Even when finances were strained, I always found my weekly massage to be a worthwhile investment. It served as a therapeutic escape for my body, mind, and spirit. There’s something liberating about shedding your clothes and allowing someone to knead every part of you.
However, as life unfolded—especially after selling my house—my schedule became increasingly hectic. We navigated the complexities of family court, and my writing transitioned from a casual pastime to a fulfilling career that paid the bills. Naturally, during such a transitional phase, my precious “me” time dwindled. My outings to the movies became less frequent, and my weekly massages were reduced to monthly, then quarterly visits.
Despite these changes, I still cherished the moments at the spa. Though now they were often spontaneous, I always left feeling rejuvenated.
Recently, while driving home, I stumbled upon a spa I had never noticed before, just ten minutes from my house. It looked inviting and serene from the outside. I thought, why not? I had a few hours to kill. I turned around at the next intersection, parked, and found the entrance. A neon sign flickered, which usually raised some red flags for me—ironic, isn’t it? But I was already there, and what’s the worst that could happen?
As I opened the door, a cheerful chime announced my arrival. Suddenly, a woman appeared behind the counter, seemingly out of nowhere. She was an Asian woman in her fifties with a wide smile. Without hesitation, she took my coat and guided me down a dimly lit hallway lined with curtain-covered rooms. At the end of the hall, she opened a curtain and gestured for me to enter.
“How much for an hour?” I inquired.
“Sixty dollars,” she replied.
I handed her $100—my usual practice of tipping upfront for better service. She beamed with gratitude. Once inside the room, she instructed me to undress and lie face down. The ambiance was soothing—dim lighting, candles flickering, and soft music enveloping the space.
Once she left, I followed her instructions. By the time my masseuse returned, I was ready, lying naked on the table. The massage began like many before: she asked about my pressure preference and started on my upper back with oil. I felt my tension melt away as she moved down my body. To my surprise, she was quite bold, spending considerable time on my lower back and inner thighs. Honestly, I was enjoying it, so I just relaxed into the experience.
When it was time to flip over, she seemed even less reserved. I wasn’t even sure the towel was properly draped. But hey, I thought, I’ll just see how this goes. As the minutes passed, it became clear that this was a legitimate massage, and my expectations for anything more faded; she simply took her job seriously.
Eventually, I heard the alarm signaling the end of my session. She finished with some gentle hand chops across my body. “Would you like some water?” she asked as she was leaving. I nodded, grateful.
After dressing, I was just buttoning my shirt when she returned with a Styrofoam cup of water. I thanked her for the wonderful massage, and she smiled silently, standing close to me.
Then, unexpectedly, she leaned in to kiss me. My mind raced: What was happening? I didn’t want to be rude, but I certainly wasn’t interested in kissing my masseuse. As she closed the distance, I instinctively leaned in too, trying to aim for a friendly peck.
That’s when I realized—her hands were adjusting the collar of my shirt, not trying to kiss me at all. I had misinterpreted her gesture completely! She pulled back, a forced smile on her face, and I felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me. Without another word, I bolted past the curtain and out of the spa, racing to my car, not looking back.
I haven’t returned since.
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In summary, my visit to the spa took an unexpected turn, leaving me with a funny tale rather than the relaxation I sought. It was a reminder of how easily misunderstandings can happen and how quickly things can escalate.