Keeping the layers
So here it is, something that has been bugging me since the moment I walked in to the day spa on my recent holiday, for my amazingly
well deserved generous 70 minute (SEVENTY F”ING MINUTES, you beauty!!!) massage session my mother in law organised for me. Oh, the serenity. When I walked into what looked like a Balanese style haven (not that I have been to Bali, nor actually fancy on going there to be quite honest) I immediately felt all zen and stuff. I was offered some sort of herbal tea that would completely make me pass wind, mid massage (hello I had two children!) which I wasn’t going to drink, but you kind of feel rude not to and was then told my therapist (therapist?) will be over to collect me shortly. So there I was, all zen and just scrolling through insta, oozing into my chair just at the thought of the fact I was actually away from my kids, I was alone, except for a couple sitting across from me who rudely told their therapist ” Umm, we don’t want a male, I am sure we booked for two women therapists, not a man!” whom they basically told to this well qualified and professional zen mans face. How rude!
Just as I was about to ‘like’ one of my own photos (don’t judge, I had 299 on that post that obviously my readers were all like “lets leave her hanging” too shay) a short, olive skin, blue eyed, long hair tied up in a loose bun, french man calls my name. Immediately all zen-ness fell off me, I was confused, tried not to make any sort of facial expression that indicated “Umm, I don’t want a male, I am sure I booked a woman, not a man!” so I stood up, told him that yes, I am indeed Jessica and followed him to his
sex den massage room of zen, all whilst avoiding eye contact with the couple across from me (did we just do a swapsy of therapists?) OMG, seventy fucking minutes!!!!!!!
On the front of the room door he was leading me to had a sign on the outside with “‘Pierre & Jessica” holy crap, did I accidentally discover a brothel? No wonder there were several women in their 50’s walking out all dreamy eyed! I recited the words a wise old man once said, ok, it was Grandpa Simpson, when he taught Homer to “play it cool with the ladies” but in this situation, I had to just play cool, don’t freak out and pretend like this is ok, he is a professional
gigalo masseuse .
“Hi, I am Pierre, how are you today?”
“Oh yeah good, just tired because my kids keep waking up so early. Yeah, my kids are just non stop, yeah my two boys, my husband has them now which is good, yeah, husband”
“So, I will weave you to get undwest now Jess”
Jess?! What happened to Jessica? This shit is real! Play it cool Jesso, get undressed, quickly text your sister in law and tell her you got a male masseuse, in the hope for a screaming ghost emoji in return, get that bra off, hide it so he doesn’t see it and lay face down on that bed.
Pierre, the french speaking, professional therapist/masseuse man, man, man came back into the room, asked if I was comfortable and pulled my towel down off my back, down to my bum, pulled my undies down a tad and tucked the towel into them, safe to say, my crack was out. He doesn’t mess around this fella does he, straight for the kill! Play it cool. I was wondering when he would decide to dim the lights and put on some whale, ocean music. This didn’t happen, the entire massage was in full day light baby, as was my ass. Ok, if I had known I was going to be ass up and felt up today, I would have done three things. The first: shaved, second: plucked those random nipple hairs that I don’t have and third: ummm not have drank that bloody herbal-fart-making-tea! (two kids I tells ya!)
My tactic was simple, play it cool and pretend he is a woman, drift off and just try and enjoy it. This thought process actually worked for me, you know how powerful thoughts can be, I kept my eyes closed (so I didn’t spot his manly feet) and just melted into the massage, dreamt of the ocean and lying on the sand and those hands working on my aching child carrying body, some much deserved time out for me, agh! oh shit, oh shit, was that? woah, again, was that, a boob grab? what is this technique? he has soft hands, he has soft hands, he must do this every day, its his job! a side of torso rotating hand stretching my side to my back, quick boob touch all whilst crack in air? gee mister, you broke my zen like my son broke my pelvic floor, I just have to ride this one out like turbulence. Ahhh that was over, he walks away to lube up some more, lifts the towel back up to cover my back and then, well, pretty much dacks me (pulls undies half way down) and says to me
“relax your glutes”
“relax your glutes, let them go”
Holy crap balls batman!
My massage ended after 70 long, bright and exposed minutes. It was a good massage, he was actually amazing, but, because he was a man, I could not stop thinking about it. If he was a woman, I would walk out saying, how 10/10 it was but here, the sexist tables were turned and I just didn’t feel comfortable with a male touching my body. This story was my experience and exactly what was running though my mind through this whole process. The reality is, this professional man, who had soft silky hands, does this for a living and would only see his boob grabbing bum exposing as all part and parcel of the job (I hope). I tell you, a woman’s thoughts can take you on a hilarious journey, thats for sure.
On a side note: This Friday 13th is the Very Special Kids Fashion Sale at Malvern town Hall in Melbourne from 5pm. All proceeds go to VSK and all the garments sold are brand new with tags and from your fav brands! I picked up some Witchery pieces last year and an Anna Sui dress!