Unsaid Things Our Story

Special Massage

Indonesia, 2011

Picture this.

Four nice young men have just arrived at their hotel. it's been a long journey. Crowds of fans were waiting at the airport - a relief, because none of them quite knew how well known try were in Indonesia, but which meant the guys had to be chaperoned through the airport by security. Now they're in the quiet of their own rooms. A moment of peace before they step back into the whirlwind.

Ordinarily on tour they would have their own physiotherapist travelling with them. Performing can put a strain on your body. Muscles need to be rubbed. Backs need to be cracked. But this is a flying visit and the physiotherapist has been left at home.

One of the guys glanced through the hotel literature. Massages are on offer. Just the thing after a log flight. He calls reception and asks for a masseuse. 'Certainly, sir. Right away, sir. Your room number again?'

Ten minutes later there's a knock on the door. A woman enters and looks the young man up and down. 'You take clothes off please,' she says. Her English isn't good.

The young man strips to his boxer shorts.

'And those please.'

'These?'

'Take off, please...'

'Really?'

The young man feels a bit uncomfortable. This is not what he's used to. But when in Rome... He divests himself of his underwear.

At the masseuse's instruction, he lies face down on the bed, his modesty protected by a small, white towel. Nothing else. The masseuse starts rubbing his back. Shoulders first, then down the spine. She goes a little lower than he would normally expect, but that's fine, because now she's moved on to his legs, starting at the feet and moving upwards.

Calves.

Thighs.

Upper thighs.

Upper upper thighs.

This is higher than normal, he thinks to himself. But maybe that's just the Indonesian way.

He catches his breath. Did her hand just lightly brush his balls?

Did she do it on purpose, or was it a mistake?

A mistake, he decides.

But then... nope... definitely his balls.

The masseuse lifts his towel so that his bum is open to the air. It's clear something unexpected is happening, but he feels entirely too British to say anything. She is sitting on his legs now. Massaging every square inch of his bare, naked arse. He'd really prefer it if she stopped, how he's let it go too far. How can he possibly start objecting now?

What should he do?

He's in a hot sweat. Fifteen minutes of intense bum-massage pass. The masseuse climbs off. 'You roll over now,' she instructs.

Roll over. Right.

He turns awkwardly grabbing the towel to cover himself. The masseuse starts on his torso, but it's no longer a massage. By anybody's standards, this is sensuous rubbing. He concentrates hard on keeping himself calm. Any sign of arousal from beneath the towel will give off a message he does not wish to send.

Suddenly she whips off the towel. And now there can be no doubt about her intensions. She's cupping his balls as she taps on his shoulder.

'You want special massage?' she asks.

'Er...'

'Special massage?'  she presses.

'It's, er. . . special enough . . . thank you very much,' he squeaks.

A pause.

'You sure?'

He nods a bit too vigorously. 'Quite sure,' he says.