Update 19 July 2012: For those of you who want to know where to go for a happy ending during your stay on Bali, use the contact form to get in touch, and I’ll be more than happy to send you all the information you need to find the place. This story is about my experience two years ago, but as I’m writing this I’m back on the island and made sure to stop by to see if it’s still possible to get a happy ending at this place. And indeed it is. While you’re waiting for my reply to your email, enjoy the story so you know what to expect if you’ve never had the Bali happy ending massage. Afterward, feel free to come back and share your experience.
Before leaving for Bali, I kept hearing from Mario how cheap the massages were. A sixty-minute full body massage, he told me, would cost 5€. And, he added – a sly smile on his face – a happy ending wouldn’t cost much more. It was a titillating thought for months before the trip, and I arrived in Bali prepared to take advantage of the “full body” and the full body massage.
Sure enough, Mario was right: the regular massages were above average in terms of quality and ridiculously cheap. Practically everyday after surfing I would come back from the beach, leave my stuff at the villa, and walk back down our path to the spa on the main street.
But the hands only went so far while I laid prone on the table at their phalangeal mercy.
One girl, who eventually became my regular masseuse, would let her fingers wander a little more with each successive massage, manhandling my legs and pulling my thighs apart so that she could rub down more of my inner thigh. A few times, her soft fingers brushed against my balls through the silly panty the spa provided to guests going commando, and each time her fingers lightly caressed my testicles I could feel my cock start to awaken from his slumber. But she would go no further, and as the days passed I could feel my balls turning an ugly shade of blue.
Two weeks into the trip, I hadn’t had sex in two-and-a-half weeks and was starting to go crazy, exasperated by having to satisfy myself. The two guys with girlfriends had boarded their planes and returned home to their respective lands of milk and pussy, and Max and I were left to pursue something we had been talking about since before we had arrived on the island: the up-to-this-point elusive happy ending.
Max stuck the key into the ignition of his moped and revved the engine into life. I put on my helmet and jumped on the back, ready for what – I hoped – lie ahead.
“Drive down to the main strip there, and drive until you see a ‘Cozy’ on the right side. Then you’ll have to go down to the roundabout and turn back. Antoine says there is a place there that does them.”
Max and I followed Mario’s directions perfectly. Or rather, I sat on the back of the moped and held on while Max expertly guided our transport down the streets according to our second-hand instructions. All the while, our eyes scanned the sidewalks, cars, mopeds… everywhere, looking for the hot girls with whom we wanted to do dirty things.
“Check out her legs, bro, goddamn she’s hot!” crooned Max as I vigorously nodded in agreement and directed his gaze to the blonde girl across the street with the Indian friend, both of whom would have looked even better undressed in my bed, the one sliding up and down my cock and the other hovering over my face while I teased the soft, pink fleshy part of her body with my tongue, the three of us moaning in ecstasy as sweat glistened on our heaving bodies.
It had been two-and-a-half weeks, and I desperately needed to get laid.
Eventually, we spotted the ‘Cozy’ sign across the road and swung around the roundabout, both of us giddy with excitement: we were one step closer to having our first happy ending experience on Bali.
Helmets removed, we strolled out of the parking lot and around to the… three spas at this particular junction. The question was, which was the place that we wanted?
With trepidation we pushed open the entrance to the first spa, a clean looking establishment with crisp furniture placed around the room and cool air blasting out of the overhead vents. Turning, I noticed a mother and child sitting in the chair, and my eyebrows shot up in confusion. Why would the wife be waiting here of all places for her husband to get done with his masturbatory escapades?
Obviously, this wasn’t the right place.
“Do you want to ask if this is the right place?” I slowly asked Max.
“I’m not asking. You ask.”
Equally unable to ask such an embarrassing question in an establishment that clearly did not provide the services we required, we set down the pamphlets the staff had given us and left, our tails between our legs instead of in one of those pretty girls’ manicured hands.
Relieved to be back outside, we grinned at each other like a couple of adolescents and decided to try our luck in one of the other two spas.
We walked in and I was relieved to find only the employees at the desk, no families waiting in the front area for their husband and father. However, relief quickly turned to despair when I noticed two things.
“Max,” I whispered as we waited our turn, “there are masseurs running around… I don’t think this is the place Mario meant, either.”
The second thing I noticed was the type of massage they offered. Max and I signed up for foot reflexology because we didn’t want to walk out of a second spa, and I couldn’t for the life of me imagine that a place that catered to a niche market would also offer a more sexually charged niche category.
Sure enough, after a few minutes of waiting a Balinese man approached me and asked me to follow him. Grudgingly, I rose from my seat and dragged one foot behind the other, my long face matching the droop of my flaccid penis.
