Ahhh, ecstasy. The exquisite pleasure of a body massage. My daughters and granddaughter sent me a very handsome gift certificate to the Red Door. The certificate isn't handsome, the number on it is. Yes, the certificate is handsome too. Great job of packaging. It comes in a similarly shaped red gift box, in a shiny red little shopping bag, and all this was delivered by the manager herself. That should give you a clue to the number on it.
At check-in, I asked about the various massages offered. I rejected the gentle stroking one. I once had such a massage, and dozed off into a delightful slumber. But at the price charged, I didn't want to sleep through it again. I wanted to experience every moment of it. I expressed that preference, and was asked whether I would prefer a masseur to a masseuse. (Actually, she said, "Would you mind a man? I warn you, he's tough".) Let's go with the man, I tell her.
You go into the room swathed in wraps and robes, to meet Victor, a very handsome tall blonde Russian man. He leaves the room as you remove your bundling, and slide under the sheets on the table. Everything is very discreet. Lights are dim, soft music playing.
Rub-a-dub-dub. Like the lady said, he digs in. The only conversation, "Too hard?" "No, perfect." This is repeated only a few times. It might be his only English. And I know why he asks. You could swear his fingers pressing your back have gone clear through your body and are coming out the front. When you realize that could not be possible, you expect to find yourself bruised purple when you dare to peek.
No bruises. I am at least two inches taller after leaving his rack. I thank him for his splendid job of kneading. He looks proud. Yes, I'll be back. My gift certificate assures that.
I know some people do not like to be touched, and shudder when you say massage. I was talking about it to a young man in the shop. He said, "I had a massage once. The masseur said, "I am gay, will you have a problem with that?" "So I left my pants on." "You're an idiot," I said politely, "you are covered, and they touch just your body and limbs. If it bothered you why didn't you get a different person?" "I didn't want to insult him." "I think you insulted him by wearing your pants."
Is this discussion too candid? We're just talking about skin and bones and some muscles thrown it. But in the right hands....
---Florence
A racquetball friend of mine, not given misusing masseuses, recently told me of a non-fiduciary experience somewhat similar to yours. Expert hands, Russian accent, soft lights, music, phrases like "Am I hurting you?" Similar feelings of ecstasy after the session, feeling two inches taller etc. , wanting to come again, etc. Actually my friend was not recounting the details of a masage like yours, but of
an affair he was having with another North Shore Slav of great mano-a-backo and fronto skills. Personally I've never enjoyed alien hands on my sacred body , but this very day the airwaves are full of news that the expensive practice is wide-spread, certainly for one Democratic governor with a $4300 gift certificate. I am grateful that the same children and grandchild who have financed your pleasure have never offered to finance mine. It would be difficult to turn them down graciously
without seeming like an insensate being.
Thus, I am happy for you. It was, after all, Hamlet, who misheard a knock on his door and said, "Ah- there's the rub."
Your understanding husband-Arthur
Posted by: art shay | March 10, 2008 at 07:22 PM