I'm writing this post after having a soak at the Korean Baths. I've taken to going there on Sundays after work at my boring fashion retail job. I've still kept one shift at said job, mainly because, after years of trying to get real work, I still can't quite believe that it's actually happened and am sort of hedging my bets, just in case.
I think tonight will be the last visit. It's all to do with what I saw there on this visit. That and the bruising and abraisions from a visit a couple of weeks ago.
A relaxing celebration was called for when I finally got that call. I hadn't had a massage for a while and thought, why not. So tally ho, off to the baths!
Unfortunately, I didn't book ahead and no massage therapist was available, but I couild have a scrub and a Korean massage instead. Ok I said. Surely it would be relaxing.
Into the changes rooms, off with the clothes and I'm directed by a small man of asian appearance, who I find out later is Taiwanese, to have a nice rong soak in the hot bath.
I'm relaxed already and dreamily floating in warm water waiting for my scrub. Number 77, number 77! That's me!
I'm feeling good about this scrub and massage. My locker number is 77 and I have two 7's in my birthdate and am horribly superstitious, so I take this as a good omen.
I shower and then lay prone on a vinyl covered massage table. My wet, naked body makes an embarrassing farting sound as I shimmy into position. I close my eyes and warm soapy water from a bucket is sloshed over me.
Then the scrubbing begins.
Ouch! Isn't that like, a bit firm with the scrubbing there?
Now, I was expected something, you know, eastern. A sea sponge scented with Korean pine or some sort of bamboo handled, beautifully crafted oriental scrubbing tool thingy.
I open my eyes to see the aforementioned Taiwanese Korean bathing house scrubbing man with an intense expression on his face vigorously and with stiff armed, full on, leaning into it actioin having a go at my body with an ordinary, totally mundane, green kitchen sponge. The sort you scrub off the burnt porridge with!
And it's plastic. And really painful.
I lie there thinking, oh my God! I'm too embarassed to say anything, like ouch! So I take it, I supposed like a man. A naked, wet man, lying on a cheap, and now I can't help but to notice, cracked, vinyl surface that makes farting sounds when you move, being scrubbed with a kitchen sponge. I suppose the sudsy stuff in the bucket is old dishwater from the restaurant upstairs?
Surely this cant' get any worse?
He pays expecially hard attention to my armpits and butt crack. I am definitely not turned on by this. Perhaps to him, all westerners are suspciously lacking in hyiene in these areas and so require an extra vigorous scrub.
So the scrubbing finally comes to a finish with a flourish of another bucket of what may or may not be dishwater.
And the massage begins.
I'm tense. I'm wary. I mean, there's bars on the ceiling above my badly upholsterd massage table. I really don't think any strange oriently horizontal, ceiling pole dancing is about to begin. He's going to walk on me.
Yep. Up one leg and down the other. Front and back. And no. He doesn't forget to massage my kidneys or any other expecially tender spot. I think my favourite bit was where, in carefully placing his foot on the inside of my upper thigh, he trod on my penis. Or perhaps it was the bit when I think he slipped on my back and managed to jam his whole foot into my already presensitised butt crack. When that happened I had visions of being presented to casuality and having noone believe that his foot was THERE by accident.
Normally by the end of massage, I'm glowing, relaxed and happy.
Well I was glowing. In spots. The really heavily buffed spots. Relaxed? No. But very happy that it was over.
The next day I woke up sore and found what looked like carpet burns in some very odd places - the point of my left shoulder, the crook of my right armpit, the back of my left knee and of course, the top of my butt crack. And there were bruises, here and there as well.
I suppose I should have asked for my money back. But perhaps having been in customer service for so long, and having to deal with disgruntled people returning fashion garments that haven't quite worked for them, I just can't bare make my self do it.
I supposed I really shouldn't have gone back. But on a cold, wintry Sunday, a nice steam and a bath are relaxing.
Until tonight when I saw two guys fucking in the ginseng bath. And I thought to myself, well there's always been a reason why I could never lower myself into those swirling, bubbling, murky herbal scented waters - and now I know why!
Just like that, the appeal had all worn off.
