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Male nude by Egon Schiele. Image from Wikimedia Commons

The Defenestrations
Chapter 4
By Patrick Limcaco

Warning: For mature (or less immature) audiences

Part 1

Rubbing dollops of oil on strange men’s backs wasn’t so bad, thought Inigo. Besides, he only had to do it in a dimly lit room that could barely contain two average-sized adult males. He didn’t have to talk to them as his hands did all the communicating. He didn’t even have to show his face to his clients, and he didn’t have to see theirs.

If Inigo had only seen social realist films about the sex trade, he would have known better than to think, “It wasn’t so bad.” But the only films he had seen were Spring Breakers and his own short films. These were carefully curated clips of him doing crunches, sit-ups, and squats for the fans and the oglers at Muscle Rhapsody, soundtracked by his favorite band, The Chainsmokers, posted across all his social media accounts.

Just yesterday, he was ready to jump out the window at the third floor of Tawan Spa Club to end this nightmare. But the thought of doing something without live-streaming it was inconceivable. His phone had finally died and it seemed pointless to charge it since he could not afford even the cheapest prepaid data SIM card.

The deafening cackle of ladyboys in the soi snapped him out of his reverie, and for a hot minute, he thought he was back in Manila.

That’s when he felt that the self-defenestration would have to wait.

Donatello’s David, from Wikimedia Commons

Part 2

Those who enter into the sex trade do so for different reasons. Inigo did it for the same reason that he’d go on a mountain peak, pull down his pants, and ask his friends to take a photo of his muscled, untanned ass while he stared into the distance. But when he was hired as a “Spa Associate” at Tawan Spa Club, it wasn’t for attention; it was because he needed money to feed himself.

This reminded him of those precious times when all he had to do for money was post a photo of himself fake-guzzling an energy drink, attempting a witty caption, and tacking on his influencer discount code (it was usually INIGO20 — you had made it if companies started partnering with you). Pimping out an online persona was easy money: he garnered likes, and he got to wear cool outfits and do cute poses. Being a masseur now offered no concessions.

As he serviced one slimy man after another, he felt a part of himself being sold for a paltry amount. At first, he didn’t know what to do with the plump white men who raised their buttocks suggestively. He had no way of knowing that a raised butt was a signal to do more than spread oil on skin. In any case, he soldiered on every time a butt was raised near his face. He was bummed with the way things had turned out.

On his first week at the spa, several clients reported him for unsatisfactory services: the massage was too quick, the pressure was too soft, etc. But mostly, they complained because he didn’t provide the mandatory “happy ending” that Tawan Spa was famous for. That, however, wasn’t completely his fault. The mamasan assumed that Inigo knew enough about the trade, and learned of his inexperience only when three of his clients lodged complaints against “Mister Inikoh”, who refused to provide lingam, resisted their attempts to grope his crotch, and refused to pull down his loose uniform.

Dante and Virgil in Hell by William-Adolphe Bouguereau, from Wikimedia Commons

Part 3

The thought of rubbing the pits and creases of all those men’s bodies was more than Inigo could handle. But he stayed determined. One of his spa colleagues, Nuttachut, advised him about the financial rewards of performing “special services.” Nutta told him, “Is not so bad na krub.”

He had no choice but to take Nutta’s word for it.

Still, it was difficult for Inigo, a Villa-Real, not to be ashamed about the work that he was now doing. He felt something slipping away, but he didn’t know what it was. The word that he was likely looking for was dignity, but it eluded him. He had no idea what it was, never having acknowledged its existence before all this falling out the windows had happened.

It was like those times when he forced his ex-girlfriend, the prissy socialite Peach Purisima, to go down on him. Peach fended off his advances and eventually broke up with him for this and countless offenses. And when she watched a clip of him falling off a castle, she thought it was swift poetic justice that her ex, who thought of himself as his highness, fell from grace like a poor Humpty Dumpty. Hilarious.

Time moved slowly when all you had to do all day was stroke someone’s back. One hour felt like one week. Ignore the clock ticking and just wait for the tips.

During work hours Inigo was without a phone, and without distractions to check his notifications, he had a lot of time to think, particularly about his new “career” and about the cities he had visited.

“Thanks for having me, Melbourne!” one of his Instagram posts read, as if the city of Melbourne had personally invited him to partake of its natural resources.

