The Massage Was Not What I Booked

There are moments in a man’s life when he knows he has made a mistake.

Usually, the signs are obvious.

You’ve driven into the wrong driveway. You’ve ordered the extra-hot curry after three beers. You’ve replied “love you too” to somebody who definitely wasn’t your wife.

For me, the moment came when a very attractive woman wearing considerably less clothing than my usual massage therapist quietly locked the door behind me.

I should probably start at the beginning.

My back had been killing me for weeks.

Too much driving, too much sitting at a desk and, according to my wife, too many years of believing that stretching was something other people did.

So on Friday afternoon I decided enough was enough.

I searched for a massage place near work, found one only a few streets away and rang the number.

“Massage available?”

“Yes.”

“Today?”

“Yes.”

“Six o’clock?”

“Yes.”

Perfect.

That was pretty much the entire conversation.

In hindsight, perhaps I should have asked one or two additional questions.

At 5:58 pm I pulled into a little group of shops I had driven past hundreds of times.

There was a Thai restaurant, a laundromat, a convenience store and, tucked around the side, a small massage shop with tinted windows.

I looked at my phone.

This had to be it.

I walked inside.

The reception area was dimly lit. There was soft music playing and enough candles burning to suggest either relaxation or a minor fire-code violation.

A woman appeared from behind a curtain.

“Massage?”

“Yep. Six o’clock.”

She smiled.

“You booked?”

“I rang earlier.”

Another smile.

“This way.”

So far, so good.

I followed her down a narrow hallway.

There were several closed doors and I remember thinking the place seemed surprisingly busy for a therapeutic massage clinic.

She opened a room.

“Take clothes off.”

That stopped me for approximately half a second.

At my normal massage place they usually say something dignified like, “Undress to your comfort level.”

But perhaps this place was simply more efficient.

I took off my shirt.

She looked at me.

“Everything.”

Ah.

Now, this should have been the second major warning.

Instead my brain somehow decided this was probably just how they did things here.

“Righto.”

I got under the towel.

A few minutes later she returned.

The massage started normally enough.

Shoulders.

Back.

Neck.

And I have to say, she was very good.

For the first ten minutes I congratulated myself on finding a hidden gem.

Then things started becoming… less physiotherapy.

The massage drifted progressively further south.

At one point I actually lifted my head from the table.

“Sorry, just my lower back is the main problem.”

“Yes,” she said cheerfully.

And continued doing absolutely nothing near my lower back.

This was the moment when several pieces of information finally joined together inside my head.

Tinted windows.

Candles.

Minimal clothing.

The locked door.

“Everything.”

I suddenly realised there was a very strong possibility that Google and I had had a misunderstanding.

She leaned forward.

“You relax.”

That sentence did not make me relax.

Instead I started mentally reconstructing my afternoon.

Had I called the wrong number?

Was the therapeutic place next door?

Had I just walked confidently into somewhere completely different and announced that I had a six o’clock appointment?

Then came the question that removed all doubt.

She quietly asked whether I wanted the massage to include an “extra”.

There are probably sophisticated men who know exactly how to handle that situation.

Men who travel extensively.

Men who wear linen shirts.

Men who understand the difference between various kinds of massage before entering the building.

I am not one of those men.

I responded with the remarkably intelligent:

“Extra what?”

She laughed.

Not a small laugh either.

The woman genuinely found me hilarious.

Then she explained, using considerably fewer words than I apparently required.

“Oh.”

There was a silence.

My brain was now having a full committee meeting.

One department was screaming that I had accidentally walked into an erotic massage parlour.

Another department was reminding me that my wife was expecting me home shortly.

A third department, which frankly should never be allowed to vote on important decisions, was pointing out that I had already paid for the hour.

I stared at the floor through the little hole in the massage table.

This was supposed to fix my back.

How had things deteriorated this badly?

Eventually curiosity, embarrassment and whatever strange logic operates inside the male brain reached some sort of agreement.

What happened next shall remain between me, the massage therapist and a receipt that simply says:

“60 MINUTES — $90.”

I will say only this.

My back still hurt.

I drove home sitting unusually upright.

My wife asked whether the massage had helped.

I looked her directly in the eye.

“Not really.”

“Waste of money then?”

There are questions in marriage that require honesty.

And there are questions where survival depends upon recognising that your wife does not actually require additional information.

I nodded.

“Yeah. Probably won’t go back.”

She shrugged.

“You should try the place next door. Sarah from work says they’re really good.”

I froze.

“Next door?”

“Yeah. The therapeutic massage place. Wasn’t that where you went?”

I looked at her.

Then I looked at the ceiling.

And somewhere in the distance, I swear I could hear that massage therapist laughing.

Apparently my back wasn’t the only thing that needed straightening out.