The Massage, 7/24
Michael Altschul
habitude of saying, "No." Tonight I found myself in this unfortunate
situation. Last night and all day today, I'd hear cries of one-hour
massages for $5, to which I'd just gotten used to shaking my head and
responding with a, "No, tidak." But this evening was different. I
truly wanted, needed even, a massage. After a long day, I was
exhausted...a massage would rejuvenate me!
What I dreaded, however, was some awkward, happy-ending situation.
For moral, relationship, health reasons, I have no interest in the
frequent calls of, "You like ladies?" Hell yeah I like ladies. But do
I want a lady?? Yes, but lady's 16 hours away so bugger off.
I was tense leading up to this trip. 2 months of long, challenging
16-hours days will do that to a fella. I've needed a massage for
about ten months and even when my generous, former company comp'd me a
massage, I couldn't even find the time. Now I have nothing but time
(how I've dreamed of this month!), so I could let the massage pass me
by.
So at 8pm, I set out on my massage quest. I brought along my handy
translation book just in case things took a wrong (errr...straight?)
turn. I practiced three different ways of explaining that I wanted
only a massage. En route, I ran into a couple Brazilian buddies who
had given me a ride from the airport into Kuta. There were on cloud
9, having just sold their surfboards. "One drink and I'm out...I'm on
a mission." They were wrapping up their 3-week stay, so surely that
could provide some insight. Alas, they were more timid than I, never
having indulged in the massage for the very reason that I was
terrified. I was on my own.
Two beers later, it was do-or-die time. I secured my belongings,
practiced, "No, I'm not interested in sex, thanks," and ventured to a
legit-looking salon. I asked how much. "70,000" I waited. "55,000"
That was about 5000 above the going rate, but whatever. She seemed
nice and didn't have the same freakish demeanor of some of the other
masseuses. I was seated in one of the 25 open leather chairs,
shuffled around, and grabbed the Aussie equivalent of US Weekly. When
I looked up, Bako greeted me and started massaging my feet. "Hmmmm, I
reckon this guy is just the foot washer." Then he began wringing out
my feet. "Ah, Bako must be on foot duty." After 10 minutes, he was
really taking it to my little piggies. Strange. "So, uh, you give me
massage? All hour?" He meekly smiled and confirmed my suspicion. Wow.
So Bako is a man. And Bako the man will give me a massage. Bako
will be giving me today's massage. Okay. I tired to rationalize it.
"My best massage ever came from a dude." "Guys are stronger and can
really dig the knots out." "I knew that the lady calls for 'massage'
would result in in male masseur anyhow." But somehow I felt cheated,
betrayed, duped. I hid the hysterical laughter behind the Aussie US
Weekly...three times. The irony had been shellacked on heavier than
the polyurethane coating on the tables at Michelangelo's. A dude.
After all that wondering, all those worries, all that preparation. A
dude. A moment of panic hit when I considered that I might have to
decline a happy ending yet...from the dude. Did they think I was gay?
But the panic quickly subsided when I realized that I was seated in
the storefront, in plain view from the street. I'd be okay.
My male ego oddly bruised, my balls unscathed, I tried to enjoy the
remaining 45 minutes of massage time in the capable hands of Bako.