I have a few bulbous bug bites on my body. They're flame-colored, puss-filled, and resemble the most beastly, biting pimple. One is on my ass. The location makes as much sense as Braille on drive-up ATMs. My underwear covers the bite and I haven't been scampering anywhere sans underwear. I neglected to recollect that sitting provoked buttocks pain paralleling a leprechaun catapulting a needle into my ass. When I rambled by a series of stores and observed a sign for "Rejuvenating Massage," I was as inspired as if it was a sign signaling Sonoma County wine tasting in Rishikesh, India. I've been thirsting for wine tasting like a sexually deprived priest's proclivity for altar boys.
My head inserted through the door of the wood-walled shop with the "Rejuvenating Massage" sign in front.
"Hello? Namaste?"
A seventeen-year-old boy listening to headphones on the steps of the adjacent methodical music shop stalked me in.
"Massage?" he asked.
I rotated and responded, "Yes, massage. How much?"
"Five hundred rupees for one and a half hour."
As this equated $10US, or one shot of Jager in a California bar, I resolved to reward myself for the twenty-second walk I had just accomplished and replied in the affirmative.
"Okay. You want massage now or...?" the teenager asked as he pitched open an appointment book the size of Rhode Island. The pages were half the size of his body. He studied the entries as if they were from Playboy magazine and then shut the book without writing in it.
"Um, now would be fine. I could do now," I said, aware that the only actual aim of the day was to return to my guesthouse with bananas. The day before a monkey on a bridge had abducted my bananas from the bag I hefted in my hands. Afterwards, a mentally disabled boy had trailed me, lunatic-laughing and pointing.
"Okay, you keep your underclothes on, but no bra, and lie there," he said, opening a semi-transparent sliding door and pointing to a blanket on the floor.
"Okay. That's fine. No table?" I asked.
"Table?"
"Never mind, this is fine."
I removed my Aladdin pants, sports bra and tank top, and positioned myself on the blanket. I was gratified to find that the blanket yielded the comfort of my pillow-top mattress and the plumpness of Pamela Anderson's breasts. The seventeen-year-old stretched into the partitioned massage section. He apparently functioned as floater on music store steps, massage receptionist, and masseuse. I was confident he worked in the methodical music store as well.
When I lay on my stomach The Rack pinched my back like he was extracting fleas from under my skin. He scraped my skin with his hand so hard in identical motions that I wondered if it looked like the raw skin of a burn victim. The Rack repeatedly grabbed my ass as if he was falling off a cliff with fourteen promised virgins at the top. My ass was the cliff. Every time he clutched it, my rear felt like a leprechaun propelled a foot-long hypodermic needle further and further into my posterior. The sixth time he grabbed my ass, I realized I really would not do well as a homosexual male.
When I lay on my back he pinched my belly fat together and then two-finger rubbed my abdomen. I felt like I was getting a pregnancy massage. I hoped he didn't mistake me for pregnant and momentarily meditated that maybe I should limit myself to two German bakery visitations a day.
I lay with eyes closed as The Rack crossed with crackhead rapidity from a Buddha belly rub to dropping gel globs on my face. Droplets beaded into my eyelashes. He poked his finger into the gel and slowly spread it into my face.
"Sit up. Head massage."
"Oh, head massage? I love head massages!" I exclaimed, as ecstatic as if he had presented me with a new BMW, company phone and part-time job for $80k a year.
The Rack seeped a mint-smelling substance on top of my head. It smarted like a cloud of yellow jackets had mated directly above my brain.
I closed my eyes and inhaled, envisioning the impending head massage with my temples lovingly... The Rack began his head massage by shaking my head violently like a two-year-old with a Magic 8-ball in anger management therapy.
The gel left my hair greasier than bacon grease.
The only thing remotely rejuvenated was my deprived sexual desire.
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