High-Viz Massage

Adventures in India
Part III

Ah, Goa. Three nights of luxury vacation packed into two weeks of serious travel. After three nights in dirty Delhi, one night in the tourist hell that was Agra (home of the Taj Mahal), two nights in bustling Jaipur, and one night in the desert… our arrival in Goa was like breaking the surface after a claustrophobic scuba dive in murky water.

Perhaps appropriately, on our first morning in Goa that’s exactly what we did – scuba diving. We left our fancy-pants boutique hotel at the crack of dawn and drove to Panjim where we had arranged to go diving. Unfortunately, the Arabian Sea has the transparency of milk. Our dive leaders prepared us for “low visibility,” or “low-viz,” diving.
More like “no-viz” if you ask me.
Needless to say, we abandoned the dive quickly and spent the day drinking Kingfishers at Baga beach instead. Much better.
On our second morning in Goa, Roger and I were having breakfast by the pool when Lumen, concierge extraordinaire, came to greet us. She inquired as to how we slept, had we enjoyed the previous evening, and about our plans for the day. She offered suggestions that might interest us, one being a massage at the hotel spa. Roger and I were quick to accept and Lumen arranged for an eleven o’clock appointment.

We abandoned our chairs by the pool at the appropriate time and walked down the leafy path to the stone cottage. Two small Indian men greeted us and asked us to wait under the trees while they prepared our rooms. A few minutes later I was following my masseuse into an earthy room with stone walls. The breeze gently lifted the linen curtains as I inhaled the spicy smell of aromatherapy. I looked to the small Indian man for instructions, but he was digging around in a cabinet. When he turned to me, he held what looked like a Kleenex on a string.

“Put on like this,” he said, holding the tissue triangle to his crotch. “Tie behind back with this between.” My eyes grew wide as he demonstrated how the strip of material dangling from the triangle should be threaded between my legs and tucked into a string tied behind my back. I nodded my understanding and reached for the tissue diaper in horror. “Lie face down. On top, yes?” the man directed before ducking out the door. On top? I reluctantly removed my sarong and bikini, then secured the tissue triangle in place. I took a deep breath and climbed up on the table, praying he planned to cover me with another tissue before he got started.

“You want me underneath the sheet, right?” I heard Roger shout from the next room.

Dammit! I had it all wrong. I scrambled off the table, my heart pounding, certain that the moment I stood up would be the moment my small Indian man would decide I’d had enough time to get settled and reenter the room. My feet had just hit the floor when I heard someone say, “No, no. On top of sheet, Sir. Top.”

Damn, Roger! I returned to my original position, reaching behind me to ensure my two inch thick “tail” was covering as much of my bum as possible. I was still fiddling with the string when the small Indian man came back into the room. He walked to the table and immediately untied the string I had so steadfastly secured. I tried not to gasp. He then took the end of my “tail” (which I had firmly tucked into the string) and peeled it back to uncover what little had been hidden. He let the tail drop down between my thighs. I gasped again; every nerve in my body tensed. For a moment, I feared my very visible clenched butt might betray my uneasiness. I focused on keeping my butt relaxed. For whatever reason – at the time – it seemed important that I not let this small Indian man know I was feeling the slightest bit uncomfortable.

I then felt his hands on my shoulders. I exhaled; I could handle this. So, he could see my butt. So what? He might even give it a little massage, but I could cope. I reminded myself that I was a mature young woman. A world traveler! This was all perfectly normal. I tried to let my thoughts go, but after fifteen or twenty minutes, it hit me. He’s gonna ask me to turn over. Surely not, I told myself. But then – why the tissue diaper? If he was going to untie it anyway, why give it to me at all? I was essentially lying naked, face down on a table. What was the point of the tissue triangle unless to offer some sense of modesty when lying face up? I felt my body begin to tense once more. No, I couldn’t do this. If he asked me to turn over, I’d have to say 'Thanks, but no thanks.' I tried to visualize how the conversation would go, but in my imagination, the small Indian man laughed at me and later told his friends about the prude American tourist who freaked out over a little massage. Was I being a prude? I mean, sure, my bare chest would be staring up at the ceiling but did it really matter? Apparently, this small Indian man saw nakedness all the time. It was his job. And this was a respectable hotel…right?

