Caution: Be Wary Of Overly-Friendly Male Masseuses

Whenever it rains in Bangkok, as it does often around this time of year, all outdoor activity comes to a standstill. These rains usually catch people off guard, as they go from 0 to 100 real fast, and back down to 0 even faster. During these times, street vendors cover all their wares with tarps and go into hibernation mode, while pedestrians find the closest roof to take shelter under. They will, mind you, wait for hours if need be, putting their imminent schedules at the mercy of the rain. Don’t even bother with umbrellas, as the sheer weight of each raindrop will reduce your umbrella to a heap of mangled metal and cloth, a display of sorts certain to attract many onlookers.

It is my personal endeavor in life to experience massages by the hands of as many different masseuses as materially possible, and there is no better excuse than ‘rain’ to help me achieve that. Should I be so unfortunate to be caught in a sudden downpour, away from the comfort of luxurious shopping plazas, I always make it a point to ‘kill some time’ sprawled across a bed, with 2, maybe 4 hands working on my back. A rationale solution, if I might add, being that the downpours generally don’t last for more than an hour and massage parlors in Bangkok are superfluous.

Massage parlors typically open at 10am, but here I was at 9, at the front door demanding to be let in. Sympathetically, the masseuse manning the front counter let me in, and shortly after I was led upstairs to the massage room.

From behind the curtains covering the bed, I heard the door open and my masseuse enter. Immediately, I felt something curious about this masseuse, albeit I couldn’t put my finger on what it was exactly. Was it was the demeanor in which she approached, or perhaps the unusual heaviness in her footsteps? Whatever it was, I was somewhat nervous, yet eager to face what was coming. She parted the curtains and stepped in.

What I thought was a she was in fact a he.

I have never been one to discriminate against having a male masseuse, I have simply never experienced it before. Assuming you don’t go out of your way to specifically choose one, the chances of landing a male masseuse are a 1:1000, and that’s a rather conservative estimate. Lo and behold, on this rainy day, that was me.

He wasn’t just any man, for that matter, he was about twice my size, and the subtle gestures he made resembled that of a fairy, immediately putting me in defensive mode. He made frequent glances my way, smiling, which I thought was rather peculiar, and his hands, almost subconsciously, found their way to areas that were ‘too close for comfort’. At times, I had to command with a loud and stern voice for him to ‘knock it off’, and couldn’t help but wonder how many unsuspecting victims before me had caved in to the pressure of his sadistic-like behavior.

I felt a relief when I was flipped over onto my stomach, which typically marks the half way point. The massage proceeded smoothly, but then suddenly and without warning, I felt a heavy push into my back, like the feeling of being trampled by a dozen horses. Alarmed, I looked over to the side, flinching to demonstrate the discomfort inflicted upon my person. There happened to be a small mirror placed bedside and what I saw through the reflection was nothing short of unimaginable.

This crazy bastard was standing on top of me, both feet planted onto my back, as if he was using my back as a fucking surf board to practice his moves. He had his hands gripped tightly to the ceiling pillars, which not only served as support for his balance, but also put additional force at his disposal, enabling him to crush my internals with ease.

I immediately ordered him off my back and quickly tested my movements, accessing the damage. Miraculously, there was none, but I will never again make the fatal error of allowing another man to stand on my back again.