You walk in. The place is elegantly decorated: sensually and sexually. CLASS-is what its mere existence seems to represent. The receptionist calls to you before you sit. You had not seen her. As usual, you take your time to respond-or sit. Looking. Everyone can tell you have never been here before. What they don’t have to know is that it is your first time inside of a massage parlour -virginity is something we all keep to ourselves. So, you take your time to familiarize yourself with your environment. The receptionist, an impatient little crown, calls to you again. You walk up to her. She plasters a fake smile- which you don’t bother to return- and asks with forced politeness of how she can be of help to you. Like it is not obvious. Just to spite her, you ask for a cup of iced tea. It takes two to play chess. She is annoyed at your answer. She asks of you to take a seat with a more plastic face than you thought possible. Of course, she was your worst enemy at primary school. And of course, such things are hard to let go when she sleeps with your boyfriend just to get back at you because you read hard and paid attention while she sexed hard and got paged.
You don’t care. You had booked in advance. You sit. You are a Mugikuyu: you can afford time if it means learning something you can turn into a business. The sofa screams, “lay on me”: soft, comfy and accommodating. It takes in the shape of your ass and you wonder about the number of ass it accommodates in a day without complaining. Before you can get too comfortable, a nice looking girl with a genuine smile and fake hair approaches you. She has the body of a two penny model and a nice attitude. You smile back, say a “how are you” and hand her your ticket.
“Tantric”, she says looking around. You are pretty sure that she did not find what she was looking for because she has this shocked expression on her face before she asks where your partner is. With a smile and a wink, you inform her that he bailed out last minute. Truth is, you never had one in the first place: you just wanted a wild, unique and out of this world experience. You wanted a Shanghai in Kenya.
She leads you to an empty room and instructs you to undress. You are not used to undressing in front of strangers but you figure out she is a girl, with the same anatomy as you and after all, you went to a boarding school which meant a lot of nude exposure. So you undress. She gives you a once over and gently orders you into a bathroom. She stands just outside of the shower and asks, “Lay or straight?” When you answer “Bi”, she smiles, throws her fake hair back and shouts, “I knew you were interesting”.
Ten minutes later, you are ushered into another room full of scented candles: jasmine, lavender and rose. It reminds you of the forms you filled online. Apparently, somebody read. Someone reads -in a massage parlour- someone does read.
You are shown to a bed and advised to lie on your front. Butt naked. Two pairs of hands fall on you: not roughly but with enough weight to know that you are going to need sometime to recover. Soft velvety hands work on your toes upwards while huge calloused hands work on your shoulders downwards. Silence. Concentration, you were taught, is a point you should never depart from. However, this is one area where concentration is not that zone you can never depart from. You are lost. You no longer know who is doing what, how. You are trying to put out a fire that is burning deep within, threatening to consume all of you and leave with the evidence. A fire you are sure you will not be able to drench. Somewhere, slow music plays out soft. Sooner than you were ready for, you are helped to turn around. You are sure that the fire you are trying (and failing miserably) to contain is burning her hands as well. Her hands slip in to America and back to Atlantis in well calculated moves. They spell EXPERIENCE- the moves. His walk all over Antarctica, through to the Middle East before returning home to Antigua, in random yet well placed moves. Bliss. You open your eyes. He is looking at you. She is staring at a particular spot as though asking for permission.
“May i?” he asks at the same time as she says, “Shall we?”
What you get is his voice: baritone, deep and erotic. Cognition gives room to pleasure. You open your mouth but realize you have no idea what they said.
“I …”
I will just drop this article here.
I wish you all happy festivals. Remember, to give to those who truly deserve for in giving without expecting or glorifying yourself lies the utmost joy of fulfilment.


3 thoughts on “The massage parlour

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