“Why did you tip her anyway?” Emily asked.
“Because she kept asking and I just wanted to get out of there – now – without any problems,” I said, a little stressed.
“She didn’t even give you your full half hour. I would’ve have talked to her boss or someone about that,” Emily said.
“Well, I asked myself, ‘Do I really want to argue with a whore?!'”
“That should be the blog title!”
“Or, ‘How I got molested by a whore’…”
“That’s a degrading way to talk about whores…” Emily said trying to make a politically correct point in the most politically incorrect of ways.
We laughed, of course. But I wasn’t laughing at the time.
It all started innocently enough.
I finished my work before Emily. We were working at a major cafe on par with a Starbucks or Coffee Bean in a tall building overlooking the lake the most mainstream, touristy part of town.
Across the hall was a place with big banners and signs advertising spa services – steam room, sauna, massages, foot massages. It was the kind of place that you expect in the middle of a tourist area, next to a cafe frequented by tourists.
Maybe it was all the sitting or perhaps the extraordinarily firm beds in our hotel, but I was a little stiff and sore. What better way to kill time that a massage at the place across the hall?
Only Emily estimated she would be done in 30 minutes and I didn’t want to keep her waiting. She was ready to be done and get out of there. So, I figured I’d probably do a foot massage because those are quick and cheap. I figured it would be a lot like the Taiwanese or Chinese reflexology-style foot massages I’ve experienced in the past.
I walked in to a place that looked much as I expected. It was early evening and since they had no customers, the ladies all sat at a table having dinner. I asked if they wanted me to come back and the woman in charge jumped up and told me it wasn’t a problem. She showed me the menu of services and the prices. We settled on a 30 minute foot massage and I paid. She went back to her dinner and told me to go into the first room on the right and have a seat.
The was small with a massage table up against one wall and a chair in direct line of the door. I sat in the chair, figuring that’s what the woman’s instruction meant, and I took off my shoes.
A minute later a woman in a form fitting mini-skirt length red dress came in and told me to get on the massage table.
“No, I asked for foot massage,” I said.
“Yes, foot massage. You get on table.”
Fine, maybe she wanted me up higher? I jumped up on the table, feet dangling from the end – doctor’s office style. I expected she’d bring a container of hot water for my feet or just pull up the chair to get to work. Thais always start by washing the feet as do Chinese and Taiwanese.
“No, you lay down.”
It seemed odd, but I did.
The woman got out some baby oil, sat on the table near my feet, rolled up my pant legs to my knees and began massaging.
“I can work with this. Different, but whatever, I’ll just relax,” I thought. It seemed like more of a leg and foot massage which suited me since my left knee was a little sore.
Then came the standard line of questions practically everyone who meets us asks as well as any masseuse I’ve ever had in Asia.
Where you from? You here how long? You here for holidays? You go where next?
Then without warning or subtlety, the woman put her hand on my fly and began rubbing in a firm, circular motion.
“You want extra?”
To be candid, I’ve deterred a number of hooker-masseuses in my day. In Thailand, you can usually tell the difference between a legit massage place and a not-so-legit one, but not always. Sometimes they do some of each and it’s not immediately apparent to either party who wants or offers what.
So, I used the usual protocol.
“No, thank you very much…” I said nicely as I held my hand up with a very cop or crossing guard like “stop” motion. I like to be clear, but non-offensive. That’s probably because Thai massage girls don’t appreciate being shamed and generally just see offering extras in much the same way the manager at Jiffy Lube asks if you want your wiper blades or air filter changed. It’s just an optional service – no big deal…
I went back to trying to enjoy a very weak and altogether unimpressive foot-leg massage.
Then, all of a sudden, the hand was back on my genital region and making firm circles again.
“You want, baby?”
Now I was fully uncomfortable. First, Thais don’t usually touch when offering extras – it’s just a question, unless they lack the language skills to communicate verbally. Secondly, I’ve never had anyone ask a second time. Ever. And so forcefully at that.
The thing is – no means no.
So, I removed the hand and with a slightly firmer voice followed by the traffic cop movement, gave a firm “No!”
At this point, I was ill at ease because there’s really nothing sexy about an unauthorized, undesired hand messing with my privates. I’ve had doctor exams more appealing than this woman’s approach.
She didn’t wait more than two minutes before making her next sneak attack. Only this time, she uttered a phrase I will forever remember.
“I massage you – you massage me?”
So, not only was she a molestation boomerang, but she wanted me to pay to massage or pleasure her? This had moved from injury to insult to just plain bad business.
“No, really – NO!” I said. This time I took her hand, pushed it to arm’s length before beginning the cop-like “Stop” gesture – again.
Another two minutes of increasingly light and lame massage happened before the massage lady announced, “Okay, all done! You pay me tip!”
I didn’t have a watch on and there was no clock in the room, but I was quite sure it hadn’t been 30 minutes. I also had nothing left in my pocket after paying for the massage. Emily had all the money from our recent ATM visit in her purse across the hall.
At this point, I didn’t care that she was shorting me on massage time, I just wanted out. And somehow like I was a character in a 1980s sitcom, I didn’t want to tell anyone about my molestation. I was prepared to live with the shame.
The thing I almost had to admire about my molester was her shameless determination.
She followed me out of the room, reminding me about a tip. That’s when I asked myself if I wanted to get into a confrontation with whore. I decided that a tip that amounted to a few dollars for us, was a big deal for her – and that mainly, I just wanted the whole thing to be over immediately.
So, I told her to wait while I went across the hall to get money from my WIFE. She chose to wait quietly at the door.
“What’s the matter? Why are you back so soon? Are you alright?” Emily asked.
“I need money for a tip. I’ll explain later. It was a bad situation.”
I got the money out of Emily’s purse, gave it to my molester like I was giving a playground bully my lunch money, and marched my slippery, greasy feet out of there.
That’s because the the whore-sseuse didn’t even have the courtesy to wipe the massage oil off my legs and feet – which is a major pet peeve of mine. I hate feeling greasy. This woman was a disgrace to both of her professions.
When Emily finished her work, we walked around deciding where to go for dinner. That’s when I told her the whole sordid story.
“You were molested! Oh, my, I’m so sorry…you were molested…” Emily said as she broke into laughter.
“I’m sorry, maybe I should be more sensitive. Was it traumatic? Are you okay? Do you feel violated?” She barely uttered the words before she fell back into an intense giggle.
Of course, I found it funny too – just as soon as I wasn’t exposed to repeated clumsy grabbing.
In the end, what surprised me was that I’ve always felt very in control of questionable massage experiences. Entrepreneurs of “extra” services have always respected a pleasant, polite “no”. I wondered how it was that at 33 years-old – after all my experiences – and in Vietnam of all places, I was unable to successfully deter unwanted whore activity.
“See, no means no!” Emily said. “Now you get how women feel.”
I guess that’s the moral of the story. That and never lay down for a foot massage.
Sent from my iPad
