I told myself that after living in New York City for the summer I would transform into a sex goddess. I would be like the Amazonian badasses charging over subway grates -- in heels! -- with the look of a woman who DGAF and got what she wanted. Then, as my amazing new self, I would befriend all of the intimidating model women and start the cast of a Tinder-using, selfie-taking "Sex & The City."
In order to begin the transformation into my sexier self, I decided to reactivate my okCupid profile. (How brave of me!) I even checked "yes" for the "casual sex" option. After all, I wasn’t looking for a relationship. I would only be in New York for a few months.
I was excited, positive that after a day or two I would receive a flood of messages from the male equivalents of the gorgeous, confident ladies I’d seen on the streets. I guesstimated that around 70 percent of the suitors would be actors and/or models.
Unfortunately, most of the messages came from people with usernames -- no kidding -- like “puppytrafficker” and “True_Scumbag.”
My level of sexual frustration began to grow. I hadn’t gotten any action in weeks. Soon I was eyeing the muscular personal trainers at my gym like they were pieces of cheesecake that I wanted to have sex with. After a particularly hormonal workout on the inner thigh machine, I knew that I had to do something.
The next day at work -- during my lunch break, of course -- I dimmed my screen and Googled “female happy ending massage, NYC.” To my surprise, a bunch of results came up, and the number one result was “The Doctor,” AKA Doctor M.
At least five adorable old ladies and ten little kids on scooters passed by while I waited outside of The Doctor’s building. Did they see women sitting on this bench all the time? Did they know that they have a neighbor whose resume entails inducing the female orgasm? I would have felt less self-conscious in a sketchy alleyway. A Grandpa eating a tuna sandwich gave me some serious side eye.
After reading some articles about Doctor M, I knew that he would be shorter than me, as well as around 20 years older. I smiled as he sat down next to me, shook my hand and asked me questions about my job. It felt like meeting one of my parent’s friends, except this guy was going to have his hand inside of me in about 10 minutes.
After walking quickly past the doorman (and more side eye) we got on the elevator with two middle-aged women. They must have thought that The Doctor and I were a strange pai r-- our difference in age/ level of hairline recession was extremely visible. Of course, they probably saw him with different women all the time. Did they know what his job was? For all I knew, he could have been arm deep in their lady bits earlier that day.
Within minutes I was inside of his apartment. I practically walked into the massage table, which I couldn’t help but notice was right next to a table whose sole occupant was a Hitachi Magic Wand. The vibrator stuck out in the room like, well, a giant vibrator.
HOLD. UP. Why would I pay to get a tantric massage, only to end up having this guy press a vibrator up against me? Could some women not reach orgasm, even with a man called Doctor M? (I assumed the M stood for masturbation, or manly.)
I assured myself that I would not be one of those no-orgasm women. I shelled out cold, hard cash for this, so damn it, I was gonna get there. And as we all know, the best way to reach orgasm is to put a lot of pressure on yourself. Sure, I was about to get naked, in a random apartment, in front of a stranger who could have been my Dad ... but no pressure! I was confident that I could tune everything out and get to my happy place.
The Doctor sat me down and explained how the massage would work: around 20 minutes of regular rubbing and kneading, and then we would move into the erotic portion. He assured me that everything was consensual, and that he could usually tell from body language when the woman was ready for the tantric section to begin. I couldn’t help but wonder what that meant. How many of his clients had he ended up sleeping with? One of them certainly wouldn’t be me, despite my fondness for Woody Allen-esque men.
After undressing and wrapping myself in a towel in his bathroom, I re-entered the massage room, giggling aloud at how awkward I felt. I got on top of the table and wriggled around until the towel was on top of me, closing my eyes at soon as I could. Even though the Doctor was nice, I couldn’t get into sexy mode by staring at him. Some relaxing music clicked on, and the massage began. Soon, I forgot about everything else and was in backrub-induced bliss.
Midway through the massage portion of the session, I heard a voice say, “Are you interested in a Chevy?” I jumped. After a few seconds, I realized that there wasn’t actually a strange robotic woman in the room -- it was a Pandora advertisement! I started to laugh. I couldn’t help myself! Was he seriously not paying for a premium account? Was I supposed to be so deep in a massage coma that I wouldn’t notice the difference between a commercial and the sound of ocean waves?
A couple moments later, the Doctor’s hands started oiling themselves around my lady region. My laughter quickly faded and turned into heavy breathing. He wasn’t touching my Netherlands, mind you. This guy was a master of temptation. He would get oh so close, closer... and then back away. The combination of backrub, warm oil, and Enya had my southern hemisphere ready to go. Now I could see what he meant when he said that women showed they were ready from their body language. My legs spread apart almost involuntarily as I waited for him to start the sexy part.
Honestly, the temptation was fantastic. I’d never had a guy take so much time getting me aroused. (Granted, I’d also never paid one to do so.) Finally, he got to manipulating my vajay, and after that it was all back arching bliss. Even when I was flipped over on my front, completely exposed in a rando’s living room, I was too relaxed/excited (relaxcited?) to be self-conscious.
Yet, when The Doctor’s 10-minute warning alarm went off, I still hadn’t had an orgasm, despite all of the good feelings. To my embarrassment, he reached for his bookshelf and whipped out the Magic Wand. Granted, Doctor M was kind enough to tell me that this sort of thing happened to a lot of women, but I felt how I imagined guys must feel when they can’t get it up. After a minute, however, I didn’t care anymore -- there’s a reason that wand is labeled as magic.
On the subway ride home, I was getting checked out a lot more than usual. I felt confident and rebellious, smiling to myself like a teenager who snuck out and hadn’t gotten busted. Despite the slightly awkward nature of the massage, I felt like it was worth it and definitely recommend treating yourself to Doctor M’s services.
My only piece of advice? Skip the mascara on the day of your massage. Right before I returned to my apartment, I stopped to check myself out in an extra reflective window, expecting some kind of goddess-like glow. Only then did I discover the real reason people were staring at me. I must have touched my face with the oil from the massage, because I looked like Beyoncé from the crying scene in “Why Don’t You Love Me."