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Skip to the articleor search this site. But as far as human experience and the search for love goes? Particularly when considering the unlikelihood of success in that pursuit? Oh, I can pine with the best of them, but at some point pining loses its charms. After one breakup in the s, in classic spurned-woman fashion, I got my hair cut dramatically short by the hairstylist who had given the celebrated Linda Evangelista her iconic haircut slightly earlier in the s.
And there would always be my dog, Carmen. The pang of seeing my dog suffer from my unstable emotional life would force me to pull myself together. Sweet work. You have to be worthy of it. I was a regular Lancelot, a female Quixote. If the latter, I was duty-bound to make the most of what I had to work with.
Lazy I was not. The search for true love and the search for gainful employment seemed, at the time, disconcertingly similar in both method and. But this particular between-boyfriends time was different. I was on the cusp of something—not quite there, but almost. It was a moment in my life defined by ambiguity and a blurring of lines as I tried to focus. My friend Hattie and I would sit, gloriously and consciously single in our wonderful clothes, crazy shoes and the kind of hairstyles that only the self-employed or unemployed ever wear, at a Vietnamese place on Hester Street, surrounded by wizened senior citizens.
Women of the world, we compared our exes, travel experiences, masseurs. Some creep you might not even want to sleep with by the time you get him home from some random party or a long and boring dinner that feels more like a job interview?
How often has that happened lately, you ask yourself? What are the chances of it happening again? I ended up bent over and unable to completely straighten up. My shoulders were sloped. My face was pinched. I looked fifty. A thousand.
I suddenly realized that it must be mostly pain that turns people old. I was only in my thirties, and this felt like a courtesy call from The Grim Reaper, telling me Old Age and Decrepitude were on their way, and here was a free sample.
Most masseurs will do the front of your legs and arms, maybe your face. But Mike did my boobs.
Maybe, I speculated as he massaged my breasts, only Americans were squeamish about this sort of thing during a professional massage. Maybe I was getting the authentic version of the Chi Tui Na massage, and there were thousands of Chinese women Stories of happy ending massages China getting their breasts massaged at that very moment. Maybe this was the massage equivalent of whatever was on the untranslated Chinese menus they never gave to tourists in Chinatown restaurants. This massage was like the duck tongues in garlic sauce dish I never dared to order. Perhaps my masseur thought I was worldly and sophisticated enough for this.
Maybe it showed. Probably all sorts of nerve endings in my breasts are connected to my ovaries and other important organs. They need attention! Let me tell you frankly that after the initial surprise, I always left Mike not only feeling very sophisticated, but also with a smile on my lips, and, if not a spring in my step, certainly with happy boobs. Breast massages were a wonderful thing, I decided. During one of my subsequent spring-roll lunches with Hattie, the subject turned to Mike the masseur, with my careful, prurient help. It turned out that he did.
Or do I? Well, to speak just for myself, maybe my relatively loose personal boundaries are all the fault of my brilliant gynecologist in Paris. Let me guess. Day nine of your cycle. It was an honor to be a human female specimen useful to the development of her talents. I simply found myself smiling as I left her office once and wondered, why do I have this big smile on my face? Well, because I felt kind of frisky. My boobs felt…well, my goodness, they felt great!
That, I realized, had been a very nice breast exam. Not at all invasive or inappropriate. It held just the right amount of interest, attention, and balance between medical exploration and gentleness. Her touch made me feel healthily validated as a woman, somehow. Which is all just to say that when Mike did his breast massage, it brought back fond and safe memories of Dr. Then there was the masseuse at the Hammam, at the Mosque de Paris. I think she may also have had something to do with my threshold of comfort when entrusting my body to others.
I still remember her bright red cheeks, deep black eyeliner, and hennaed hair. She had the face of a Moroccan doll, but was massive and full-breasted, with very plump, strong arms, not young, but too strong to look old. She had stood at the head end of the table I was lying naked on, and poured oil all over me.
With my eyes closed, it took me a moment to realize what was enclosing the top of my head and ears as she leaned over me to slide her palms forcefully along my hips and waist and up to my collar bone. Her breasts and belly had covered my head and muted all sound.
For a moment I struggled with claustrophobia. Then I surrendered myself to the sensation, reassured by what was either her professionalism or complete indifference to my initial discomfort. How often does one get to return to the womb, I asked myself? One fine day, though, Mike surprised me again.
After the breast massage, his hands slid a little further down my front. He sat down and told me a little about himself, including where he was from, and I felt terrible when he asked me, in his sweet soft accent, if I wanted to be his girlfriend. He was sincere. I reacted awkwardly, because what did I know about this man? How could I be his girlfriend? I actually tried, dear reader. Lying there on the table, I envisioned it, but each scenario I imagined of us in love ended very badly. I did go back, after my embarrassment had passed and my backaches had become unbearable. No one knew where he was, or so they said.
Over lunch, we wondered, had he gone back to China? Carolita Johnson is a cartoonist The New Yorker magazine and freelance illustrator, who also writes stuff, and definitely has a book in the works. Skip to the top of thesearch this siteor read the article again.
I am getting a happy ending. I never went back.
Or maybe—just maybe? Tags: carolita johnson dramatic haircuts happy boobs pining with the best of them the rare pleasure of a single woman's company. Add a comment. Hey Ladies: We Wrote a Book!Stories of happy ending massages
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