Thwackah! This was the sound of the 4′ 6′ Shimura whipping both sheets off of me like a magician revealing the fact he’s made his assistant disappear. “Yes,” I said, expecting her to delicately fold the sheet in half and tuck it under one leg for modesty’s sake. That’s when she asked, “Would you like leg and buttock, darlink?” She seemed distracted and uninspired, but I’d had worse. Her technique left something to be desired. She began massaging my neck, shoulders and spine. Shimura re-entered, snapping her Ipod into a stand, the requisite shimmery, yogic music began and I relaxed. Another good sign, she didn’t care if I left my clothes on or took them off because this was not a happy ending den of iniquity! I shucked my garments and slid safely betwixt the bedding, face down. “It up to you, darlink,” she said, then stepped out. Why was I so paranoid? I asked Shimura if I should remove all of my clothes. I felt relieved to see a standard-issue massage table with the appropriate trimmings of paper and cloth sheets. Then I followed Shimura into a room the size of Harry Potters’ cupboard beneath the stairs. You’re better than that! Chiding myself, I descended the narrow staircase behind the 4′ 9″ masseuse, thinking it would be a perfect place for Sid Vicious to shoot up. Also, isn’t it racist to suspect an Asian masseuse is a sex worker? You’re not a grunt on leave in Hanoi, Shannon. No one’s going to offer me a happy ending.

“Yes, yes,” she nodded, her smile strangely off, “follow Shimura below.”įor a fleeting moment, the words HAPPY ENDING MASSAGE, flashed across my brain pan as neon-red as the sign outside. A bit startled and confused I glanced at Red. She stomped right past me and down a flight of stairs. The first clinical and imperious, the second purring and kittenish. Her demeanor and her voice were completely at odds. Without looking me in the eye she said, “Come with me for massage, darlink.” She marched in, shooting Red a curt nod, then turned to me. I thought it was a little rude that she’d make a personal call with a customer present, but it became apparent Red had called an outside contractor when, a few seconds later, the front door burst open to reveal - A 4′ 10″ Asian woman in a black duffle coat and black knee-high boots bearing the brisk, efficient manner of a drill sergeant. Red said yes, then picked up her cell phone and called someone. I asked the receptionist, who I’ll call Red, if it would be possible to get a 45-minute massage right then. The place reminded me a little of the no-frills acupuncture school I sometimes visit in Venice at home in California.

Inside, there appeared to be rows of Chinese herbs in boxes behind the front desk where a slightly spacey, matronly redhead in a white doctor’s smock presided. Let’s take care of these throbbing feet and knotted calves.įinishing off my 300th 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. Look at that! Ten massage parlors all within a four-block radius.

So one afternoon, with a few hours on my own, I thought: “I wonder if there are massage parlors in London? Specifically in Chinatown?” where I happened to find myself. I’d walked hundreds of miles through subway undergrounds, and climbed thousands of steps in these pursuits and my feet and back were killing me. The one out of only two Boden clothing stores in existence.(Since they won’t let me be an affiliate, due to my inappropriate site.) But there would be a price to pay. A trip I wanted her to take so I could go to London and see five West End shows and make the trek to the Mothership. I was chaperoning my daughter Bridget on a theater/drama trip in London last week. (I can massage my own breasts, thank you!) It began with sore feet.

Minute of islands endings