Relaxation?

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We sleep through breakfast yet again, and then set up shop on sunlounges under a tree next to the pool. We can’t be bothered going in for dip, and we haven’t been more than a few hundred metres from the hotel since we got here three days ago. I know we came to Bali to relax at the end of our three month sojourn, but this seems to be taking things just slightly to extremes.

Issy’s decided to extend the relaxation theme by having a massage. I’d rather stick pins in my eyes, so I’m planning to head out to take some happy snaps while she’s getting the living daylights pounded out of her. I’m just about to leave when she asks me if I’d mind taking some snaps of her lying on the table before I head off. I’m not quite sure why, but it sounds like a harmless enough request. She’s planning on using a voucher we were given when we checked in to the hotel to “pay” for her torture session, but when she hands it to the receptionist she’s asked whether she realised it was for a couple’s massage. Huh?? What?? No no no, I don’t think so. I wonder exactly when it was that I became so gullible. My beloved of course gives me a choice, but I know what’s really going on here….. She then pretends to be disappointed that I’ve taken the couple's “option” and that she can’t have two massages instead. Yeah right.

I’m told to go into a change room, take off all my clothes and come out again wearing disposable underpants and a gown. I’m not quite sure why someone thought it was a good idea to put mirrors all around the room. I manage to tear the underpants trying to put them on, but all is not lost, I manage to find another pair hidden away in a drawer. Then the next challenge, working out which way round they’re supposed to go. I try both, and neither looks right. This is now feeling like a nightmare and the real torture hasn’t even started yet.

We’re asked to sign a waiver form. This is not good. We’re then asked what massage pressure we’d like, and of course my beloved responds “medium to strong”. Hmmm. This is clearly a test of my manhood, and “as light as possible” is suddenly not feeling like quite the right call.

Two young ladies wash our feet and we’re then told to take off our robes off and lie face down on the tables. I suppose I’m about to find out whether I’ve got my undies on the right way round. I wonder if I’ll be sent back to the change room if I’ve got it wrong. The torture begins. How can anyone possibly find this pleasurable. She looked like such a gentle and petite young lady, but she’s finding knots on knots in every muscle in my body, and she’s clearly not going to stop pounding until they’re all gone. I‘d be screaming for mercy if only she hadn’t just squeezed all the air out of my lungs. Finally, relief, the pounding stops. But no, this is only very short-lived respite. Next up are the dislocations. First it’s the fingers, then the toes, then hips. If she gets to my neck at least it should all be over quickly. Just when I think it couldn’t get any worse I’m told to turn over onto my back. I can now see the whites of my torturer’s eyes … but not for long … she applies a blindfold … well maybe it’s just a towel over my eyes, but the connotations are clear. What’s next I wonder - a gag perhaps? We’re both asked whether we want our tummies rubbed. My beloved responds with an enthusiastic “yes” and I know there’s no choice. I’m a lamb to the slaughter - I could probably survive ten dislocated fingers but mangled internal organs I’m not quite so sure about. If only I’d read the fine print in the waiver. I’d always envisaged torture chambers being filled with screams, but all I can hear is soft, peaceful, soothing music. It feels so incongruous - they might as well be playing Happy Birthday at a funeral.

“Wasn’t that great; so peaceful and relaxing” says my beloved. Hmmm. I’ve clearly got to find something less “relaxing” for us to do tomorrow.

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