Thai massage experience
Discussion
Not mine - but a friend posted this writeup on his Facebook, thought it was amusing!
Friend said:
Today I visited a massage parlour. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for quite a while because everybody’s been telling me that while in Thailand I’ve got to get a Thai massage. However, it’s easier said than done. One of my friends who visited Thailand a couple of years ago went to considerable effort to justify his own endeavours with a masseuse by explaining to me how it’s culturally insensitive and downright rude to refuse a happy ending at the end of a massage should one be offered to you. I personally felt that this would be somewhat disloyal to my girlfriend back home.
A conflict developed in my mind. I have every intention of being as culturally sensitive on my trip as possible and distancing myself as much as possible from the drunk, loud westerner who binge drinks and abuses the generosity of the Thai people. At the same time, however, I was eager not to cheat on my girlfriend, feed an economy which exploits people through their poverty, or break my budget.
Unfortunately, a lot of Thai massage parlours in Chiang Mai are located around the tourist district and so are a lot of go go bars and strip clubs. This gives the parlours a seedy air even before you’ve set eyes on them. What also doesn’t help is the gaggle of women in short shorts, t-shirts who sit outside the parlours in conversation, who, upon seeing you cease all conversation, wait until you are within a few meters and shout “massageeeeeeee” at you in what, one assumes, is intended to be seductive rather than aggressive.
Having decided that I couldn’t come to Thailand and not get a massage using fear as an excuse, I resolved that I would get one but if the issue of a ‘handy J’ came up I would resolutely refuse. Off I set on my quest, walking through the old city of Chiang Mai, into the tourist area. I first tried to find a parlour that had girls that didn’t shout at me, theorising that they would be the ones that, if any, offer ‘specials’. That proved impossible. Eventually I got fed up with my hesitancy and employed the James Bond rule(see footnote1). Unfortunately the timing of such an employment was not ideal and I found myself walking into the least respectable parlour yet.
The parlour was a glass fronted, one story affair with lockers and couches in the front and nothing but carpets and thin mattresses on the floor in the back, divided by floor to wall curtains. The lighting level was low, somewhat similar to that of crack dens portrayed in films. A smiling Thai woman in her early forties asked if I’d like a massage. When I replied that I’d like a traditional Thai massage, accompanying my request with gesticulations that indicated that that was all I wanted, she led me into the back and pulled the curtain around us. I stood nervously, still holding my rucksack over one shoulder, waiting for further instructions. She took up a loose cotton shirt and pair of shorts, indicated that I should get changed into them and left. I took my t-shirt off just as she popped her head round the curtain and said that the masseuse would be there in one minute. Having so quickly lost my confidence from being unwillingly exposed to this woman and feeling decidedly imprisoned in the dark confines of the massage area I started to wonder that Ian Flemming had got me in to.
I finished getting changed, sat on the mattress and awaited my masseuse. In walked a girl in her early twenties wearing short shorts and a crop top, I couldn’t make the features on her face in much detail but she seemed pretty. In my mind I reviewed the sage words of my friend who warned me that everything they do is designed to relax you limbs and stiffen your member so that by the time your allotted hour is up, your ardour is sufficiently inflamed to allow them to extract maximum value for their extras. I stiffened only my resolve as she asked me in broken English to lie on my back.
The massage began with her spreading my legs and sitting cross-legged between them. Taking one of my legs over her thigh she proceeded to gentle push at my calf muscle with the tips of her fingers. I noticed how that subtly allowed me to notice how soft and smooth her legs were. I stiffened my resolve further.
I needn’t have bothered. The massage showed its true colours. It seemed the gentle pushing at my calf was only her warming up her fingertips as she proceeded to dig them into my calf as if she were on some perverse anatomical mission to remove my calf muscle from the bone it’s spent the last twenty year in close proximity to. My mind reeled as I lied there trying not to show pain in case it offended. Had I done something to offend her? Was it because I tried to great her in my rubbish Thai? Was she actually Vietnamese and thought I was American? The torture continued until I was surprised with a question in what I think was English. It sounded something like “Is that too high?” as her hand was near my ankle, I replied accordingly that no, it wasn’t, involuntarily adding a confused tone to the reply. After a few repetitions of the question I gleaned that she was actually asking me if I spoke Thai. I allowed myself to believe that my greeting had been accurate enough to prompt such a question but my mind was quickly dragged back to reality as the next phase of the leg massage began. This manoeuvre is clearly designed to test the integrity of the knee joint. As she pinned my femur with her foot and pulled with what can only be described as an unerring strength on my foot, I prayed that my lateral ligaments were strong enough to hold my leg together.
As she moved down to my feet, I reflected that if anything, it was going to take some considerable arousing to dig my sexual desire out of the avalanche of pain that had buried it. She proceeded to test the integrity of my toe joints while I carefully manoeuvred round to get a look at the clock. I was only quarter of an hour into my hour session. My spirit of resistance was beginning to wane and I found myself thinking of the Geneva Convention, I would sign any piece of paper she put in front of me at that moment in time.
