Massage Tale

This is not a story about happy endings. There are websites you can peruse if that’s what you’re looking for. They make a lot more money than HK Magazine. I tried writing for one for a while, but found it to be too sticky. This is, however, a story about a happy ending.

 

I love massages. I go once a week if I remember, and once a month if I don’t. Outside the country I never go, ‘cause a thousand dollars for somebody to batter you seems a bit pricey. But in Asia, with its cheap labor and abundance of small rooms, it just makes sense. You can slip in, and within 10 minutes a lovely person is working out your neck, back, and foot issues, leading to a state of bliss. Until they do that thing when you’re done and feel great but then they inexplicably snap you on the head and yell, “Done lah!”

 

I used to get massages at home, courtesy of a gender mix-up and a Groupon. The company I booked with was convinced that Ms.Yalun Tu needed her massage and sent a nice lady to provide it. When I opened the door a small Filipino woman shrieked at me and explained that only men were allowed to massage men, and the same for women. I asked why, and she looked at me like I was an idiot. Then I said, “Ohhhh” and we laughed for a while as I convinced her I wanted a massage and not sex. She agreed, and over the next few weeks, we developed a routine where she’d massage me while I watched “Game of Thrones.” It was the most decadent thing I’d ever done, besides winning a bet where my friend had to pour champagne in my mouth whenever I cleared my throat.

 

But like all good things it had to end, and my massage lady left town—leaving me high and dry, or tight and sore, depending on how literal you are. I didn’t much like the idea of a hulking man rubbing me down as Littlefinger smiled wryly at the festivities.