I felt him returning my “tail” to its original position and securing the string. “Please turn over, Miss,” he whispered.

“Really?” I squeaked, but I slowly repositioned myself on the table. I kept my eyes squeezed shut and tried to breathe normally. This was all perfectly acceptable. Just go with the flow. When in Rome, right? He began at my shoulders and once again, I willed myself to relax. This was fine. It was totally fine. So, he was having a good look at my boobs – it’s not like he’d be giving me a breast massage…
GULP.
I felt his hands glide over my boobs. My eyes popped open for a brief second, but I quickly squeezed them shut in an effort to hide. Surely this wasn’t happening. He massaged my stomach for a few minutes and I told myself the worst was over. It had only been a glide. And it had been very clinical. It was fine, and more importantly, it seemed to be over.

But then he “glid” again. Suddenly, in big sweeping motions his hands were moving from my shoulders, across my chest and stomach, over my hips and down my legs to my feet, and then back up again. I randomly wondered if this move was designed to aide circulation. He did this for a few minutes before turning his attention to my left leg. My muscles slowly began to relax again, but my mind ran in circles. I wondered if Roger knew I was practically being molested. Would it upset him? Was I being molested? Or worse – was I secretly enjoying the molestation? I thought about it for a second. No. Definitely not. In fact, it may well have been the least relaxing massage I had ever received. My inner monologue wouldn’t stop! Were people actually able to relax and enjoy this sort of thing? Or did most women put the brakes on the boob-gliding nonsense by now? I mean, what would my sister do? Darby and Dave had scheduled a massage for later in the day, but if I told her about all of this – if I warned her – I knew she wouldn't go through with it. I then had a vision of not warning her, of letting her go to this small Indian man, and then acting like I knew nothing about all the naked boob-gliding. I could pretend my massage had been perfectly normal! No, that would be too cruel. And yet, I yearned to know how she would react in this situation…if she would have stopped this small Indian man by now…
Gasp.
Another boob glide. Would this torment ever end?

Finally, he covered me with yet another tissue – this one a little larger than a beach towel. He helped me off the table and guided me out of the room to the showers. I clutched the tissue towel around me with clenched fists while he turned on the water. After adjusting the temperature, he reached inside for the shampoo bottle and carefully unscrewed the top. For the love of God! This small Indian man was gonna shower with me! What the hell? I’m sorry, but this is where I draw the line…
Fortunately, I didn’t have to. He placed the open shampoo bottle on the shelf and left me in blissful privacy.

A few minutes later I heard Roger’s voice as he entered the shower area.
“You in there?” he asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“You okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
I turned off the water and wrapped up in a towel. I stepped out of the shower and we made eye contact.
“It was…uh, different,” I whispered.
“Um, yeah,” Roger smirked.

Roger showered while I put my swimsuit back on – thrilled by the relatively extensive coverage provided by my string bikini. Roger finished and dressed, and we quickly left the spa. Once out of earshot, we burst into laughter.

“When he handed me that tiny tissue thing I almost fell over!” I exclaimed.
Roger stopped laughing. “Wait. You had a tissue thing?”
“You didn’t?”
His eyes were wide. “I didn’t have anything!”
I snickered, suddenly imagining my husband, face up on the table, letting it all hang out as a small Indian man massaged him.
Roger shook his head. “Shut up,” he muttered, laughing despite himself. “I’m totally secure in my manliness.” I laughed even harder. “Now where’s Dave? I need to exert my masculinity with something competitive involving a ball.”

We found Darby and Dave by the pool and confessed the whole story. They promptly cancelled their appointments with the small Indian men.

“At least we’ve learned something,” Dave said, still laughing. “Goa may be the land of ‘low-viz’ diving, but it’s obviously home of the ‘high-viz’ massage.”
Well…I’ve been there and done that. And now that I’ve cleared my conscious with this very public confession, I feel much better about the whole thing. No shame here, that’s for sure. However, next time I’m in India, I’ll be sure to specify a “low-viz” massage.