Vol. VI No. 29 - Tuesday
September 11, - September 17, 2007



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by Saichon Paewsoongnern


MAILBAG
HEADLINES [click on headline to view story]:

Edna’s “massagical” bliss

 

Edna’s “massagical” bliss

Dear Editor,
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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