Samuel C. Corey of San Antonio, Texas, was once described by a lady reporter as “that humongous, huge person,” and Sam himself certainly fits that bill. His round, puffy, impish face, graced by a well-trimmed black mustache, sits precariously atop a set of thick shoulders which themselves are atop an immense chest which, for its part, recedes into a protruding, undulating, almost unfathomable belly. His trousers sink gradually through the day under the weight of that belly until their crotch hangs so low it rubs against his knees. In the office of Sam’s extraordinarily lucrative business he is as likely to be found wearing thongs and voluminous jockey shorts as he is a business suit. He smokes cigars, pulling them out of his mouth with stubby fat fingers, gesturing with a wave of cigar-filled hand, then sticking the cigar back in his mouth and puffing contentedly whether the thing is lit or not.
Sam runs the Tokyo House massage parlors where they answer the phone, “We love you for calling Tokyo House.” Sam’s parlors are, according to Sam, places where perfectly nice girls who have, also according to Sam, “all the grace, charm, intelligence, and sensuality of the highest paid New York call girl” massage, and massage only where the law would allow, gentlemen made weary by the cares of the world. Those weary gentlemen, after perusing a sheet called “Tokyo House Menu,” pay either $10 for THE NOONER, a “quickie” but “hard penetrating massage”; or $20 for MOTHER SUPERIOR’S FROLIC after which “you’ll understand why Mother Superior polevaulted the convent wall”; or $25 for THE WORKS, an hour experience conceived when the “mind of Western man ingeniously fused the centuries of Oriental tradition in massage with the best in American sensate experience.” How is this done? “The masseuse