Saturday afternoon, in the comfort of my Raviraj Hotel room, I had what will likely be one of the most memorable experiences of my life. Anju, our Resources Person at the ACM, hooked us ladies up with a practicing masseuse who had offered to give us all one-hour Indian massages for only 200 Rupees (less than $5). So of course we took her up on it…
At 6h00pm, my roommate Taylor was the first to receive her massage, and since they were given in our hotel rooms, I spent the hour during Taylor’s session writing the first paragraph of an e-mail, and getting sidetracked from the second paragraph by movie clips I had taken of friends from Lawrence. I was watching Nicki and Nick trek through fresh snow at Boubles Nature Preserve when Taylor came back from her massage to get me for mine. I expected her to be in a post-bliss daze, but instead she just looked really greasy and strung out, and had the immediate urge to take a shower.
In a pre-bliss daze, I ignored Taylor’s state, headed into my hotel room, introduced myself, and learned through heavily-accented English that my also 20ish-year-old masseuse was called Supriya. She seemed pretty cool, so I took off my shoes and noticed a blanket on the bed (green plaid, really stylish, actually…), and a bottle of oil on the nightstand. Supriya then had me remove all of my rings, though one toe ring was kind of fused to my foot, and finally said something I may have anticipated, but was definitely not prepared for: “You take off clothes. Then lie down.” I had put on my yoga pants specifically for this relaxing occasion, so confused, I asked her which clothes specifically she wanted me to remove. Her response: “Shirt, Jeans, Bra.”
This happened. She watched. And it was fine, I mean… I’m a girl, she’s a girl; I’m 20ish, she’s 20ish; I’m around 5’1”, she’s around 5’3; you know, shit’s easy. Besides, I’ll be lying down on my stomach so she won’t be seeing me exposed for long.
So. Wrong.
“On back,” she says, and starts rubbing oil onto my left toes. So here I am, naked except for one fabric-covered triangle at the intersection of my legs, on my back, under a FAN, in my hotel room with the balcony curtains opened, and another chick is rubbing my feet? Really? At this point, I am focusing so whole-heartedly on the light fixture above my head that I start to see my friend Zach’s face in it (who’s on the program), only he’s in very high contrast, and has large box-shaped breasts.
She makes her way all of the way up my left leg, finishes my left arm, and begins pouring oil onto my stomach and belly button. At this point I’ve closed my eyes to block out Zach’s Warhol-inspired, illuminated chest, and I suddenly and not-even-that-pleasantly realize that Indian masseuses waste no time pussy-footing around. Supriya’s got her hands on my right lady-lump and is basically kneading it like pizza dough. For whatever reason, my immediate reaction is to distract myself with stunning visuals in my head. So, I think of peacocks, which are too abstract, and I’m forced to switch to balloons, which are red.
After approximately three hours, she has finished my front side and gives me permission to flip onto my stomach. ‘Thank Christ,’ I’m thinking, ‘because I don’t have breasts on my back, and my ass (at least) is under its so-called wear.’ Just as I’m thinking this, my butt starts to feel really cold and lonely, and I realize that she has ever-so-delicately pulled my blue-and-white-striped panties down so that only one stripe is visible. Now they’re just blue panties.
Then I feel oil running down my butt-crack.
Trapeze artists, effing trapeze artists are my immediate mental-visual instinct, and they’re flying through the air, but really far away. So, the obvious [read: inevitable] happens, and she’s massaging my derrier while Circ De’Soliel gives me a free show. Finally, it seems every part of my body has been rubbed and slathered with oil when I hear, “Now you sit up, and you face this way.” By ‘face this way’ she means ‘face out the window and watch the women in the large windows who are working out at the gym across the street.’ I ask her to close the blinds, and she rubs my entire head, hair, and scalp with oil until I’m basically convinced I’ve been deep fried and/or served at a KFC. Finally. FINALLY… Finally she’s finished, and I wrap myself in a towel.
She has given me her phone number, and I have been invited over for Mahashratian lunch or dinner any time I want. Nothing will ever surprise Taylor or me again.
(Update: Stephanie whole-heartedly enjoyed her massage the following day, and Tara was also asked over for dinner by Supriya.)
