Written and illustrated by Kelly O'Grady
Two years ago, my roommate Jake and I were walking past the storefront of our apartment building when we realized our unscrupulous, degenerate landlord had opened a massage parlor. It was fairly obvious that it was a front for a hand-job salon.
The customers who frequented the place were sweatpants-and-sandals types. And they were always hanging outside, smoking shamelessly.
My neighbor “Lloyd” was a big fan. One time, he trapped me outside my front door for 45 minutes while he raved about it. It was like a disgusting monologue from a Kevin Smith movie.
Another fan? My least favorite roommate, “Craig.” Craig was the son of a bottled-water mogul, and he had been banned from the massage parlor after pretending like he didn’t know he was supposed to tip.
The women who ran the parlor looked like they’d been through a war. They were two aging spinsters who lived in the building, but it wasn’t clear if they were sisters or not. Evidently, the landlord gave them reduced rent in exchange for working at his “massage parlor.” Everything about the whole situation was maximum greasy. It was some Grey Gardens shit.
At last, it was closed down permanently after a car jumped the curb and drove right through the front window.
Now it’s an after-school tutoring company, with some of the same staff.
