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So how hard is it to find that perfect massage combination of chemistry, timing, setting, and mood? I hit the massage tables to find out. Stop No. 1 was Cornelia Day Spa on Fifth Avenue, known for its Chanel-clad clientele and handsome male staff. I booked a Swedish massage and showed up with high expectations. But after 60-minutes of awkwardness peppered with a few moans that provoked no response besides "Is the pressure OK?" I decided to call in reinforcements. So I dispatched a sexy and adventurous friend, Joanna, on a spa mini-marathon, with instructions to request a male massage therapist and, if possible, end each massage with a big finish.

Her first stop was Great Jones Spa, a relaxation Mecca for the downtown set. “It was definitely a 'my husband is a venture capitalist, I eat vegan and live in a loft' kind of crowd," said Joanna, who made sure to request "the best man you have" for her Swedish massage. The result was Andy, a pony-tailed Adonis with bicep tattoos and a winning smile. As he massaged her thighs, she flirted with comments like, "That feels sooo good" and "Feel free to keep going." At first, her advances brought no response, but after a while he treated her to a polite, non-judgmental lecture about how "going there" was against the rules, and he loved his job too much to put it at risk.

"I was feeling a little rejected," Joanna said. "But after it was over, he rushed out to the waiting room to introduce me to his girlfriend—apparently she was nearby—and asked if I wanted to 'hang out' with the two of them sometime. So I felt better—though I said no."

Next was the ultra-opulent Mandarin Oriental Spa, known for its lavish views and obsequious service. "I felt like I could throw a fit over the temperature of my Pellegrino, and it wouldn't be out of the ordinary," Joanna observed. This time, her method consisted of suggestive moaning and pulling the strategically placed towel away during the "inner thigh" portion of her deep tissue massage. Her masseur, immaculately groomed and very clearly gay, resisted her advances, saying simply, "I love my job here, and I'd do anything to keep it." Afterwards, he pulled her aside and said, "Honey, I think what you need is to visit the Vitality Pool."

"I couldn’t figure out what he meant," she said. “Then I saw the Vitality Pool.” Located in the ladies-only "Heat Experience Room," it consists of a tub filled with room-temperature water, a bench made of metal bars, and intense water jets that shoot up straight from the floor. "As soon as I sat down, I realized what he was getting at," said Joanna. "There's no point of having an open bench in a hot tub where jets shoot up between your legs other than to have an orgasm. It took me all of two minutes of sitting there [to climax], then the woman who went in after me looked like she took 30 seconds.”