The Phuket Return - The Oil Massage Debacle

There are several events in life that are calendar marked for mental scarring, like having your nose kicked, buffet lunches with Whales and saying your wedding vows. Given the theatrical vividity of the last oil massage, I’m safely adding that to the list.

When we decided on having a massage with Seiko and Michie, we failed to anticipate several important considerations. Being,

1. LB and I were very badly burnt as a consequence of a day by the beach without the pharmaceutical prescription of sun-block. ‘Skin cancer’ might be a myth like dengue fever and Eskimos, despite what Discovery Channel says, but sun burnt is VERY real.

2. Oil massage attire.

3. Quality of masseuse. By that I’m strictly judging on ample figure, decent looks and fingers so amazingly strong, they could massage a Peugeot into a Maserati.

LB and I finally opted for an oil massage. It was the only logical option since it was humanely impossible to tolerate a rub without lubrication, especially when our backs threatened to bleed and break out in blisters. Paying for the laundry charges is not an option.

The lady led us to the beds, drew the curtains and instructed us to change out of our clothes. We stripped to our boxers only to be corrected again that we needed to be naked. If I ever did frown when I discovered I had to strip completely, I might have cried when I discovered my masseuse was the same auntie that made my bed. If this was Singapore, her day job could have been counter duties at Macdonald’s.

The only thing that consoled me was LB’s masseuse, which turned out to be a man. The thought of having another man run his fingers down my back and round my groin was inconceivably preposterous. The only other option for this is suicide. I’m not homophobic, but my body is a sacred temple, which I will only allow alcohol and women to pillage.

When my masseuse worked the lower thigh, I swore I felt her fingers periodically brush against my nuts. Her fingers were continuously pulling off near my ass-crack and she had the tendency to work tirelessly on my inner thighs.

While this wasn’t a solicitation for sex (I know for sure. I had an offer from some girl for a free massage in exchange for fucking her the following day. True story.), the only thing that was keeping the erotic value of this from escalating, was that I was giggling from watching the guy do the same to LB.

It was hilarious because I knew how homophobic LB gets and I was amazed that he hadn’t once jumped out of bed or yelled incomprehensible profanities at the guy. If my masseuse massaged my ass, the guy would massage LB’s ass 30 seconds later, so if my lady cupped my nuts, I knew I only needed 30 seconds before LB was going to throw a punch.

Suddenly, I was relieved and almost guilty of elation that was laced with so much sadism, that I almost felt bad for laughing at LB’s plight. For the first time, I was so happy to have my masseuse that I was prepared to let her blow me for free. Eyes closed, lights out and a paper bag over her head of course.

Seiko and Michie were giggling so loudly from the opposite beds that I wondered if their cubicles came with complimentary dildos. I was still grinning at LB and he was still pretending to be sleeping. This was going to be his longest hour ever,

When it finally ended and the two masseuse left the cubicle, LB rose with so much contempt on his face, I knew the barrage of profanities would punctuate every sentence he unleashed.

LB: “Na bei chee bye. WHERE THE FUCK DID THE GUY COME FROM?!?! WHY WAS THERE A FUCKNG GUY MASSAGING ME?!”

Me: “HHAHAHAHA..did you…Did you get an erection? HAHAHA”

LB: “FUCK YOU UNDERSTAND!”