With damp gym clothes hooked on the wall and worn athletic shoes discarded on the floor, I slipped beneath the gauzy cotton, my bumpy silhouette nearly visible through the scant cover. How does a youthful male masseuse from a small town in China view the women's bodies he massages daily, each for an hour or longer? He'd seen plenty by now, including this one, so there was little chance of a subtle stir. Many workers come from small villages back in China. Landing in America, they attend a Los Angeles massage school where their native language is spoken and ancient methods are taught, to provide the ying and yang of massage places in strip malls all over Southern California. During the past six years, I'd entered half a dozen names next to the business title in my contacts list, i.e. Jackie, Linda, Kathy, Tina, George, Lester -- all American versions of given names. All with substantial skills to soothe aching joints and muscles.
With lids lowered, I inhaled and exhaled in rhythmic beats, slowing to a calmer pace. Recent events and future plans drifted from my consciousness. A light tap at the door. "Ok," I said. My current favorite name entered. A soft click blocked out the rest of the world and the last of my extraneous thoughts. Lights lowered to a warmer shade of dark. In quiet anticipation, my weary bones welcomed the gifts that would accompany my deep tissue massage.
The wide Asian hands rested on my shoulders for a mere few seconds before pressing in gentle pulses along one side of my body, which responded in a soft rocking motion like jello. At my ankles, firm tracks reversed course and pulsed up the opposite side. Any worries about warmth melted in a pool of silence, broken only by my breathing and the faint sound of exotic music from a faraway place. More pressure against the filmy sheath, to waken muscles with the therapeutic lullaby, a gentle overture for my ninety-minute retreat into nirvana.
Carefully arranging the drape to expose my back, nimble fingers pushed, probed, and rolled over knotted muscles, body barnacles holding their own in stubborn, stormy revolt from the crevasses of my shoulders and neck. The likely culprits -- too much time on the computer and too much heavy lifting in the garden. More pressure. Whoa. If ever there was a good hurt, this was it, with no small measure of deep yoga breathing required. Lips pressed tight, I teetered on the brink, sucked air through my teeth, had to tell him, "Too hard." A master masseuse, he lightened the pressure and rubbed fast circles to relieve the soreness. His clairvoyant hands traveled to new trouble spots in other territories of carefully draped, exposed skin. Part by part, he pushed, prodded, and rubbed. I breathed deep, blew hard, and released tension, allowing stored stress to give way to calm waves of muscle tissue. When he raised the cover and said, "Please, turn over," act one ended. I was satiated, in a state of deep relaxation from the body work. All my worries and tight muscles on their way to neverland.
Struggling to shift my weight from facedown to face up, I beckoned flaccid muscles to act. Slowly, in stages, I rolled to my backside and took a deep breath to adjust my head, neck, and torso. For the next twenty minutes or so, until an hour was up, it was more of the same -- agony and ecstasy for knots and nirvana. Ahead of time, I requested an extra thirty minutes of pure luxury to focus on my feet. Long and slender, with little meaty cushion to soften the blows of daily use, they begged for attention. The reflexology performed on feet is based on an ancient Chinese technique that links exact locations on the foot to specific body parts, i.e. sinuses, liver, kidneys, ovaries, testes, spine, eyes, heart, etc., When reflexology targets these spots, the associated organs benefit, much like acupuncture trigger points release pain. I relished the sensual pleasure, but clenched my teeth when sturdy digits pressed and probed like well trained screwdrivers to relieve the longterm effects of lifelong abuse -- a broken foot, fallen arch, and neuroma. Again, the challenge of breathing deep and letting go, to ease the ache. In the end, the prize was worth the journey -- hot nubby towels scrubbed over grateful feet, toes snapped in quick succession like string beans, and a warm embrace of thick, heated cloths soothed my soles.
"Thank you, that was amazing," I said, barely audible, eyes still closed.
"Tea or water?" he asked, ever ready to fetch one last pleasure.
"Both please."
The click of the door left me in the bliss of massage afterglow, my body returned to wholeness. One effort at a time, I rose, dressed, and slowly stepped into the hallway to retrace the path back to the front counter where clear water and aromatic tea waited. I sipped the coolness for hydration and the warmth for relaxation, my body and soul now fully refreshed.
Outside, sunlight danced through branches of young leafy trees, in playful joy below puffy white clouds. The afternoon breeze kissed my cheeks hello. Nirvana accompanied me all the way home and throughout the rest of the day, into the night. Restoration and peace, the lovely gifts of an afternoon massage.
