it somewhere hookers met their johns? Or was it someplace they just came to relax after their shifts? Scrolling through the website, I felt like a moron—it was so obvious now. There were services listed like this:

GYNO SPA CURE: Try this ancient remedy that Asian cultures have known for centuries. Utilizing healing herbs to irrigate the vaginal passage to restore optimum health.

And FAQs like this:

Who comes there during the late-night hours? Our most frequent clients are performers and dancers who finish their shows after 11:00 p.m. and have been on their feet all day.We provide a place for them to relax and receive treatments.

And there on the front page, was this:

The spa opens its doors for couples every evening from 5:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m.

Of course. The signs were all there, I just hadn’t looked hard enough. I was usually so good at spotting shady things—too good, even. I often projected my own perverted thoughts and saw every laundromat as a front for a prostitution ring in the basement.

Smiling, I crawled under the covers. Those hooker bitches had thought I was so gross. What an absolutely dream-like night!

And at 5:00 a.m., I finally went to sleep in the city that never sleeps.