Livin’ at a massage parlor
Filed under: Crazy Stories, Cultural Encounters | Tags: London, Massage Parlor, Prostitutes |
Of all the anecdotes I thought I’d be sharing about my time in London, I never thought I’d be able to tell the story of how I was mistaken for a prostitute—not once, not twice, but several times. And no, I haven’t been walking down any seedy alleys or standing on the street in high heels, a wig and fishnet stockings. Yet somehow, a series of desperate lonely men have managed to find their way right to my front door. Let me illustrate:
Guy #1
This was only a couple of days after my roommates and I had moved into our apartment, and the intercom rings with our first house call.
Hello?
Hello.
Yes?
(Unintelligible mumble) Who is this? Open the door.
Who is this?
Uhhh….Tim…
Sorry, you’ve got the wrong place.
Ok, so the guy was probably lost. No big deal, right? But a couple of days later…
Guy #2
Hello?
Hello.
Yes? Who is this?
(In a thick British accent) This is Peter.
Yes?
(Still in a thick British accent) Is this a massage parlor?
No…
…
Strange. Why would anyone mistake a house in the middle of a residential area for a massage parlor? (At this point, we thought a massage parlor was where people got massages. We didn’t realize it was actually a common synonym for brothel, but I’ll get to that in a minute.)
In the meantime…
Guy #3
Hello?
(Weird accent I cannot place) Hey yaaa.
Yes?
Hey yaaa. Let me in yaaa.
Sorry, you’ve got the wrong pace.
And a few days after that…
Guy #4
Hello?
Hey…(Mumbles something)
I’m sorry what?
(Mumbles again)
I’m sorry, I can’t hear you?
I’m here to see a girl.
Umm…sorry…you’ve got the wrong place.
And another week after that…
Guy # 5
According to my roommate, this guy was so incoherent, he sounded like he was in desperate need of a drug fix.
Hello?
Hello.
Yes? Who is this?
(Mumble) This is Jim. (Mumble)
What are you looking for, Jim?
(Mumble, Mumble, Mumble)
I’m sorry Jim, you’ve got the wrong place.
Now, at this point, we had a theory: the people who lived here before us were either prostitutes, drug dealers, or prostitutes who dealt drugs. We didn’t have to wonder for long.
Guy #6
Hello?
Hello. (Mumble)
I’m sorry, what?
(Mumble again)
I’m sorry, what?
(More mumbling)
I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. What was that?
So, which girl do you have tonight?
I’m sorry, you’ve got the wrong place!
So, which girl do you have tonight? Which girl do you have tonight?! We managed to get over the screaming and the wide-eyed shock long enough to catch a glimpse through the window of Mr. Which-Girl-Do-You-Have-Tonight as he looked around nervously and scampered off.
It was pretty clear by then, but we decided—probably through some combination of denial and wishful thinking—that we needed to investigate further to confirm our theory. And sure enough, all it took was one conversation with the friendly receptionist at the dental office downstairs to confirm that yes, the previous tenants were prostitutes, yes they worked from home, and yes, that’s why the landlady kicked them out four months ago and refurbished the entire place.
I couldn’t believe it. Those same walls where we eat, sleep, study and pray were home to all sorts of activities I don’t even want to think about. All I could think was, thank God the furniture is all new.
And at least the next time our intercom rang, we were prepared to make a run for the window and catch a glimpse of the latest customer.
Guy #7
Hello?
Hello.
Yes?
Ehh…is this a place where they give massage?
No, sorry. You’ve got the wrong place.
As he walked away from the door, we saw a man in a long beard dressed in a white shirt, a black vest and a yarmulke look around nervously and make his way back to his delivery truck. I guess the prostitutes’ repertoire of customers was just as diverse as London itself.
