Though finances were tight, I always considered my weekly massage a worthy investment for my physical, emotional, and spiritual well-being. The freedom of shedding my clothes and letting someone knead every part of my body was something I cherished.
However, as life unfolded—leading to the sale of my house—I found myself busier than ever. Navigating family court and transforming my writing from a pastime into a profession that helped cover my bills meant my “me” time had to adapt. I gradually cut back on outings, reducing my weekly massage to once a month and eventually to just once every three months.
Despite the changes, I still looked forward to my spa visits. Although they became more spontaneous, I was always glad I made the decision to go.
Recently, while driving home, I spotted a spa I had never noticed before, just ten minutes from my residence. It appeared inviting and tranquil, so I decided to check it out. I turned around at the next intersection, parked, and approached the entrance. The neon sign flickering outside made me pause—it’s typically not a good omen, but I was already there. How bad could it be?
As I opened the door, a cheerful chime announced my arrival. Suddenly, a woman popped up from behind the counter like a life-sized jack-in-the-box. She was an Asian woman in her 50s, her face lighting up with a wide grin. She quickly took my coat and led me down a dimly lit hallway flanked by curtained rooms. At the end, she opened a curtain and motioned for me to come in.
“How much for an hour?” I inquired.
“Sixty dollars,” she replied.
I handed her $100, tipping upfront because I believed it enhanced the service I would receive. She thanked me with a smile and instructed me to undress and lie face down on the table. The room was softly lit by candles, accompanied by calming music that enveloped me as I settled in.
When the masseuse returned, I was already naked, positioned on the table. The massage began like many others—she asked about my preferred pressure and started on my upper back. My body relaxed into the table as she made her way down, showing no hesitation as she focused on my buttocks and inner thighs. I couldn’t deny that it felt good, so I simply enjoyed the moment.
When she asked me to flip over, she seemed even less concerned about my nudity. I figured I’d just go with the flow and see where it led. As the session progressed, I realized this was indeed a legitimate massage parlor, and she was simply dedicated to her craft, giving every inch of my body the attention it deserved.
The alarm buzzed, signaling the end of our time together. She concluded the massage with a series of gentle hand chops across my body. “Would you like some water?” she asked as she prepared to leave. I nodded, appreciative. After putting on my underwear and pants, I was slipping on my shirt when she returned with a Styrofoam cup.
I took the water, complimented her on the massage, and thanked her again. Standing just a foot away, she smiled silently, and then—out of nowhere—she leaned in to kiss me.
What in the world? My mind raced to comprehend the situation. I hadn’t expected this! As she moved closer, wrapping her arms around me, I felt the urgency to respond. Not wanting to offend, I closed my eyes and leaned in for what I thought would be a peck, aiming for the corner of her mouth to keep it from being too awkward.
That’s when I realized her hands were adjusting the collar of my shirt. Oh no! She wasn’t trying to kiss me; she was helping me get dressed.
Quickly pulling back, she forced a smile as I stood there, frozen in embarrassment. I made a hasty exit past the curtain and bolted out of the spa, racing to my car.
I haven’t returned since.
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Summary
A routine massage visit took an unexpected turn when the masseuse attempted to kiss the author, who misinterpreted her gesture. After a moment of awkwardness, the author quickly left the spa, deciding not to return.