by Justine Ferguson

Created on: September 21, 2008   Last Updated: November 24, 2008

As the door slowly opens, I hesitantly saunter inside. Two bowing Chinese women, hands respectfully clasped in front of them in prayer position, greet me with soft voices. A discreet entry from the Chinese mall hides a stone footpath, lit with flickering candles. A smiling girl leads me carefully through a winding, darkened hall. The aroma of sandalwood and lemongrass oil wafts into my nostrils as I follow her, sidestepping the water trickling in-between the step stones. Hidden cavernous rooms lushly furnished with soft massage tables make me forget the mall outside. A barren tree, hundreds of crystal teardrops dangling from its drooping branches, hovers above me.

I lay on my stomach, my face positioned into the round hole on the massage table. Sometimes a fragrant flower blossom bobs in a glass bowl of water beneath the table. At other times, a box of tissues poses forlornly. Only a human orangutan can reach them due to the width and angle of the table. The uselessness of an unreachable box of tissues and monkey arms is a bizarre thought to have in the peaceful beauty of the room. Are there customers with dripping snot as they receive their massage? If so, can they just aim for the tissue? Through the hole, I spot the two small feet of my masseuse wrapped in black cloth Mary Janes. I close my eyes to enjoy the hedonistic joy of an oil massage.

The wispy but strong masseuse has a distinct, occasional crack to her knuckles as she kneads away on either side of my spine. Slowly and patiently, she treads with cracking fingers up and down my back. The technique she uses is causing me to murmur contentedly in response. Her nimble thumbs rhythmically press so there is only pleasure, no pain. She asks many times if she is pressing okay and I respond "hen how, hen how" so good.

As she moves lower towards the gluteus maximus area, I become tense and very conscious of her hands. All the masseuses seem to include it in their repertoire of massage maneuvers, so someone must enjoy this. I have a moment of embarrassment when Self-Consciousness rears its head. I hope she isn't comparing my old lady butt with the arses of Asian women. Plenty of pliable skin to rub on here. I make a mental note not to think about it and focus on the sheer decadence of a massage.

She returns to the area in-between my shoulder blades. I relax again. The amount of oohhhh's and ahhhhh's I omit determines her persistent focus on my upper back and shoulders. Suddenly, I realize this is more body contact than I've had in two years. Quickly, I redirect my thoughts. She warms the oil by rubbing her hands together. She rubs my arms so expertly that my fingers go limp. Then to my legs and feet; my muscles turn into melting putty with the smooth strokes of her fingertips.

My mind wanders past several errands I must do today, then onward to an imagined perfect future. Thoughts get hazy after this as I jolt awake at the sound of a piggy snort? Oh my gawd did she hear? Maybe if I cough, she'll think I was just sniffing or something. I panic silently, hoping she didn't hear me. I swear I wasn't actually asleep. Snuggled in the warm wraps of towels, touch and soothing music, I am carried up towards the heavens. At her command, I turn over. She covers my breasts discreetly with a towel and her fingers rub my belly gently in circles. Self-Consciousness is back once again.

Soon the sixty minutes of incredibly inexpensive pleasure is over and I open my eyes to return to this part of the world called China.

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