I finally found the place, as I could hear the thumping techno music in the distance. I walked inside and it seemed like a rather upscale, chic little operation they were running, and I fell into an instant state of calm, knowing that I would soon be relaxed to the umpteenth degree. My jaw dropped as Olga, who I later found out was named Elga not that this would have mattered any , waddled her way over to me and squeezed my hand with her meaty palms.
She had to weigh over pounds. Olga led me downstairs, away from the chic reception area and neon lighting, to a long corridor with many small doors. She opened the third door for me, and led me into a tiny room with nothing but a massage table and a heater. I think of a massuese gently tingling my senses with her soft, oil-lathered hands, and rubbing my aching muscles.
I squirmed a bit at first, but eventually I toughed it out. I was so proud of myself. She began to work my calves, working gradually harder and harder, until it became rather uncomfortable. This is when I began to first think about my expectations of a massage, and how soothing and relaxing it should be, and how this was actually beginning to hurt. It was almost as if she was surprised that I was keeping quiet.
I began to think again about how tough I was. After a few minutes, I began panting really hard, and almost groaning. She was working my calves so hard, almost in a way that resembled putting an article of clothing through the ringer.
What does this mean? I began to grind my teeth in a way that would have made my dentist angry, and the panting became full out gasps. But this was not relaxing at all.
