A risky massage?
Hannah L. | 21.09.2018
Have you wondered why a small city like Hannover has so many massage parlours? It must be the proximity to the forests and lakes, where almost everyone hikes or cycles or plays some sport or other, and afterwards develops sore muscles in need of a Thai massage. No happy ending or scantily-clad exotic beauties I’m afraid, as stated in the brochures of most of the parlours here, although that brings to mind a deplorable image of a fat white hairy beast straddled by a Lucy Liu secret agent in kimino. Could have been that forgettable remake of Charlie’s Angels I’m afraid.
Anyway after specifying which package I wanted (they all seem the same! Oil or no oil, whether I would get stepped on by just one masseur or with the combined strength of her friends, etc.) I lay prone and awaited my fate. In the next cubicle, the masseur tells another customer to take off his pants, and for a moment the lovely neon landscape of Steintor comes to mind.
And so we begin. The masseur first prods my organs, and if this were some paid advertorial I would be raving about how my innards were swaying in tune to melodious Thai folk music redolent of an angklong orchestra. But no. Next comes a series of karate chops, to ‘loosen all my tense joints’ and to of course, render me pliant. Never have I doubted how much force a tiny old lady can contain, especially when she leaps onto my back and tramples on my brittle soul, my daydreams torn asunder beneath her delicate feet. She feels so happy that I wonder if I should wipe that look of distress off my face. Maybe I should start a business where I charge the frustrated people of Hannover to step on me.
The masseur eventually kneads me into a stiff clump of dough. Towards the end I am bent like a pretzel (in time for Oktoberfest perhaps) and realise my teacher was right about me not having the talent for gymnastics. The masseur chuckles to her friend in Thai (I’ve always wondered if they were gossiping about their customers, or discussing serious regional political issues) as I drift in and out of unenlightened consciousness. The session finally ends with the masseur forcefully pressing some acupuncture points on my scalp. And so I am released back to this reality. My body now belonging to me, I leave the parlour grinning like a puppy on weed. It may seem sadomasochistic, this learned delight of a captive customer, or could it just be that hypnotic folk music in the background?