The one out of only two Boden clothing stores in existence. Specifically in Chinatown? Look at that! Ten massage parlors all within a four-block radius. A bit odd there are so many, but okay. Finishing off my th hot-cross bun, washed down with Guinness, I entered a sort of nondescript parlor beneath a sign with the words MASSAGE illuminated in neon red lights.
The place reminded me a little of the no-frills acupuncture school I sometimes visit in Venice at home in California. She marched in, shooting Red a curt nod, then turned to me. Her demeanor and her voice were completely at odds. The first clinical and imperious, the second purring and kittenish.
She stomped right past me and down a flight of stairs. A bit startled and confused I glanced at Red. I shook them off. I thought. Very un-PC and racial profile-y. I felt relieved to see a standard-issue massage table with the appropriate trimmings of paper and cloth sheets. Why was I so paranoid?
I asked Shimura if I should remove all of my clothes. Shimura re-entered, snapping her Ipod into a stand, the requisite shimmery, yogic music began and I relaxed. She began massaging my neck, shoulders and spine. Her technique left something to be desired. Was this normal? Did everyone here have entirely exposed buttocks for their butt massage? Maybe this was like that Korean spa on Western where thickset Korean women with arms like tree trucks flay your entirely naked body with sea salt before they hose you down like fish on a wharf?
Her fingers were like a thousand tiny butterflies moving from my shoulders, down my back, over my now blushing butt, down to my toes and back again. And was I imagining it? Or did one of her fingers actually flutter right into the crack of my ass?
