This is one for all any Chapel Hill IAYMers. Hello, are you there? This a fantastic piece of non-news. A crack college paper reporter uncovers that, in fact, there are happy endings at the massage parlor down the way. Which I have know for, oh, ever since I moved to Chappy Chaps in 1991. Is common knowledge considered news now? Though, I guess, it is strange to have print confirmation that there is a “brothel” on Franklin Street. [Who uses the term brothel? Is it also from the 19th century?] And just down from the Baptist church. So that’s why they get out 15 minutes early on Sundays . . .

Of course, then there’s the reporter. Who obviously stays in the Baptist church after the service praying for the souls of those who left early to visit University Massage. But, for journalism, he girded up his loins (or had his loins girded for him) for a visit to the cheapest little whorehouse on Franklin. And? And? How was it? “When I got outside all I wanted was a shower. . . . [The existence of UM] makes me sick.” Remind me not to get this guy a lap dance for his bach.

Massage with not-so-happy ending

By: James Edward Dillard, There Is A Light And It Never Goes Out

Posted: 9/11/07

The first time I walked past University Massage was my second night in Chapel Hill. Some friends and I were exploring Franklin Street when we came across a two-story building with no display window and a sign that read “massage.”

“Massage?” someone asked. I fired back, “that’s no massage parlor, that’s a brothel.”

Back then, I had no proof, just a hunch. I was a freshman trying to sound savvy. But something about the place didn’t sit right with me.

When it comes to UM, almost everybody (except the Chapel Hill Police Department) has a story, but no one has a source. Everyone “knows” it’s a brothel, but no one knows how they know.

But is UM “the brothel” just a suburban myth? This week I decided to find out.

First, I called them, posing as a customer. I don’t know what I expected - an answering system, a receptionist, perhaps a Swedish man named Bjorn - but it wasn’t what I got. A woman named “Kat” picked up the phone and gave me the hours and the prices. 10 a.m. to 2 a.m., Monday through Saturday (at least they respect the Sabbath); $60 for a half hour of massage, $10 off before 5 p.m. “And the ladies work for tips,” she said, “so you can discuss anything further with them.”

Now I had a smoking gun. But what further was there to be discussed? To find out, I’d have to go.

Later that afternoon, I walked over to the parlor. I opened the wooden door into a dark room. Directly in front of me was another door; to my right was something like a ticket window. A note on the window directed me to knock.

A couple of minutes after I knocked two women came to the front. One quoted me the prices again, adding that I was purchasing a full-body massage with “adult conversation.” She reminded me that the ladies worked for tips and more would be offered in the back. Then she asked me to pick a masseuse. I’ll call the woman I chose “Jane.”

She led me to a back room. We stepped over some construction materials on our way - apparently they’re remodeling to look more like a legit massage place. In the back was a bare mattress; Jane laid a sheet over it. She directed me to take off my clothes while she took my money (the $50 flat fee) up to her manager.

When she left I scanned the room. Porno mags were on a bed stand. A sign directed customers to step into the shower and wash their “private parts” before the massage.

Jane’s trip upstairs seemed to last an eternity. I sat down on a chair by the bed. (Don’t worry, Mom, I didn’t take off my clothes). When Jane got back, she sat on the bed and began to quote prices.

For $50, she’d give me “a massage in a special place”; for $80 I could touch her, too. For $140 there was even more. I thought I was going to be sick.

“But what if I just want a massage?” I asked.

“We don’t do that here,” she said. “This isn’t a real massage place - that’s just a front.”

So much for speculation.

Jane asked me how much money I had - not enough to pay for anything. She offered a “special massage” anyway, but I declined. I had what I came for: proof. On my way out, Jane mentioned that she’d been around Chapel Hill for nine years. I didn’t have the heart to ask her how long she’d been doing this.

When I got outside all I wanted was a shower. The question that keeps ringing in my head is this: How do we, as members of the town, continue to let this happen? While we in the ivory tower debate selling Playboy Magazine on campus, University Massage, the ugly underbelly of the sex industry, keeps on chugging. Everyone knows about it, but nobody cares enough to do anything.

And it makes me sick.