“You were awesome, LA! See you soon!” read the caption of another post, as if Angelenos had asked him to grace their city with his presence and would await his triumphant return.

Belvedere Torso from 1 BC. Image from Wikimedia Commons

Part 4

In Bangkok, his gratitude had vanished. In the first place, he wouldn’t be caught dead thanking Bangkok, a visa-free city where nearly everyone he knew had been at least once. He would have thanked its main airport though, because its name sounded exotic: Suvarnabhumi International Airport. Definitely unfamiliar even in its pronunciation. He was, however, sorry he didn’t get a chance to thank the wonderful city of Prague — he would have gained tons of admiration on that visit.

But Inigo had even fewer things to be thankful for in Thailand, not least of which was his job. The Tawan mamasan recently gave him a stern warning about his performance. Fearful of hunger, he vowed to provide better service the next time he was given a client. The thought of getting strange men off with his hand disgusted Inigo, but circumstances compelled him to do his job well. He had to hand it to Nutta, bless his heart, who gave him tips on how to negotiate to justify the job requirement.

“Don’t forget khap, you ask mon-neeey, tip, okay na?”

“Okay khap.”

He wanted to thank Nutta, but he still had no phone — the guy totally deserved a shoutout.

There were many things Inigo didn’t know about. Basic courtesy as a tourist in a foreign land was one. Didn’t he fall off Prague Castle due to willful ignorance of the castle’s rules? Normally, it would have taken more than a reprimand from castle guards and a public online bashing for him to learn not to behave like a raving douchebag. But in Thailand, he did learn something: how to haggle and negotiate rates.

Nude by Egon Schiele (1913) from Wikimedia Commons

Part 5

Since he was just self-aware enough to know that he was attractive, he thought of charging extra on tips. He had always thought that his abs were among his best assets, so he had the brilliant idea of making them his money-maker. He would charge those greasy clients 500 baht to remove his shirt and fondle his abs and 1,000 baht if they wanted to caress other appendages. Make them pay for these goods, he thought.

After several days as a masseur, he had more or less mastered how to provide a satisfactory happy ending, repulsive as it was to him. It was just a job. And these were tough times for lost, handsome influencers.

“Customeh for Misteh Inikoh!”

As expected, it was a Thai male client who had what looked like eyeliner and a nicely toned upper body. After all the pre-massage rituals, the man removed his orange aussieBum underwear and plopped down on the mattress.

Inigo was business-like in his approach, too; first, he’d caress shoulders and back, then the legs and ass. He thought he was doing a great job as the client was moaning in pleasure, or so Inigo thought. Thirty minutes into the session, Inigo decided to give the client the “happy” part of the service. He felt that vigorously rubbing the man’s ass wasn’t going to do the job. Inigo thought he’d do something he’d never done to a client before: he stuck a finger in the butt, which made the client yelp and stand up from the mat.

“What you do?!”

“I-I thought you’d like that.”

“It’s hurt!”

“But, but, but I thought you’d like it, sir.”

“I’m not a gay naaa! I call police! I will go and you go!”

Spendthrifts running through the wood of the suicides, from Gustave Dore’s illustrations for Dante’s Inferno. Image from Wikimedia Commons

Part 6

Inigo was horrified at his client’s outburst. The man was fuming from being sodomized. Only when the man stood up and put on his underwear did Inigo see that he had an incredible physique. Petrified, Inigo grabbed the man by the shoulders and tried to reason with him.

“Please don’t tell the police! I’m sorry!”

But the man was way stronger than Inigo, and shoved the poor masseur out the little room and again toward the window at the third floor. Luckily, Nutta showed up just in time to stop the confrontation and usher the disgruntled man away from Inigo, who was shaking, frightened, and close to tears. He knew he would get fired right at that moment and be sent back out onto the streets.

Inigo once again consulted the window about his fate. He could jump now and end the string of misfortunes, or exhaust himself defending his honor to the Thai police. Ultimately, he decided to take the swiftest way out. The thought of his deformed corpse stopped him from jumping out the window. Instead, Inigo decided to end his life by drinking the half-empty bottle of lavender massage oil that he had used for his last client.

What happens next?
A. Nutta takes over Inigo’s life.
B. Inigo is rushed to the ER, where he is recognized by a Filipino.

Vote in Comments, on this blog’s Facebook, or on Instagram @jessicazafrascats. Tune in first thing Monday for the alternate Chapter 4.