Why do we do this? My last two visits have been to a place on 159th Street. The telephone number is 646-755-2528. The ad is vaguely promising, even mentioning s/m services. The location is pleasant and residential, recently renovated. They offer parking. For my first visit, I parked several blocks away and walked. For my second visit, I took up the mamasan's offer and availed myself of the amenity. When I got there, I found a solid looking but non-unattractive woman, perhaps 45, wearing stretchy black leggings and a glittery top, standing in the street to make sure I didn't miss the place. She waved me into the driveway at the side of building where a Chinese family was playing mahjong. I saw a grandfather and a little girl. Not a turn-on but something to add to my list of experiences in our hobby. The first level is an open area with the usual collection of flip-flops that don't have a prayer of fitting my feet. There were also scattered children's toys including the kind of car that my parents certainly never got for me when I was three years old. But they were in a different line of work. MMS looked like she knew a thing or two and could show me a good time. I asked if I could see her but she waved me off and sent me upstairs where there were 2-3 bedrooms plus a bathroom. I was met in the room by short, cute MILF whose name was Lisa. She was wearing a mask and took my temperature although she didn't exude a lot of confidence doing it. MMS, btw, had no mask, nor did any of the rest of the family. Their pricing model is $140/220 for an hour. I had expressed an interest in s/m services for which MMS had quoted $200. When the clothing came off Lisa turned out to be, well, a bit loose everywhere. She wasn't fat, just not firm. She clearly hadn't been using the last three months to work out. The discussion of s/m went nowhere, nor was there any gear. So much for that. She began with a massage which I discovered I needed more than anything else. She was very chatty, telling me that for a massage I should really go to a spa ("Here just sex.") She had a lot to say about black people who, to her view, were all drunk, violent and breaking things. She kept this up for a while, so you can't say that she didn't have social skills. Before The End of Life As We Knew It, the transition to soft-touch was the heavenly moment. That was when my ATF who knows every square inch of my body had converted the vat of stress, frustration, pain, etc. into a core of infinite energy and desire. Here it was more prosaic. I turned over, her mask came down (mine was on) and she went into a CBJ. My biggest criticism of BJ's in general is that providers don't do enough with their hands. They often forget entirely about the balls. With that annoying mask and the sound of birds in the early afternoon sunlight, I was having trouble getting into the mood. To her credit, she adapted, remembered the balls and nipples and found an extra gear. After a break for DATY we switched to 69 which was what got me off. I had showered before leaving the house, so now I took my second shower of the day. The bathroom was modern but it had a communal quality. By this I mean that no one was actively taking the responsibility to keep it clean. It wasn't as if mongers had peed on the toilet seat. It was more that you could see the white mineral deposits on the toilet from steamy showers. And no one had cleaned them since my previous visit. As I tried to figure out which bottle was the liquid soap without my glasses on, Lisa entered the bathroom. She pointed me to the right bottle and then bent over the sink. Gargling, hawking and a lot of coughing ensued. A detached voice in my head pointed out that this was likely where one gets COVID. Then she joined me in the shower. Before the war, my ATF would join me in the shower. We'd soap each other vigorously and I had an overall great feeling about what had just gone down. Lisa was helpful but when I tried to reciprocate, she indicated that she was ok with her own minimal shower. That inspired confidence. Dressed and hugged, I shuffled downstairs in the metatarsal-length baby flip-flops. Tying my shoelaces, I took in the kiddies' toys again. By now, my car was blocked by another. I got out and waved at grandpa playing mahjong. He went in the side entrance at the same time that a sullen but hot girl with a tat, probably ten years younger than my provider, exited. I thought about her for a minute. Then I looked up at the side entrance and saw grandpa smiling through the screen at me his hand on the kid's shoulder. Someone came around from the front and backed out so I could escape. I drove down the pretty residential streets and I heard a voice saying "At long last, Sir, have you no decency?" I was Joe McCarthy shuffling papers with no explanation for why I do what I do other than that this seems to be my life and the kid was cute. The next morning I noticed a line of insect bites at my ankle plus two on my neck. I am going to hell, perhaps sooner than I think.