A woman is a masseuse. A man is a masseur. What I had was a Lilliputian named Ryland.
Ryland told me he was from Thailand and that he was going to be my doctor of health. At least that’s what I think he said. (the accent was a bit hard to follow at times) Ryland seemed like a cheery
fellow tiny man and we began our session outdoors with a warm foot bath of rose petals. Ryland asked me about my aches and pains and kept assuring me over and over again that he had “many woman client.” As I looked around the fancy spa and saw that yes, most of the clientele there were women, I wondered why he kept telling me this. Was it because he was gay? Was it because he was so darn tiny? I soon found out it was neither of the two…
Ryland’s second cousin must be a monkey and his first cousin the Marquis de Sade. Granted he weighed about 90 pounds, but still, did he really need to jump up onto the table and twist me into knots? Each time Ryland would get ready for some new
attack ministration he would laugh maniacally, “This one hurt, yes?” Yes. Yes. They all hurt. Ryland also had no appreciation for my Puritanical sensibilities. I’ve never had such a comprehensive torturing session. “PRESSURE POINT!” he would scream and then slap my buttocks five times with his elbow. “YOU SLEEP GOOD!” he’d next scream, hauling my inert body up off of the table into a quivering bow. I closed my eyes, stopped trying to grab onto the sheet, and counted the minutes. Why oh why did I have to book the 90 minute massage?
Eventually Ryland dismounted the table with a beautiful double axis (perfect landing too) and bowed. “You see.” he said with a huge smile. “You come back again. You like Ryland.” Trying hard not to roll my eyes, I assured him that I’d be back soon and hobbled off to
die put on some clothes. But you know what? I just might. I did sleep well and all the knots in my shoulders? Gone. The headache I’d had for a week…also gone. Ryland from Thailand – a doctor of health.