When the businessman first ordered me a back scrub, I understood it as simply that, a BACK scrub. I didn't think it would entail anything else.
"... My front?" I question.
"Of course, sir," says the Buddha. "This is a fully body experience."
This service man - the Buddha - had just done an outstanding job scrubbing my back; like I said before, few things have felt any better than what I just experienced. So, I took his word. I turned my body so I was now on my back, facing up. I closed my eyes and let gravity pull my body into the massage table while the Buddha rinsed a few towels. I took a deep breath to relax.
The Buddha returns to attend my face. He scrubs gently, starting from my forehead and working his way through the bridge of my nose and cheekbones. He rotates my head left to right, cleansing around my neck and shoulders. I feel like I'm the catch of the day, a piece of fresh fish on a cutting board being scaled by a skilled chef. He scrubs my shoulders, my chest and stomach, rinsing along the way when he needs to.
Then, he makes his way to Sir Fucking Randy's thighs.
Well, you had to know this was coming, I thought. No big deal, all part of the process. He'll scrub you just fine.
He shimmies my towel so that all is exposed except my junk. He literally just covers Randy's joy stick and leaves my inner thighs exposed. I've never worn a bikini (despite being requested to by my secretaries on occasion while fulfilling their fantasies), but I can now imagine how it feels to be so revealed.
The Buddha works my hips, my quads and inches closer and closer to my inner thigh. Alright, he'll stop here, I say to myself, thinking there's very little real estate left before there's direct contact. Nothing more to do here! But he continues - masterfully - and heads inwards.
No... this can't be happening. This won't happen.
The Buddha stops. I knew it. That's as far as it goes, eh Buddha? Then, the Buddha re-positions my legs so that I'm doing the Reclining Goddess.
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| The Reclining Goddess |
What the... I'm wondering what he'll do next. The only thing separating my junk from this Buddha is a layer - what I feel is an increasingly thin layer - of white cotton towel, and I'm fairly certain he can see everything even with the coverage. My legs are bowed and my thighs are seeing more light than they've ever seen before. There can't be any more than this. This must be it, right?
The Buddha scrubs a bit more, stabilizing my knees with his free hand while he washes with the other. Then, he shifts my towel so that one corner creates an overcast for my junk. Trying to make light of the situation, I ponder if he will ask me for a safe word.
But the Buddha doesn't. In a quick (and gentle) fashion, he proceeds to liftoff, craning my monstrous --
"Monster!" yells McGuire.
GOD DAMN IT McGuire shut the hell up! Don't ever interrupt me when I'm telling such an epic tale!
*ahem* The Buddha cranes my monstrous junk with his left hand.
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| Be gentle! |
His left hand works against gravity, lifting my junk off of my exposed inner thigh and crotch; never has my junk felt zero gravity! My mind screams as it realizes the foreplay, my conscience is laughing at the chain of events, my eyes stretch open while my body remains still. What are you supposed to do when someone has a hold of your balls?
The Buddha continues, using his cotton-covered right hand to scrub the inner-most region. I stay completely still, not by choice, but because my body is in shock and my lower half has become numb. The ordeal lasts only a moment, but a moment nonetheless. He finishes his scrub, and gently lowers my junk back down, and gravity returns.
He walks away to rinse. I lie there, feeling like Jodie Foster in the Accused.
He returns and sets my legs down so they are straight again. He continues scrubbing my lower thighs, knees, shins and feet. It's as if nothing ever happened; just another day in this crazy bathhouse he calls his office. He finishes scrubbing my toes and rinses my body once more.
"All done," he says to me. "Please, feel free to take a shower to rinse off the excess skin. Feel free to take as long as you'd like."
"Thank you," I said. I get up, half waiting for him to tip me some money for his fun time (kidding). I grab a fresh towel, wrap it around my waist to shelter my finagled balls and head to the shower stalls. I'm in shock; Mr. Fucking Randy, who has a strict LADIES ONLY policy when it comes to junk contact, has just been ball-handled by a man. A Buddha man. As I walk towards the shower, my face says it all.
That. Actually. Happened. It sure did.
I get to the shower stall but the water isn't on. I look around and try to figure out what to do. Another service man, this time a youthful buck, comes to my side and greets me.
"I'll get that for you," says this youthful service man.
He turns on the water (using magic, I assume) and I enter the stall. I smell the soaps, I wash my body, I see little peels of skin roll down my body and swirl into the shower drain. My skin is buttery smooth and my junk is no worse for wear. That Buddha did an excellent - dare I say it - job.
I finish my shower and I'm more calm now. Hey, he was just doing his job. That's how things are done here, I thought to myself. If he hadn't cleaned the inner region of any other client, there would have been complaints. People expect to be pampered here. It is what it is.
I walk out of the stall and dry myself off. I'm done now, right? I must be. I've eaten a light snack, made my way through the pools without spectacles, had a full body back scrub and showered myself twice. Surely, this must be the end.
"Sir," says Buck (the young service man). "Let me guide you to the dressing area."
"Oh, um... Alright. Dressing area?" I ask.
"Yes, you must dry off. Don't worry, I have your robes ready for you. Right this way..."
Once again, Sir Fucking Randy must follow a service man blindly.
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