How manic masseuses rub me the wrong way

When she pulled down my disposable thong and placed her oil-drenched hands firmly on my buttocks, I realized I didn't even know her name.

It's too late to ask now, I thought. I had volunteered to expose all the body parts I took great care to cover up every day to this nameless stranger, all because I had wanted to "relax" with a "massage".

Relaxed I was not.

I was so tense, I worried I might roll right off the bed had she pulled at my arm. She didn't. She went straight for the bum.

There was no time to waste. With one hand clenching the bed frame, I drew a line across my hip with the other hand, shaking.

"Ddon't go beyond this," I said, fostering as much authority as possible with the "floss" style underwear around my knees.

She obeyed, covering me up with a small towel and moving on to bonier parts.

Lesson No 1: Don't believe it when they tell you you'll be more comfortable dressed to tease rich business men in a dinky karaoke bar.

In the next bed, my boyfriend sighed pleasurably under the skillful maneuvers of his masseuse. He has always enjoyed massages, and he is able to reach a Zen-like, selfless state, even when naked.

Seeing how much he was able to enjoy himself, I tried to loosen up by making conversation.

"Are you required to talk to the customers?" I couldn't shake off my self-consciousness.

"We talk a little if the customer is in the mood," she said, turning me over.

"Why...what..."

Before I could reason with her, she was massaging my breasts as if she was kneading dough.

Once on a camping trip, I had to defecate by the side of the highway in the middle of a traffic jam. When I returned to the car I was so shaken I couldn't speak for a full hour.

That was the only comparable experience to having this young woman, against whose bodily dimensions I have nothing to offer, rubbing and touching me as if with vengeance toward centuries of sexual conservatism.

I'm no conservative, but I prefer the lumps in my breasts to be checked by a doctor.

It wasn't till my masseuse started working my finger that I felt slightly relieved. Your hand - now that's something strangers may touch.

When it was over, the masseuses left the room so we could get dressed in private. Ha.

I kept reminding myself these are professionals, the human variation of massage chairs, but after an hour of unrelenting physical tension and intense moral reflections, I was about as relaxed as a block of cement.

The good news was that we got 50 percent off the regular price, because the massage parlor was recently reopened after renovation.

But as I walked out of the parlor located in one of the towering office buildings in Beijing's high-end CBD, I couldn't help but feel 128 yuan ($18) was a tad too much to have my privacy and self-confidence literally stripped in the name of physical therapy.

(China Daily 02/26/2008 page20)