Massage Room

I am in a narrow rectangular room with one closed door off to the side. The small space resembles a log cabin or sauna. The walls are all made from thick pieces of wood. They are still cherry brown and unfinished and smell faintly of the forest they came from. The long back wall and two narrow sides are without windows. They are uncluttered and alight with shadows cast by the single white candle in every corner.
The center of the room is taken up by a row of tall massage tables. They are placed one next to the other without any gap between them. They nearly fill the space. There is just a two foot periphery on every side of them. The padded tables are covered in crisp, sun-smelling white sheets that look orange in the glowing candlelight. They too, seem alive with the constant dance of flame shadows.
The front-wall is made of wood, made of the same cherry hued tree as the others in the room. It is differentiated by a series of five windows that look out onto a cemented patio.
The windows are three feet high and two feet wide. They are spaced four feet apart. Outside I can see a collection of simple metal chairs. The chairs are not facing the windows directly. They are turned to the right, as though the few dozen people sitting in them are awaiting an entertainer perpendicular to the small room.
But all the spectators are turned towards the windows, towards me. Their dark eyes, lit by the florescent overhead lighting that hangs from the ceiling of the outdoor patio and the lit street lamps outside, search through the barrier of the thin glass pane, looking for us inside.
The men in the crowd have thick, dark mustaches and wear top hats. Their suits are cleaned and pressed and gray. There are a few little girls in the crowd wearing dresses with lacy frills at the collar and hem. Despite their child-like dresses, they look just as austere as their mothers, who sit silently with pale faces that reveal no emotion or curiosity, though their heads are all turned towards the windows.
There are twelve massage tables in the room. Each of them is occupied by a young woman. Their torsos are bare and their pelvises are covered with a folded white sheet that also appears to be orange.
I am standing in the center of the room behind the massage tables wearing a sheer white camisole that only gives the illusion of a shirt, my nipples are dark and evident and poking through the fabric. I am massaging a blond woman who lays face up on the table. Her eyes are closed and I run my hands over her firm stomach, feeling her ribs just beneath the skin’s surface.
Each woman on the table is being massaged by someone. I am aware of the crowd outside sitting several dozen feet away from the windows, all of them looking for a peek into the massage room. I don’t look towards them. I am aware of the women beside me and the others on the tables, but I put all my energy into the movement of my hands. I am so focused on my hands that all external shapes fade into the walls and blend seamlessly into candlelight.

Gallery

The double glass doors sit closed on the front left corner of the building, they face a deserted sidewalk and a few tall pines. On the left wall, just beyond the door, is a long piece of rectangular black fabric hanging from the place where wall and ceiling meet. The fabric is four feet wide and hangs without a wrinkle, attempting to cover the dirty white walls underneath. The left wall is over fifty feet long and besides the one piece of fabric, it is streaked with light brown fingerprints, tiny dots of paint and grease that shine at certain angles. Like the pock-marked traces from a gopher, the walls are covered with black holes from nails used long ago. Surrounding them like tiny moons are the smaller pin pricks from plastic push pins. The ceiling above towers in a plain of darkness, without lamps or dangling bulbs. It is just the long rows of track lights that shine on each wall, pointing to them like spotlights on 2 dimensional actors.
On the back wall, just beside the right corner, is another long rectangular piece of black fabric. It is slightly wrinkled and has accumulated dust at the hem. To the left of it, tacked to a dirty wall, are a series of paper plates that have been taped together, forming a row three feet long. On the center circle of each white plate are colorful drawings in children’s colors: bright green, yellow and red, all etched in long thick strokes with crayons and colored pencil.
The centermost paper plate holds the image of an abstract woman. She sits on the ground, reclining back slightly, the weight of her torso supported by her arms and hands. Her large legs and thick thighs are spread, revealing her femininity in bright color. In black block letters, on the right side of her head, is the word: “PUSSY.”
Besides the fabric, the paper plates are the only things on the long, dirty walls. Along the right side of the room, there is a huge wall of black velvet curtains that hang from the ceiling, cutting the room in two. There is the gentle murmuring of voices coming from just beyond the curtain. A female’s voice punctuates the murmur, using the words: “oil”, “naked”, and “clothes.” The deep bass of a man responds, using the words: “trust” and “issues.”

Nuclear Medicine

The elevator doors close unsteadily. Cables squeal and grind with effort. The yellow rectangular light panels buzz feebly overhead. The inhabitants of the elevator glance at each other out of the corners of their eyes. One is male, the other female. The male is lean with sunken eyes and bony cheekbones. He wears slacks of brown polyester held up with a belt under which a black and blue checkered shirt is tucked and buttoned up to the collar. The woman is short but ample and wears her hair closely shorn. She wears slacks and sandals with a white tunic blouse. They stand silently with a healthy distance between them. The carpet underfoot is stained and torn. The woman tries not to let the tips of her toes come off the edge of her sandals lest they come into contact with its contaminated fibers.
The doors shudder open into the gray mustiness of what used to be a bomb shelter. All surfaces are concrete. Doors are the exception. They are dull metal.
There are flickering florescent tubes leading the way from where they are bolted high above, and yellow arrows painted on the concrete point the way from below. The corridor twists and turns. There are no people, just doors marked RADIATION. DO NOT ENTER. With small nervous movements and wide eyes the two individuals shuffle along following the yellow arrows.
A cubicle with a yellow light shining out through the panes of glass houses a solitary human being. He is a fat young man seated behind a desk, his nightly snack of Snickers Bars and two cans of Coke Classic stacked beside his appointment book. He’s a little sweaty, but manages a smile. ..
He directs the woman to continue alone, further down the gray hall with the yellow arrows. There, a tall man in a white coat and blue paper shoe covers awaits and ushers the woman into a very large room with a large white torpedo in the middle. There is nothing else in the room. Absolutely nothing. The tiles on the floor have been buffed until they are almost invisible.
The man is very businesslike as he hands the woman a flimsy cotton hospital gown that opens down the back. She undresses awkwardly. With her back to him, trying not to allow her clothes to fall to the floor she simultaneously attempts to cover herself with the disposable garment. It is creased so that she is swathed in white paper squares. Tersely the man instructs her to put earplugs in as well. A narrow bed slides out of the mouth of the torpedo like a curved tongue. Nothing supports it. It doesn’t appear very sturdy. It’s plastic. The woman crawls onto it but is forced to lie down with her arms over her head. The tunnel is too narrow to let them dangle naturally alongside her torso. The man in the white coat warns his patient to keep her eyes closed and places a heavy, weighted belt over her abdomen. A smaller version is placed over her knees. A still smaller version is placed over her ankles.
She is unable to move. Or see. Or hear.

Exposed Sensuality

I am in a small square pool in an Arabian courtyard. The robe I have used so often to cover myself is all wet.
I notice an old man with a white beard look at me. He is in the pool, and he looks with both disapproval and lust when my robe accidentally drifts above my ankle.
The garden walls and grass around us have melted and only a blanket of water exists, I see dozens of women in the distance. They are all wet, bathing in their robes. Most of the women are sitting upon a large stone, close to the surface of the water, all of them have their robes pulled over their ankles, almost covering their toes.
But there is another woman, up to her knees in the water and surrounded by bright golden light. She is youthful and her blond hair has been tied in two braids. She is unconcerned with her veil, although two of her friends are trying to adjust her headscarf and cover her exposed arms and neck before she is punished for her sensuality and sexuality. She smiles slightly, loving the sensual pleasure of water and sun.