Rub...No Tug

This weekend I received my first Thai massage. It was actually my first massage of any type, unless you include siting in one of those high-tech Lazy Boys in Brookstone for a few moments during middle school before my friends and I were inevitably asked to leave for being general nuisances and jackasses.

Massages have been something I've avoided to be honest. When people get too close during a conversation or sit next to you on the bus or subway or push up against you in a line everyone complains. People spend a lot of time avoiding these types of contact, railing against invasions into personal space. So not only inviting a stranger into mine, but paying them to do so, seemed a little backwards.

There is also something about the massage parlor themselves. The tables that an uncountable number of people have laid on, fake flowers, pale shades of pink paint, the pillows far too may heads have rested on. Even the name, parlor, has some vulgarity, an unsanitary feeling to it that I find incredibly uncomfortable.

Nonetheless, a visiting fellow teacher talked to me about how great it was, so eventually I caved to the glowing reviews and we found a respectable looking place to go get one done.

Entering , the smell was unavoidable. It was though someone has slathered Vick's Vapor Rub over my face, I imagine if I ever took up residency in an over sized breath mint or menthol cough drop the experience would be somewhat similar.

Immediately I was given a pair of thin cotton pants to change into that looked like something a new age yoga instructor or David Carradine in his pre auto erotic asphyxiation Kung Fu days would have been comfortable wearing.

At first, for some unknown reason, I thought I should wear these without any boxers and had no idea how to tell the front from the back. This lead to me standing in the dressing room and trying to tie them around my waist in a way that wouldn't lead to me completely exposing myself to some unsuspecting Thais.

Eventually I opted to put my boxers back on and emerged from the changing room with the capris haphazardly tied but staying up for the most part.

I took a seat at the end of one of the low beds where an attendant took to washing my feet in a bucket filled with warm water and some floating flowers. Anyone who has ever been put through the visual torture of seeing my feet knows what a horrific task this must have been. They are far too large for anyone not playing basketball at a highly competitive level and bony to the point of looking like a geriatrics frail hand. My toes are longer than the fingers of most carnies and have a simian dexterity that is frightening, coupled with toenails that I'm almost positive the US Army could develop into sometime of bomb-proof armor. The fact that I don't own flip flops means they haven't seen the light of day for months, giving them a shockingly pale almost translucent complexion similar to that of Gollum's skin.

My own mother won't touch them. Hell, I avoid touching them at all costs, but there my Thai masseuse was scrubbing them with a brush and soap, even rubbing between my toes.

She toweled off my feet and I was told to lay on my back. This was easy enough, except my ankles and feet hung off the bed. After some quick rearranging by the masseuse I was fitting on the bed better and she got down to work, starting on my legs where I found the sensation of my thighs being squeezed far more tension inducing then relaxing.

As she moved up my body I was pulled, shoved, twisted and stretched into a number of positions by this petite Thai lady who struggled to push my wildly inflexible limbs into contortions they refused and at times acted like I was engaged in more of a wrestling match than a massage, a fact highlighted by the back popping full nelson she held me in as she made her way towards my head and neck. It took and hour and the entire time I found myself nervously dreading the ending.

Yes, the part everyone is waiting for, where all the stories of the Asian massage parlor come true and I'm treated to infamous, well lubed "Happy Ending," complete with a sensual crooning of "Me love you long time," in my ear. I'm sorry to disappoint but none of this happened, not even a hint of it. Just a tap on the shoulder and a "Thank you."

I must say I don't think I'm good at getting massages if that is at all possible. I may have the look of Stretch Armstrong or Gumby, but flexibility is not something I pride myself on. My awkwardly lanky frame seemed a bit, well, just that, too fucking lanky for the whole thing. Maybe I need to go to Sweden and see how they do it there.