The massage progressed to my arms. My shoulder joints proved their worth by surviving the various manipulations of my sadistic therapist, however, my biceps let the team down. As the steel claws of this terrifying woman from South East Asia worked their way into the deeper fibres, previously untouched in the course of every-day life, my nerves – presumably surprised at receiving direct contact, sent reams of frantic distress signals and my bicep went into a state of spastic flexion. The masseuse simply laughed and tapped my bicep as if it were a misbehaving puppy. ‘Christ’, I thought, ‘I’m not going to leave here alive...’.
Having finished servicing my arms with pain the masseuse stood up and left the cubicle. I went into a state of shock, truly convinced that there was a god. Whatever divine intervention had led to this interruption, I didn’t care, all the deities were getting credit in my head. Alas, this conversion was short lived, smashed to pieces by the return of the masseuse who was drying her hands.
I checked myself for bleeding wounds, presuming she was washing blood off her hands. She sat down at the head of the mattress and placed a pillow over her lap. Indicating that I should put my head on that pillow, she mistook my hesitancy to put my sensory organs near her claws of hurt for shyness. In the poor light of the cubicle, her encouraging smile took on a demonic tone. Reassuring myself that I was, hopefully literally, insured up to my eyeballs, I submitted my head to the final stage of my punishment. From that moment on I was given what is more accurately described as a ‘face rub’ akin to that which a child does as it explores a parent’s face for the very first time. This was followed by a spontaneous face lift without the luxury of an anaesthetic. My newly mangled face had survived this improvised treatment, and now was the time to get changed and pay. She left the cubicle.
I got changed with the haste and excitement of a child running to the Christmas tree on Christmas morning. Outside the cubicle I was greeted by the hostess who said “Finish! 200 Baht” this, I later translated means “Congratulations, you have joined the elite ranks of men who have survived the closest simulation to ‘sadism camp’ that we can legally provide. Your reward is the privilege of leaving with your life and remaining body parts for the sum of 200 Bath”. I happily paid, oozing relief from every pore of my abused body. Just outside the parlour the girls were harassing a couple of Americans for trade. One of saw me and indicated to his friend, in that volume of voice that accompanies every American, that I looked very relaxed. I was too focused on my own escape to warn them and they went in.
A conflict developed in my mind. I have every intention of being as culturally sensitive on my trip as possible and distancing myself as much as possible from the drunk, loud westerner who binge drinks and abuses the generosity of the Thai people. At the same time, however, I was eager not to cheat on my girlfriend, feed an economy which exploits people through their poverty, or break my budget.
Unfortunately, a lot of Thai massage parlours in Chiang Mai are located around the tourist district and so are a lot of go go bars and strip clubs. This gives the parlours a seedy air even before you’ve set eyes on them. What also doesn’t help is the gaggle of women in short shorts, t-shirts who sit outside the parlours in conversation, who, upon seeing you cease all conversation, wait until you are within a few meters and shout “massageeeeeeee” at you in what, one assumes, is intended to be seductive rather than aggressive.
Having decided that I couldn’t come to Thailand and not get a massage using fear as an excuse, I resolved that I would get one but if the issue of a ‘handy J’ came up I would resolutely refuse. Off I set on my quest, walking through the old city of Chiang Mai, into the tourist area. I first tried to find a parlour that had girls that didn’t shout at me, theorising that they would be the ones that, if any, offer ‘specials’. That proved impossible. Eventually I got fed up with my hesitancy and employed the James Bond rule(see footnote1). Unfortunately the timing of such an employment was not ideal and I found myself walking into the least respectable parlour yet.
The parlour was a glass fronted, one story affair with lockers and couches in the front and nothing but carpets and thin mattresses on the floor in the back, divided by floor to wall curtains. The lighting level was low, somewhat similar to that of crack dens portrayed in films. A smiling Thai woman in her early forties asked if I’d like a massage. When I replied that I’d like a traditional Thai massage, accompanying my request with gesticulations that indicated that that was all I wanted, she led me into the back and pulled the curtain around us. I stood nervously, still holding my rucksack over one shoulder, waiting for further instructions. She took up a loose cotton shirt and pair of shorts, indicated that I should get changed into them and left. I took my t-shirt off just as she popped her head round the curtain and said that the masseuse would be there in one minute. Having so quickly lost my confidence from being unwillingly exposed to this woman and feeling decidedly imprisoned in the dark confines of the massage area I started to wonder that Ian Flemming had got me in to.
I finished getting changed, sat on the mattress and awaited my masseuse. In walked a girl in her early twenties wearing short shorts and a crop top, I couldn’t make the features on her face in much detail but she seemed pretty. In my mind I reviewed the sage words of my friend who warned me that everything they do is designed to relax you limbs and stiffen your member so that by the time your allotted hour is up, your ardour is sufficiently inflamed to allow them to extract maximum value for their extras. I stiffened only my resolve as she asked me in broken English to lie on my back.
