Specifically in Chinatown? Look at that! Ten massage parlors all within a four-block radius. A bit odd there are so many, but okay. Finishing off my th hot-cross bun, washed down with Guinness, I entered a sort of nondescript parlor beneath a sign with the words MASSAGE illuminated in neon red lights. The place reminded me a little of the no-frills acupuncture school I sometimes visit in Venice at home in California. She marched in, shooting Red a curt nod, then turned to me.
The first clinical and imperious, the second purring and kittenish. She stomped right past me and down a flight of stairs. I thought. Very un-PC and racial profile-y.
I felt relieved to see a standard-issue massage table with the appropriate trimmings of paper and cloth sheets. Shimura reentered, snapping her ipod into a stand, the requisite shimmery, yogic music began and I relaxed. Shimura began massaging my neck, shoulders and spine. Her technique left something to be desired. Was this normal? Did everyone here have entirely exposed buttocks for their butt massage? Maybe this was like that Korean spa on Western where thickset Korean women with arms like tree trucks flay your entirely naked body with sea salt before they hose you down like fish on a wharf?
Her fingers were like a thousand tiny butterflies moving from my shoulders, down my back, over my now blushing butt, down to my toes and back again. And was I imagining it? Or did one of her fingers actually flutter right into the crack of my ass? But I was pretty sure. Perhaps embarrassment had made my fanny go numb? But maybe tickling is a type of massage in some cultures and slightly grazing my blameless anus was an accident?
Before I could ruminate further, it was time to flip over onto my back and I was able to retrieve my sheet and yank it up over me. I tried not to be too obvious about clutching it against my chest like a virgin on her wedding night to an evil Majarajah. Very unobtrusive.
