Rising Expectations
Over the weekend we had a day to kill so a few of us took the ferry from Singapore to Bintan to play golf and get a massage. It’s only an hour away, and it offers beautiful scenery, including delightful Indonesian girls. I won’t go into the details of the golf, partly because I played like a cunt, but mostly because people who talk about golf are the most boring fuckers alive. The highlight was definitely the scenery – we were right by the sea and there were magnificent rocks alongside the course (one of which my colleague managed to bounce his ball off, preventing it flying into the sea and causing it to land on the green) and strange wildlife, including huge lizards (about three feet long) who came to watch us play. Obviously life as a lizard is spectacularly dull, since apparently watching crap golf is worth crawling out of your hole for. At one point I was wading into the undergrowth to look for a ball when one of the caddies mentioned that I might want to step back, on account of the cobras; that’s the kind of advice which gets your attention.
Anyway, after the game we went back to the hotel for the massage we’d booked. They split us up and we went off in two groups of two. The massage room was wonderful – it was open to the elements on one side and looked out on the sea. We had to get naked and lie down on the padded massage tables and the two (naturally) pretty and (necessarily) female masseuses started working on us. I can’t get comfortable with the idea of a bloke massaging me – it has to be a woman. It’s not like she needs to be pretty – this is a massage, not a hand-job – but having a bloke rub oil into me would not be relaxing, merely disturbing. Do you remember that episode of Seinfeld where George gets the massage from a guy and then worries that he’s gay because "it moved"? Well, having some strange woman rhythmically rubbing the tops of your thighs can do that, ugly or not.
I had this in mind as this pretty Indonesian girl was working on me, kneading scented oil into parts of me that had never previously needed oiling, to my recollection. I’m lying on my back and it suddenly occurs to me to hope that I don’t get an erection. I don’t worry about the masseuse – I’m sure they’ve seen hundreds, and it may even be considered a compliment – but I don’t generally aim to get wood in the company of colleagues. We’re lying under these really thin sheets while they work on us one part at a time, so we’re not completely naked, but with a good-sized stiffy underneath it would look like one of those mosquito nets had been draped over the table. I cast my mind back to that scene in the Singing Detective, where Michael Gambon gets greased up by Joanne Whalley as part of his psoriasis treatment and tries to think of disgusting things to keep from shooting his load on her. What could I think about, if necessary? Capital delegation requests? Long-range planning scenarios? Monthly income forecasts? It’s hardly conducive to the relaxed state of mind that a massage is supposed to bring about, is it?
Fortunately no wood was produced, although there may have been some stirring at one point, and we all repaired to the lounge for a relaxing cucumber drink. (It was included in the deal, OK? I realize that deliberately ordering a cucumber beverage may be an even more reliable method of determining gayness than achieving erection during a male massage.) This morning I played the game of "find all the parts you missed with the sunscreen" in the shower. Fortunately not too many, although I can’t help wondering if I might have been better off having the sunscreen massaged into me before the golf. I don’t think she missed many spots, and you can be sure that the tops of my thighs wouldn’t have got burned...
Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison
Anyway, after the game we went back to the hotel for the massage we’d booked. They split us up and we went off in two groups of two. The massage room was wonderful – it was open to the elements on one side and looked out on the sea. We had to get naked and lie down on the padded massage tables and the two (naturally) pretty and (necessarily) female masseuses started working on us. I can’t get comfortable with the idea of a bloke massaging me – it has to be a woman. It’s not like she needs to be pretty – this is a massage, not a hand-job – but having a bloke rub oil into me would not be relaxing, merely disturbing. Do you remember that episode of Seinfeld where George gets the massage from a guy and then worries that he’s gay because "it moved"? Well, having some strange woman rhythmically rubbing the tops of your thighs can do that, ugly or not.
I had this in mind as this pretty Indonesian girl was working on me, kneading scented oil into parts of me that had never previously needed oiling, to my recollection. I’m lying on my back and it suddenly occurs to me to hope that I don’t get an erection. I don’t worry about the masseuse – I’m sure they’ve seen hundreds, and it may even be considered a compliment – but I don’t generally aim to get wood in the company of colleagues. We’re lying under these really thin sheets while they work on us one part at a time, so we’re not completely naked, but with a good-sized stiffy underneath it would look like one of those mosquito nets had been draped over the table. I cast my mind back to that scene in the Singing Detective, where Michael Gambon gets greased up by Joanne Whalley as part of his psoriasis treatment and tries to think of disgusting things to keep from shooting his load on her. What could I think about, if necessary? Capital delegation requests? Long-range planning scenarios? Monthly income forecasts? It’s hardly conducive to the relaxed state of mind that a massage is supposed to bring about, is it?
Fortunately no wood was produced, although there may have been some stirring at one point, and we all repaired to the lounge for a relaxing cucumber drink. (It was included in the deal, OK? I realize that deliberately ordering a cucumber beverage may be an even more reliable method of determining gayness than achieving erection during a male massage.) This morning I played the game of "find all the parts you missed with the sunscreen" in the shower. Fortunately not too many, although I can’t help wondering if I might have been better off having the sunscreen massaged into me before the golf. I don’t think she missed many spots, and you can be sure that the tops of my thighs wouldn’t have got burned...
Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison
posted by Mr Bison at
8:09 AM
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