A cheap massage becomes water torture
I thought I’d found myself a real bargain when I got 70% off a massage in Coimbra through an online voucher site. I won’t be doing that again!
Never having been for a Vichy Duche and massage before, I imagined that I would be blasted by jets of water for a while and then given a massage. I like to be prepared for things so I took a spare pare of knickers and some moisturizer with me. I didn’t, however, take a swimsuit. It never occurred to me for a moment that the shower and the massage would happen at the same time.
It was only when the receptionist showed me to the changing area and pointed out the packets of hospital knickers for people like me who hadn’t brought a swimsuit that I realized I would not be alone and happily naked. Yet even at this point I thought, “Hey, ho, so be it”. Then she introduced me to André. It turned out that the young man fiddling about with the row of shower heads above a massage table was to be my masseur.
I opened the packets of disposable underwear, expecting one to be for the top and one for the bottom. Wrong. She’d given me two see-through paper g-strings. I tried one on, looked in the mirror and whisked it off again. I put my big black granny pants back on again – at least they covered some of my bum. I still had nothing to cover my top so I put on the robe and stepped out to the steamy massage area.
André held my hand and guided me to the table, making sure I didn’t slip on the wet floor. The water was already running so there seemed nothing else for it but take off my robe so it didn’t get wet when I sat on the massage table. As I sat there in my pants with my arms folded across my chest waiting for further instructions, the receptionist came through again, took one horrified look at me and rushed out to get me a towel to hide my breasts.
Feeling marginally more at ease, I lay down on the bench. Warm water sprinkled my chest, stomach and legs, a cool mist of back spray wet my face. André began to gently stroke my leg. With my eyes wide open and jaw clenched, I was far from relaxed. My arms were outside the reach of the showers and getting chilly. The piano music was jarring and distorted. André’s touch was pointlessly light.
I considered stopping the whole thing but instead just asked for the music to be turned down and the water temperature up. That helped a bit but each time André’s hands gently manipulated my flab I felt old and fat.
Once my front was ‘done’, I flopped and slopped over on the table like a massive jellyfish so that he could massage my back. Lying on my front with my face through the hole in the massage bench, it was hard to find a position that stopped the water from running up my nose.
Eventually, it was over. André handed me the robe which I gratefully wrapped myself in and retreated to the safety of the changing room. In my silly imagination I had expected there to be a hairdryer in the changing room but sadly, I was wrong about that, too. I left with wet hair, tense shoulders and absolutely no desire to repeat the experience.
Have you ever had a regrettable massage? Let me know in the comments.