The massage began with her spreading my legs and sitting cross-legged between them. Taking one of my legs over her thigh she proceeded to gentle push at my calf muscle with the tips of her fingers. I noticed how that subtly allowed me to notice how soft and smooth her legs were. I stiffened my resolve further.
I needn’t have bothered. The massage showed its true colours. It seemed the gentle pushing at my calf was only her warming up her fingertips as she proceeded to dig them into my calf as if she were on some perverse anatomical mission to remove my calf muscle from the bone it’s spent the last twenty year in close proximity to. My mind reeled as I lied there trying not to show pain in case it offended. Had I done something to offend her? Was it because I tried to great her in my rubbish Thai? Was she actually Vietnamese and thought I was American? The torture continued until I was surprised with a question in what I think was English. It sounded something like “Is that too high?” as her hand was near my ankle, I replied accordingly that no, it wasn’t, involuntarily adding a confused tone to the reply. After a few repetitions of the question I gleaned that she was actually asking me if I spoke Thai. I allowed myself to believe that my greeting had been accurate enough to prompt such a question but my mind was quickly dragged back to reality as the next phase of the leg massage began. This manoeuvre is clearly designed to test the integrity of the knee joint. As she pinned my femur with her foot and pulled with what can only be described as an unerring strength on my foot, I prayed that my lateral ligaments were strong enough to hold my leg together.
As she moved down to my feet, I reflected that if anything, it was going to take some considerable arousing to dig my sexual desire out of the avalanche of pain that had buried it. She proceeded to test the integrity of my toe joints while I carefully manoeuvred round to get a look at the clock. I was only quarter of an hour into my hour session. My spirit of resistance was beginning to wane and I found myself thinking of the Geneva Convention, I would sign any piece of paper she put in front of me at that moment in time.
The massage progressed to my arms. My shoulder joints proved their worth by surviving the various manipulations of my sadistic therapist, however, my biceps let the team down. As the steel claws of this terrifying woman from South East Asia worked their way into the deeper fibres, previously untouched in the course of every-day life, my nerves – presumably surprised at receiving direct contact, sent reams of frantic distress signals and my bicep went into a state of spastic flexion. The masseuse simply laughed and tapped my bicep as if it were a misbehaving puppy. ‘Christ’, I thought, ‘I’m not going to leave here alive...’.
Having finished servicing my arms with pain the masseuse stood up and left the cubicle. I went into a state of shock, truly convinced that there was a god. Whatever divine intervention had led to this interruption, I didn’t care, all the deities were getting credit in my head. Alas, this conversion was short lived, smashed to pieces by the return of the masseuse who was drying her hands.
I checked myself for bleeding wounds, presuming she was washing blood off her hands. She sat down at the head of the mattress and placed a pillow over her lap. Indicating that I should put my head on that pillow, she mistook my hesitancy to put my sensory organs near her claws of hurt for shyness. In the poor light of the cubicle, her encouraging smile took on a demonic tone. Reassuring myself that I was, hopefully literally, insured up to my eyeballs, I submitted my head to the final stage of my punishment. From that moment on I was given what is more accurately described as a ‘face rub’ akin to that which a child does as it explores a parent’s face for the very first time. This was followed by a spontaneous face lift without the luxury of an anaesthetic. My newly mangled face had survived this improvised treatment, and now was the time to get changed and pay. She left the cubicle.
I got changed with the haste and excitement of a child running to the Christmas tree on Christmas morning. Outside the cubicle I was greeted by the hostess who said “Finish! 200 Baht” this, I later translated means “Congratulations, you have joined the elite ranks of men who have survived the closest simulation to ‘sadism camp’ that we can legally provide. Your reward is the privilege of leaving with your life and remaining body parts for the sum of 200 Bath”. I happily paid, oozing relief from every pore of my abused body. Just outside the parlour the girls were harassing a couple of Americans for trade. One of saw me and indicated to his friend, in that volume of voice that accompanies every American, that I looked very relaxed. I was too focused on my own escape to warn them and they went in.
- 1 James Bond rule – first devised on my trip to Egypt while I was reading the quantum of solace book. The user asks himself, what would James Bond do? The user’s desire to be James Bond then motivates them to perform the task they were hesitating to do, as James Bond would.
)
k me is it worth it!MrSpike said:
Me too, I love to finish work on a Friday, have my haircut and have the lady get in the shower with me to wash my hair(she likes to be thorough), then onto a full body massage with happy ending to clean the pipes. (just don't tell the wife).
Something for the weekend Sir? 
MrSpike said:
Me too, I love to finish work on a Friday, have my haircut and have the lady get in the shower with me to wash my hair(she likes to be thorough), then onto a full body massage with happy ending to clean the pipes. (just don't tell the wife).
Pray do tell where this wondrous place is?
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