The Massage Chair

So, I spontaneously paid ten Ront to be kneaded for five minutes in one of those massage chairs in a shopping mall, on my way out.

The female assistant who received my money was temporarily confused by my request to wipe down the chair before I occupied it.  “You do know that sweat is really dilute urine, and that some people don’t wash often or have dandruff or even ringworm?” I cautioned. She arranged a spray bottle filled with what appeared to be a window-cleaning product, using a cloth that would probably be green again after laundering. Nonetheless, I proceeded to climb into the chair without further comment in appreciation of her effort, and because of her sweet disposition.

She switched it on.

Gradually it reclined as the knobs hidden in its framework came to the surface and worked my muscles. I was left in a somewhat confused state, really enjoying the sensation whilst feeling hellishly embarrassed that the chairs were facing passing shoppers in their hordes. Why don’t they have them face the other way, goodness me! I put on my sunglasses to block out the circumstances and in case my eyes rolled back with pleasure, maintaining my best poker-face.  The leg extensions squeezed around my calves, whilst my spine, neck and back of my head got rhythmically pulsed and pounded.  It was, indeed, very effective.

And, then… a singular, large and bellicose knob suddenly thrust up into my coccyx, and I yelped!  After that, I had the giggles as I covered my face with my hands… remembering I was in public.  The lady assistant seemed to know exactly what had happened as she said, “What’s wrong, Dahling… is it the one at the bum?” “Yes!” I exclaimed, “That knob, I can do without!” Again, peals of laughter…

Buttock bump aside,  I’d venture to say… it’s not a bad replacement for a boyfriend.  Good listener and tireless massage therapist. Comfortable and flexible. Has excellent rhythm. Can be switched on at the press of a button, and at whim. Just saying. But… naaaah.