Strolling back from my weekly shopping excursion at the Big C on Pattaya’s Second Road where I usually pick up a bunch of fresh salad veggies and some fresh fruit, I crossed over to the beach side of Second Road where I could walk past the beer bars and scope out the activity-maybe bump into a pal or two to say “hi.”
Goi, a tiny, slim and gorgeous, young lady with magnificent grey eyes to compliment her copper tone skin, a dead ringer for the famous Salma Hayek, reached out from her stalking position of the small massage parlor placed somewhat back from the street so that the shop’s street frontage was not much more than the three foot passageway. She held my hand with both her hands and looked up at me longingly, saying, “Please, massage you very, very good.”
She didn’t have to say more. I had a fully loaded backpack resting on my shoulders plus I was carrying two ten-pound bags of supermarket stuff. A rest break was just what the doctor would have ordered. Since a doctor wasn’t around, a lovely, 20-year-old massage girl would have to take the physician’s place.
Goi, led me through the narrow passage, down into the basement level of the older building. She walked comfortably while I had to walk slightly bent to avoid scraping my head on the low ceiling. My stunning massage girl, pulled back the curtain to a typical, tiny space with a massage mat on the floor and a couple towels resting on a corner table.
At this point, I wasn’t too thrilled with the set-up and considered giving up this encounter altogether. But I thought to myself, I’ve gone this far and Goi’s massage will overcome the physical deficiencies of the building, including the dampness and dusty, moldy smell that permeating throughout.
I thought I knew the routine. Goi left the massage space and closed the curtain so I could strip down in privacy and get myself comfortable on the massage mat. There I was, prone and on my stomach, resting my head on a scrunched up towel, when I heard the curtain being pulled back and the rustle of Goi kneeling to the floor to begin the massage.
Something wasn’t quite right. The two, soft, tiny hands with lovely, long fingers felt like rough sandpaper on my back. It seemed that large calloused hands with extraordinary pressure were pushing hard on my back. I turned my head upward to ask Goi, to ease up a bit only to discover that Goi was no longer Goi.
Instead, it became apparent that gorgeous Goi was the massage shill, leading unsuspecting passersby to a small army of hardened, tough old ladies who were more accustomed to working the rice fields of Isaan than working out the kinks of sore muscles. Quickly, very quickly, I lifted myself up, put my clothes back on, profusely thanked the extra-large, well-fed, and much older massage lady and paid the going price with a satisfactory tip that brought a sly smile to my grandmotherly massage girl.
Leading myself up and out, back to Second Road, I smiled at Goi, as I passed her on the sidewalk and I thanked her as well. After all, she was only doing her job and doing it well. After a while, I thought I should have tipped Goi since she was the superb shill that was saving the small basement massage shop from complete oblivion.
Pattaya Massage Stories 