He waltzed into the Thai massage parlour in the posh side of Boksburg, riding on the high horse of moral indignation that only an individual who has recently attained refugee status in President Elon Trump’s universe can muster.
While confirming his booking with the receptionist, a pretty young black girl donning the massage parlour uniform appeared behind the receptionist. Oubaas’s face contorted anxiously; “It will be a Thai lady giving me a massage, right?” After being assured, he sighed in relief.
Stifling our giggles, the missus and I start whispering in a mengsel of Setswana and IsiZulu, swapping theories about the source of Oubaas’s blunt question. This is Boksburg after all, so we can’t discount Orania vibes. But we’re feeling generous and we reckon it’s just poorly functioning filters because he’s a septuagenarian. After all, if we’re being honest, when we book a Thai massage, we’re not really expecting Maletsatsi from Vosloorus to be doing us. Part of the experience dictates that it be a giggly Thai woman.
This incident occurred last Sunday afternoon. Mrs N had taken one look at me that morning and booked us a couples massage. Both of us have managed to pack in so much work this year it already feels like October, and chronic fatigue is starting to take its toll. According to the missus, I’ve aged 15 years since January.
My pressure points during a massage elicit a mixture of suppressed memories from as far back as 1975, my innermost fantasies and some of my more bizarre thoughts. One moment I was back at crèche in Hammarsdale, being forced to eat sugarless porridge, the next I was floating on Aladdin’s carpet over the Pyramids of Giza.
Anyway, other than my culturally insensitive, stereotypical insistence that my Thai masseuse needs to be… you know… from Thailand, I also have a strong preference for … err … big-boned masseuses. This is purely from my experience. Around 2012, in this column, I shared my experience with a Swedish massage I got at Natal Spa in Paulpietersburg at the hands of a stout Zulu woman from the countryside. A few years ago I was also massaged by another thickset woman who had me squealing in delight like a piglet.
So on Sunday, when I was assigned a Thai lady with neck rolls and fleshy forearms, I rubbed my hands in gleeful anticipation. I was not disappointed. That woman kneaded me like I was bread dough. I don’t know about you, but my pressure points during a massage elicit a mixture of suppressed memories from as far back as 1975, my innermost fantasies and some of my more bizarre thoughts. One moment I was back at crèche in Hammarsdale, being forced to eat sugarless porridge, the next I was floating on Aladdin’s carpet over the Pyramids of Giza.
I do have two complaints, though. The Thai masseuse was so enthusiastic she was careless about accidental brushes against my gonads. Look, I’m no prude, but that sort of thing needs to be by mutual arrangement, dammit! And then, at some point, she’s got her elbow pressed against my groin. As a seasoned participant in massages, I have perfected my antidote to the age-old male challenge: involuntary inappropriate boners. I just closed my eyes and imagined I was getting the massage from Vladimir Putin in a purple tutu.
This is when one of the many voices inside my head slapped me and reminded me that moaning about not being able to get fortnightly muscle relief is the height of failing to check one’s privilege. It’s not like a Thai massage is a human right. No one expects Enoch “Let them eat cake” Godongwana to get to page 23 of his budget speech and – in his best Oprah voice – yell out: “My fellow South Africans, everybody look under your seats! You get a massage and you get a massage, everybody gets a massage!”
What I am saying, though, is that when members of the chattering classes lose whatever little comforts they’re used to, it turns us all into Karens, moaning about not being able to afford massages. Especially when the finance minister is whining about being criticised for his austerity measures — because Lord forbid he should announce a real stimulus package to attain the economic growth that has eluded us for the past 30 years.
Poor sensitive minister. What a terrible existence, whizzing about in blue lights, being subjected to croissant and blue cheese breakfasts in Davos every few months! But then again, what does a delusional newspaper columnist who gets groin rubs from stout Thai women know about macroeconomics?
But one mustn’t grumble too much. By the time we left little Thailand, I felt like I was walking on air. And I was humming my favourite Joyous Celebration gospel tune in Mthunzi Namba’s voice: “Reconstruct me; Mould me...”
Would you like to comment on this article?
Sign up (it's quick and free) or sign in now.
Please read our Comment Policy before commenting.