Back to the brothel

You’ve seen the “massage parlors” or “spas.” You’re just smart enough not to go to them.

There’s a place like this near me. Once, a couple years ago, I called it. It had a Hawaiian name, and I love Hawaii. I called and asked for an appointment. “For what?” the woman asked. “Um, for a massage?” I said. “Very busy,” she said. “You call again tomorrow.” She then hung up on me.

“It’s not really a massage place, honey,” McIrish explained.

“But it says massage on the sign,” said I.

“Yeah. But it’s not.”

My beloved, perfect, wonderful, actually certified massage therapist retired a while ago, and since then, I haven’t been able to find someone as good as he was. He’s built like a professional wrestler, and he was fascinated with how hard my shoulder muscles are. “You sure this doesn’t hurt?” he’d say, grinding an elbow into my muscle.

“Harder,” I’d wheeze.

“I tell my CrossFit clients about you. You have the hardest muscles I’ve ever seen. You’re a freak.”

“I get that a lot,” I would say. “Can you go any harder?”

Sadly (for me), Rick went and fell in love with a woman from another country, and so I’ve been left going to random massage therapists and inevitably leaving dissatisfied, as no one but Rick has had the strength to grind my muscles into a semblance of normal. I don't want the scented oils and candles and singing bowls, though that's all very nice. I just want someone's elbow and a determination to defeat my rhomboid major.

However, a few weeks ago, I had a really bad muscle spasm in my back. This happens from time to time, where my muscle seizes like a rusted old engine, and it hurts like a railroad spike is being driven into my shoulder blade. I can barely turn my head, which makes driving a little fraught. The only thing that works is someone’s elbow in that spot and about 150 pounds of pressure. Rick viewed me as a personal challenge, but most real massage therapists don’t like me, because I keep saying “Harder, harder,” like I’m in some porno, and they’re already doing their best.

And so this day, sweating in pain, I pulled into the place with the Hawaiian name. Its windows are completely covered with fading posters of palm trees, so you can’t see inside, but the parking lot was empty. I went to the door. It was locked. I knocked. No one answered, though the neon sign declared it open. I knocked again. The door was opened a crack, and I saw two very pretty women peeking out at me. “What you want?” one asked. English was not their first language.

“Um, a massage?” I suggested.

“We very busy.”

“Are you?” I asked. They consulted with each other in their native tongue, reminding me of that joke: "What do you call someone who only speaks one language? American."

“Come back in half hour,” she said and closed the door in my face.

A word about these women. One had very long, very dyed blonde hair and enormous false eyelashes. The other was wearing a see-through white blouse and glittery bra. Both wore high heels. They were in their twenties and very pretty. I think we can all agree that they were not certified massage therapists.

Did I mention I was desperate? I went back to my car, listened to an audiobook for half an hour, and knocked again. The two women answered. “Very busy,” Eyelashes said. “You get half hour.” She and Blondie exchanged some sentences in their native tongue, and I was shoved into a room. I got the feeling they didn’t want other clients to see me.

I explained that I was having a muscle spasm and needed only one spot worked on. “Yeah, yeah,” said Eyelashes. She started massaging my arms. “Nope,” I said. “Just this spot. Right here.” I pointed to my shoulder where my muscle was actively spasming. “That’s all. Please.”

She started again with the neck. “Please,” I said. “Just this spot. I only have half an hour, and this is all I need. Very deep pressure, please.”

She sighed and did as I asked. “Your muscles very hard and tight,” she said. “Yes,” I said. “That’s why I’m here.”

For the next few minutes, she leaned her bony little elbow into my rock-hard muscle, and the spasm started to ease. “Good for you?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, hard for me!” she said.

Harder than her, ah, typical clients, I wondered? I mean, maybe. After all, I didn’t really know what she did for a living. She continued to work on my shoulder, and at the end of my thirty minutes, the spasm was over, and I could once again turn my head. “Thank you so much,” I said.

“Eighty dollars,” she said, and I choked a little but paid, and added a big tip, which softened her regard for me considerably. “You come back,” she said. “You good tipper.”

I have not gone back, readers. But if that muscle starts acting up again, I might.