The massage was great; I had never done foot reflexology before and in and of itself the experience was a pleasant one. But the Force was strong with me, and I was turning to the Dark Side…
The next day, undaunted by our previous day’s failure (or reinvigorated by the newest flux of male hormones surging through our bodies), we once again hopped on the moped to pursue our Quest for the Happy Ending. We decided we would head back to the same spot to check out the third spa in the hopes that this final option would be the place that Mario had meant.
Once again, we met with disappointment.
The same set up, with women handing out pamphlets the moment you crossed the threshold, and the overall atmosphere not enticing either of us to pose the question we wanted to ask: will someone here take my cock in their hand and make me writhe on her table?
This time, however, we had a plan, a plan that should have been clear to us from the beginning given the generation to which we belong: we turned to Google, that ever trusted friend who can answer almost any question you could possibly have faster than you can say “orgasm”. I mean, really, where would we be nowadays without this dear, virtual haver?
Max and I drove like sperm to an egg to the internet shop by our villa and quickly typed in our request: “massage happy ending Bali”. In a flash, a list of links appeared; we clicked through and scanned for keywords. After a few bogus reviews we finally discovered a somewhat credible looking review on some random dude’s blog about a place he had discovered.
A quick stroke of the keys later, we could hear the Google map being printed behind the manager’s counter. We paid for our time and the map and got back onto the moped, this time with almost 100% certainty that we would reach our previously nebulous goal.
The moment we pulled into the parking lot, I knew we were in the right place: the girls that milled around outside exuded lust, and their flirtatious eyes met eagerly with ours, luring us in with their coy smiles and fluttering eyelids.
Max and I stepped into the building and were immediately greeted by a corpulent woman in a black short sleeve shirt and jeans who beckoned us forward. The foyer was well lit and clean. In the back, a picture of the Indonesian president was ceremoniously mounted between two Indonesian flags that hung limply on the walls. Above, gaudy Christmas balls and garlands dangled around the edge of a dark dome in the ceiling, and in the back, two teams – one from Japan and the other from South Korean – played football on the flat screen, the commentator shouting incomprehensible exclamations about the game. The woman led us past all this to a counter, where we paid a miserly 8€ for our massage plus (I thought) happy ending. From there, she led us around the corner, where we met a glass wall.
The glass was three meters high, ten meters wide and frosted, save for two 20cm-stripes at just about eyelevel that extended the length of the glass. Behind the glass sat rows of Indonesian women, each with a number hanging between her breasts.
From where I was standing I could only see the first row, and I didn’t dare venture closer to the clear stripes in the glass to look at the rows in the back. My eyes scanned the first row, looking for a face that attracted my attention.
A women in her late thirties caught my eye and held my gaze, hardly moving a muscle in her face yet somehow transmitting her desire to be my choice. The corner of my mouth curled into a smile and I leaned over to the matron to tell her my decision.
“27, NUMMER 27,” she screamed into a microphone and I could here the sound of her voice reverberate behind the glass.
“46 NUMMER 46,” came the shrill voice again as Max’s choice girl rose to her feet and followed my number 27 out of the room.
We walked ahead, the two girls smiling as they came over to us, leading us up the stairs. At the top of the second flight of stairs we turned right down a tight hallway, lined on either side with narrow, dark doors. Down the corridor we went until we reached a fork. 27 led me to the left, and Max and I exchanged a knowing look as 46 led him to the right.
27 turned around another corner and stopped briefly in front of a door, slid the key into the slot and pushed, the heavy door giving way under the light touch of her fingers.
The room behind the door was a small, dark 12m2 room with a rolling bed on the right side and a sink and a shower in the back left corner. 27 smiled at me and ushered me over to a shelf on the back wall where I could leave my clothes. I obediently removed my tank top and board shorts, then stepped into the shower and felt the warm water caress my skin like a lover’s tongue.
“My name Lila, what your name,” she asked me in broken English, handing me a towel as I stepped out of the shower.
“Javi,” I said as I tried to find a balance between drying too quickly and missing spots and drying too slowly and losing time on the table.
“Where you from?”
“Austria. Where are you from?”
“I from Africa,” Lila said, giggling at her own joke about my skin colour and singing the refrain from Shakira’s 2010 World Cup song.
Amused, I hung up the towel and climbed naked onto the bed, wiggling around slightly to find the perfect position, my legs spread out just wide enough, my genitals not crushed under the weight of my body, free to expand at will.
Suddenly I felt a towel being laid across my ass and silently cursed myself for my naïveté: I was supposed to remain “decent” for this part of the massage, even in this establishment.
The massage oils appeared from nowhere, and Lila began massaging my legs. I laid there, thrown off by her decision to start with my legs instead of my back as was usually the case, but content to feel her hands gliding along my bare skin, the overture to the symphony for which I had really come.
On and on she went, rubbing my body, her hands less constrained than my normal masseuse’s, her fingers gentling brushing my balls, the rigid tide of my cock flowing and ebbing depending on the position of that carnal satellite that hovered around the table. She stretched out on top of me with one knee between my legs as she pressed into my back before teasing me with her breasts as she stood at the head of the table and massaged down my back to my ass, cupping my cheeks in her lithe little hands.
