Though finances were tight, I always considered my weekly massage a worthwhile investment for my physical, emotional, and spiritual well-being. There’s something liberating about shedding your clothes and allowing someone to work on every part of your body. However, as life unfolded—especially after selling my house—my schedule became increasingly hectic. Navigating family court took precedence, and writing transitioned from a casual pursuit into a paying gig. As a result, my cherished “me” time took a hit; movie nights dwindled, and my weekly massage transformed into a monthly luxury, eventually becoming a quarterly treat.
I still eagerly anticipated my visits to the spa, even if they became more spontaneous. One day while driving home, I spotted a spa I hadn’t noticed before—just ten minutes from my home. It appeared inviting and tranquil, prompting me to take a detour. Why not indulge? I turned around and pulled into a private parking lot. Upon entering, a ding-dong sound announced my presence, and suddenly, a woman popped up from behind the counter, almost like a life-sized jack-in-the-box. She was in her 50s, Asian, and greeted me with a wide smile.
“Welcome! How can I help you?” she asked, taking my coat and guiding me down a dimly lit hallway lined with rooms draped in curtains. At the end, she swung open one of the curtains and gestured me inside.
“How much for an hour?” I inquired.
“Sixty dollars,” she replied.
I handed her $100, preferring to tip upfront for better service. After thanking me, she instructed me to undress and lie face down. The room was softly illuminated by candles, with soothing music wafting through the air. Once she left, I quickly got undressed and settled onto the massage table. I caught a glimpse of my masseuse as she entered; she appeared to be female, slightly older than me, and Asian—with dim lighting making it difficult to see more.
The massage began, just like countless others before it. After inquiring whether I preferred a soft or firm touch, she started working on my upper back. My body melted into the table as she gradually moved down. Let’s just say, she was quite assertive, spending an unusual amount of time on my backside and inner thighs. I couldn’t deny it felt good, so I surrendered to the experience. When she asked me to flip over, I was surprised by her lack of modesty regarding my nudity, leaving me unsure if the towel was even placed correctly.
As the minutes passed, I began to realize this was indeed a legitimate establishment, and nothing untoward was about to happen; she simply took her work very seriously and massaged every inch of me. Eventually, the timer buzzed, signaling the end of our session. She delivered a few final hand chops across my body.
“Would you like some water?” she asked as she exited.
I nodded, pleased. After dressing, I was just pulling on my shirt when she returned with a Styrofoam cup. I gratefully accepted the water, thanked her for the excellent massage, and she just smiled, standing close by.
Then, unexpectedly, she leaned in to kiss me. My mind raced—what was happening? As her arms wrapped around me, I panicked. I didn’t want to be rude, but making out with my mature masseuse wasn’t on my agenda. In a split-second decision, I leaned in, aiming for a quick peck on the corner of her lips, trying to avoid any awkwardness.
But that’s when I felt it—her hands adjusting my collar. Oh my gosh! She wasn’t trying to kiss me; she was helping me get dressed! A forced smile broke across her face as she pulled back, and I realized I had misinterpreted the entire moment. Mortified, I bolted past the curtain and rushed out the door, making a beeline for my car.
I haven’t returned since.
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Summary:
A therapeutic weekly massage becomes a sporadic luxury for Jamie as life changes. An unexpected turn of events at a new spa leads to a comical misunderstanding with a masseuse that leaves Jamie embarrassed and reconsidering future visits.
Keyphrase: Massage experience gone wrong
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