First off, a friend of mine died yesterday. Bob was 33 (just) and had a history of heart problems. Finally, it decided it had had enough and packed in.
I liked Bob. I liked the way he called a spade a spade. Actually, he was more likely to call a fucking idiot a fucking idiot. To their face. I think somewhere Bob realised his mortality more than most and just wasn’t going to mess around being polite to people he thought were cunts.
You will be missed, fella. The air won’t be the same shade of blue without you around.
I think he’d like the story I have to tell you. It’s the fairly uncensored version of my trip to a massage parlour in Bangkok this afternoon. Certainly more frank than the version on the Tour Blog.
Basically, I had 2 hours to kill before going to see The Pink Panther (in itself more embarassing to admit than going to a massage parlour) so I thought I’d go for a massage. I also have a littlebit of a head cold so I thought the relaxation would do me good.
Following a friend’s advice, I looked for one advertising “traditional” massage as they’re “safer”. Oil massage – one hour – 400baht. A little more than I’d hoped, but this was the best-looking place I’d found so far and I was running short of time before the film started.
So in I popped and was shown upstairs. The rooms were little cubicles – all nice and clean) with a mattress and a pillow in. Fresh towels were provided and I was told to strip down and have a shower. Good idea as I’d been walking in the baking heat for about 40 minutes.
All showered, I headed into the cubicle and lay face down. The masseuse (it’s “masseuse” for female, yes?) removed my towel… and told me for oil massage I also had to take off my underwear. Of course. Erm. Fine.
Off they came exposing something only one other person has seen (bar my doctor) for some time now. My bottom. I was face *down* remember? Yeesh.
On she proceeded. And very enjoyable it was, too. I’d have preferred a little firmer, but I didn’t want to push my luck as I’m aware these little ladies have a lot of strength in their limbs. I didn’t want to break any bones!
After half an hour she asked me to turn over. By this time I felt comfortable in the hands of an expert and did so. Exposing the other thing that nobody other than my better half has seen for some time.
During the massage, she was fairly careful to keep away from certain areas (my rusty sherriff’s badge was understandably steered well clear of), though her fingers did touch scrotum at points. Of course, she knows what she’s doing so I left her to it.
“You want something special?”
“You want anything… special?”
“No. Erm. Thank you. Just massage.”
I’m not sure if she was disappointed or what. Mind, she was polite, sat me up and gave me another rub down on the shoulders and back. I couldn’t believe an hour had gone by. Very relaxing it was.
“You need shower to get rid of oil,” she told me. Of course.
So I headed to the shower. To be joined by a (fully clothed) masseuse. Who washed me. Thoroughly. Including Little Mosh.
It’s hard to explain. The closest I can think of is if I was having a bedbath from a nurse. It was that kind of detachment. Utterly unexpected, but gentle and businesslike. And thankfully, not for too long.
While she was showering me, she was waffling on about their services and opening times. I’m sure she mentioned “sex” in there, but her accent and the noise of the shower didn’t help my understanding.
I think I’ll be sticking to the massage services offered in hotels from now on.
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