Eventually, after she had flipped me over and massaged my front, Lila kneeled between my legs, her hands slipping up them between my thighs, one taking my balls in her hand, the other wrapping around my pulsing shaft, the towel long removed.
“You want more?” she cooed, her hands echoing the question, ensuring that I knew just exactly what she meant.
“Yes,” I whispered, opening my eyes to catch her gaze.
“How much?” she asked coyly, her fingers slowly slithering around my cock and balls in anticipation.
The question, however, caught me off guard. At first, I thought she was being flirtatious, asking me how badly I wanted it. But slowly it dawned on me that I was in the middle of a business transaction that I thought had already been included in my payment at the counter below. I was defenseless; how was I supposed to barter with a woman who held my throbbing penis between her limber fingers?
Eventually, we agreed on a price (30€), and her movements went from foreplay to full-on masturbation. Up and down her hand went, working the massage oil deeper into my cock, her second hand occasionally leaving my balls to glide up my shaft with the other before both hands slid back down, her hand instinctively tightening and loosing around my shaft. The more she worked it, the harder my cock became, until my flesh was as hard as adamantium.
“You like?” she asked me rhetorically.
“Yes,” I mumbled, “and I like these, too,” I added, extending a finger towards her supple breasts.
Smiling, she briefly let my cock go, it flopping downward and slapping my stomach as I watched her instantaneously remove her shirt, revealing a lace bra and a busty bosom. My cock leapt back up at the sight, and her hand once again wrapped around it, recommencing the rotational movement that sent shivers down my spine.
“I like this,” she said with a grin, pointing to my ass. “It very nice.”
“Oh yeah,” I groaned, “you wanna play with it?” I asked unabashedly.
“Maybe tonight,” she responded in kind, and the pressure she applied to my trembling trooper increased, making me moan with delight.
As her speed increased, my moaning came in more frequent bursts. My balls filled with fire and I arched my back in mock pain as cum burst out of the head of my cock like a man hurled from a cannon, a hot, white goop landing on my chest as rivulets of semen oozed from my still-hard cock.
The deed was done; it hadn’t been the fuck that I really wanted, but then again, this woman had expressed a desire for more. Perhaps the adventure isn’t over I thought as I pushed myself up and stepped into the shower to clean up.
From behind, I felt Lila’s hands on my ass, moving along its natural curve. I smiled to myself as I washed the front of my body, all the while feeling her caress my bubble butt. I turned around, feeling the water rush down my back and her fingers tickle my scrotum. Just before I started to get hard again, she handed me a towel and watched me dry myself off, a hungry look in her eye.
“We meet tonight?” she asked as she watched me hide my cock beneath my board shorts.
“I can’t tonight because I have to get up at 1:00 in the morning, but I’ll give you my number, let’s meet tomorrow.”
I pulled out the plastic pouch with my money (which she found exceedingly humorous. I tried in vain to explain the practicality of such a “wallet” on a surfboard) and my phone, gave her her due and showed her the Indonesian number taped on the back of my mobile phone. She typed in the digits and called my number, leaving her digits in my missed call list. Relaxed and with something to look forward to, I followed her out of the room, down the labyrinthine corridor and down the staircase. I said goodbye, promising to be in touch.
Seeing that Max wasn’t in the foyer, I ordered a beer at the bar and sat down on one of the brown leather couches across from the flat screen. Boxes of Q-tips were in the center of each table; I took a sip of my beer and helped myself to two Q-tips, cleaning out the water that had made its way into my ears while I was under the showerhead.
Five minutes later, Max made his way down the staircase, the same blissful look on his face that I had on mine. We exchanged another boyish glance, and he ordered a beer, taking a seat next to me on the couch.
“Cheers,” said Max and raised his bottle. The necks of our bottles clinked together, and we began to talk about the experience.
“How long have you been waiting?”
“Not long, like five minutes. How was it?”
“It was good, took me forever to cum though, and time was up just when I was gonna jump in the shower. How was yours?”
“Nice. I wasn’t sure if she’d be able to make me cum, but damn, I guess that’s why she works here, eh? She gave me her number.”
“Yeah, she liked my ass and kept playing with it. She wants to meet up later, hell yeah!”
It was then that doubt clouded my mind. Was I going to have to pay for the sex like I’d paid for the happy ending? Was I just another horny tourist that she wanted to sexually and financially milk, or was the desire to roll around in the sheets with me genuine?
Max and I weren’t sure what the answer was. There was no way to politely ask her what the situation was without offending her if she didn’t expect payment. And so I made a decision: despite my aversion to paying for sex I would let the scenario unfold and see what happened, with or without a price tag attached.
And so we jumped on the moped and drive off while I contemplated what my maximum monetary limit would be for her services if cash was required.