I’d decided on the title for this post before writing even one word. The title would determine the structure of the piece, as well as laying the ground for a minor surprise, so I was pleased.
Then it occurred to me that “happy ending,” which I thought was common parlance with regard to massage, might not be a widely known phrase. Let me define it for those who don’t know. A "happy ending" to a massage means that the client is rubbed or stroked to orgasm. This is, of course, not the usual way massages conclude, but in popular culture, many jokes about massage involve “happy endings.”
Over the years, I’ve had maybe two dozen traditional massages, especially on vacations. I’ve been massaged on a beach in Guadeloupe and in a rain forest in Costa Rica and in a storefront in Cambodia. The three massages I will write about here took place in less exotic locales.
In my early forties, I sometimes had backaches, so I went to a massage therapist in the Catskill Mountains named Helen. She called her business Healing Hands. Helen was a soothing, no-nonsense woman of about fifty. She left the darkened massage room while I took off all my clothes and got under the sheet on the massage table. Then she came back to the room and applied oil to my back, rubbing it in with upward strokes. It was a huge relief to just lie there passively while her firm, gentle hands pressed down on my flesh. Soon, she would drawl, “So, how are you doing?”
And at that laconic phrase, I would tell her. While she kneaded my arms from shoulders to wrists, I would talk about my husband, my children, my writing, my friends. She would pummel my buttocks, rub my calves, hold my feet and pull my toes. I told her my dreams.
Was this what psychotherapy was like? It was certainly less expensive, and each time I left, I was utterly relaxed.
Recently, I had a very different kind of massage on the East End of Long Island. I entered a large, darkened room, with many massage tables and masseurs. Soft music played; the plucking of stringed instruments was the only sound I heard. A young Asian man (one of several) wordlessly led me to a table, and soon I was face down, with my nose in the U-shaped hole. Only my shoes had come off. He placed a cloth batting on my back and massaged me right through the batting and my shirt.
Even through all that, his hands were too forceful. He was hurting me. I’m quite petite, after all, and I don’t have much meat on my bones. “Could you be more gentle?” I asked. “Less strong?” He didn’t understand, so I repeated myself. He brought in another masseur to translate.
I was worried that to punish me for criticizing him, the massage would now be too tentative, too weak, but it wasn’t.
It was skillful. It was firm and deep and no doubt therapeutic, though I wasn’t sure if the masseur was discovering bruises or creating bruises or relieving bruises. But it was so impersonal.
When he got to my neck and applied a little oil with his fingers, I realized that I’d missed the human touch. A massage is certainly possible with layers of cloth between hand and back, but it isn’t as satisfying. There’s just something lost when it’s not skin to skin. And when you can’t talk.
The third massage took place a long time ago, when I was visiting my younger sister, who lives in London. I’d just arrived that day, and, as often happens when travelling, I felt a cold coming on. “I’ll get rid of that,” said my sister, who excels at many things. “You need a massage.”
Everybody has their own pre-cold syndrome, and mine was just kicking in. My nose was dripping and I was burping. How maddening to get a cold the day I arrived! I didn’t see how a massage would stop the inevitable progression.
“Lie down!” she insisted, so I lay down on her bed. She began to press my back, gently at first, but soon not gently at all.
“Stop, that hurts!”
She didn’t listen to my cries of protest.
“Really, that’s too hard!”
She did not relent, even when my groans turned to screams. I endured the pain as long as I could. “That’s enough!” I finally said, sitting up. “This is agony.”
I’ve never let her near my back again.
But I never got the cold. It simply went away.
The story has a happy ending.
If I turned out to be a good dinner guest, especially while experiencing a bad case of gout, it was purely accidental. Or maybe you weren't paying full attention and gave me the benefit of the doubt. 'As for your ideas of pleasure--being touched, experiencing the beautiful, etc.--I'm against it. Curmudgeonism is my official philosophical stance. Anti-pleasure is where I stand--and I don't stand for much. In fact, sitting, not standing, is for me the truest pleasure. So throw more pleasures my way and I'll do my best to bat them down. You think me shallow? You're right: I am DEEPLY shallow. Therein lies my depth. Any wonder people don't invite me to parties anymore?--not that they ever did. Boy, just writing all this gives me pleasure. And I'm against that! I think I'll spend the rest of the day, if not my life, not moving. Ah, I feel good already and how I hate that.
You sure do a lot of traveling just to be touched by a stranger. I've had exactly one massage in my life--forced into it, of course, by someone who thought it would do me good. As with most things others think would do me good, it gave me the creeps. An invasion of my body. Being stoned, drunk, etc. is enough for me. I never felt better than on Exstacy. So much so I even proposed marriage under its spell to a woman who repulsed me in every way I could be repulsed (oddly, one of my better relationships; go figure). I may be a warped individual, but like I say about so many major flaws I brag about, ya got it, flaunt it. I may be in the minority, but I wear that as a badge of honor. No wonder I don't get invited to parties anymore; not that I ever did. Why are you so obsessed with pleasure? Sheer consciousness is pleasure enough. Anyone care to invite me to dinner--or worse, a party? I strongly recommend you don't.
Cheerful as always.