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The other day I ran into my friend Bill down at Bob's Steak and Chop House on the corner of Montgomery and California. You know the new place that everyone was wondering about during about a year of construction? What a pleasant surprise when the scaffolding came down to see a classy bar & grill rather than one more set of office suites for attorneys or accountants.

Maybe you remember Bill's story about the Broadway strip joints. Well, it seems Bill has a little problem now. The story drew huge readership and Gail his editor wants more pieces along those lines—the hit rate pumps up advertising, pumps up revenue, pumps up Gail. But there was more to Bill's problem.

"You see, " he said to me, looking somewhat embarrassed, "I think I'm becoming addicted to this sex thing. I actually went back a couple of times to some of the strip joints. I know some of the girls now pretty well."

"Could be worse, " I said.

"I know, " said Bill, "but I thought I was a better person than that. Good god, getting off on young sexy girls. Now I'm not saying I'm doing anything with them but I enjoy their company and they seem to enjoy mine."

Bill took a sip of his martini and stared at his own image in the mirror in back of the bar. He looked like he didn't like the unsmiling guy he saw.

"So what are you working on now, " I asked.

"A massage piece, " he said in a feint voice, still looking at his own image in the mirror. He looked like he was staring at the devil.

The bartender came by and I ordered a second scotch, something I don't usually do. I looked around at the dark new woodwork in the bar—someone had done pretty nice job and though the old photos of San Francisco were perhaps a bit contrived, I could stand this contrivance. It's a long walk to North Beach for a drink; this place could come in handy.

Bill had quit seeing the devil and was now looking at me.

"What have you found out so far, " I asked.

"Well, a few interesting things that I might have guessed. But when I guess I am often wrong, you know. So I like to find out for myself. I started finding things out last Monday."

Bill paused, staring into his martini glass as though scrutinizing the stuffed olive for some some hidden meaning, then told me this:

"You know that place down on Taylor Street called Paris Massage? Red lights, red curtains, statue of some kind of goddess in the window? Well, about 11:30 on Monday I walked down there. I was intending to get a drink before going in. But strange to say, all the bars seemed to have closed early. Maybe because it was President's Day. So I just decided I would go in 'unfortified.' Mind you, I do not fortify myself for other stories. But this sex business has gotten to me. I find a little relaxation first helps—puts me in the proper frame of mind.

"The door to Paris Massage is on the alley. I push the buzzer, and a large woman soon opens the door.

"'It's 60 dollars, ' she says smiling and friendly. She has a little black eye shadow but is not heavily made up. I ask for a receipt. She looks surprised—that is the last thing most of her customers apparently want. She goes to a little adjoining room, gets a receipt book, and tears about ten receipts out of the...

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Source: www.coastnews.com
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