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Edna’s “massagical” bliss
Edna’s “massagical” bliss
It seems that thanks to the ‘internasty’ I have gone global. I had no idea
so many people have been gawping in wonderment at my little slot, courtesy
of your newspaper’s website. Last week I clearly hit a choice chord that has
vibrated across cyberspace. Since then I have been bombarded by requests
from your readers, mostly shy and retiring middle-aged ladies like myself,
who have demanded that I write more about my near miraculous massagical
experiences. I seemed to have coined a new word there, a cross between
massage and magical. Not inappropriate, if I do say so myself.
Some want to know if I can recommend traditional Thai massage. Well, quite
frankly, this is not an experience I can give the Edna Endorsement of
Approval. To begin with you have to change into a pair of fake satin harem
pants and a loose fitting top. As well as making you feel foolish, dressed
up like Bethsheba from Ali Baba, I’m quite sure they don’t wash these
garments quite as often as they should, so you don’t know which sweaty Betty
has been wearing them before you. Now you can get around this by bringing
along your own togs. I wore a pair of my late husband’s pyjamas, and apart
from a slight smell of mildew, I found them perfect for the ordeal. And
ordeal it was. It began with me face down on an old mattress and my
wonderful young masseur, Mr. Ong, walking up my back in his bare feet. Later
on he flipped me over and started forcing my legs up around my ears. Well,
for a woman of my generation who has never known anything more intimate than
the missionary position this was really quite an extraordinary experience.
The massage continued with Mr. Ong grappling with me from behind and placing
me in a series of very uncomfortable arm locks. Finally, after pressing his
fingers and thumbs painfully into my scalp, he finished off by pummelling my
back with his fists. So, in conclusion, I would have to say that this system
of massage seems to have been devised some kind of sadist and cannot be
commended by yours truly.
Aroma therapy massage, on the other hand, is the nearest thing to physical
ecstasy a woman can attain outside of the marital domain and the ice cream
parlour. Prior to the massage, I shower and then lay face down on the bed
covered in a voluminous white towel. Then Mr. Ong enters discreetly and
begins to move his warm hands gently up from my feet to my neck as
cautiously a cat crossing a lawn, before dripping oil down the backs of my
legs and slowly moving up again from my ankles to my nether region. I can’t
explain the anticipation and thrill of this slow progress, that eventually
explores every iota of my personage, other than to recall the words of the
Reverend Donald’s old sparring partner, Mr. Noel Coward, and say that
whenever it happens ‘hot flushes of delight suffuse me’.
I hope my devoted readers will understand if I don’t have so much time to
devote to these missives in the future as I may be otherwise engaged with
Mr. Ong who has agreed to join me on a mission of mercy among the Hmong.
May the good Lord bless you all as he has blessed me.
Edna Gosling (Mrs).
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