The title pretty much says it all.

At thirty years old, I had never gotten a massage. I was never okay with the thought of a stranger rubbing all over me.

Well, one sunny day in Cuba, the girlfriend and I decided to head to the pool. Leaving our Airbnb, we set off on the half mile walk to the hotel. While inquiring about a wifi card, we were asked if we would like a massage. Lindsie was interested, I was on vacation, why not? I thought it would be a couples massage, but when we got to the cabana, I realized it would be separate rooms. Lindsie went to the right, I broke left. The massage therapist was a fifty-something Cuban woman, cumbersome, and wearing all white. We shook hands, walked into the room, and she motioned for me to take off my clothes. She walks out of the room and shuts the door behind her.

The room was barren except for a brown table in the center, on this table lay a blue plush towel. I took off my shirt, and my shorts, tossed them into a corner and climbed naked onto the table. I laid on the table face up and placed the towel over my exposed man-parts. My head faced the closed door, my feet faced a shuttered window that had the wooden slats open, the breeze was gentle. I looked up at the ceiling and waited for the arrival of my masseuse.

She walked back in the room, looked at me, put her right hand up with her pointer finger extended, and made the international symbol for turn around. I rolled to my right, adjusted the towel, and laid face down, head still pointed towards the door. The Cuban masseuse began tapping me on the shoulder. I raised my head from the table, looked her in the eyes, and understood she needed me to place my head facing the window. The base on which I laid was not much more extensive than my frame, which made spinning around on the table unachievable for me. So, I placed the blue plushie towel around my waist tightly and rose.

At this point, I have to explain the scientific research of fresh fruit on male virility. In Cuba a pineapple is white, in America a pineapple is yellow. The taste, texture, acidity, size, of all fruit, is superior in Cuba to America. I implore Trump to invade, solely on the grounds of obtaining Cuban fruit. Make America Have Great Fruit Again! The whole point is that in Cuba after consuming massive amounts of fresh, delicious, life-changing fruit, blood flow was significantly increased to certain areas. Even with lust not on my mind, I was always aroused. I nicknamed this occurrence, “Fruit Boners.”

The crisp air, the blue plushie towel, I stood rock-hard, awaiting instruction. Attempts to gain understanding were thwarted at every movement. Her lack of English, my lack of Spanish, a full breakdown of communication. Finally, I attempted to regain my position upon the table. However, the towel restricted movement, the way it was placed around me made it necessary to hold, to prevent from falling. To correctly ascend the table, I would need to lose the towel.

I faced Cuban Massage Lady, my left hand let loose the towel; I bared all.

Now standing proudly, dumbly, and profoundly nude, I walked to the end of the table, placed one knee on a corner, and lifted myself up. Up atop the table on all fours, I crawled to one end facing the window. I can only imagine that her brown eyes and my brown eye watched each other intensely, as I, slothlike, moved across the tabletop. After sinking face down assed up, my traumatized masseuse restored the blue plushie towel back across my exposed derriere.

The rest of the massage went off without a hitch, I had never been so relaxed. After it had ended, she left the room quietly and swiftly. I arose once again, retrieved the clothes in the corner, and got dressed. Exiting the room, I thanked her and left a hefty tip. All the while, never making eye contact.

Thanks for reading. Come back for more!

Published by tamanollahi

Writer at come check us out!

Leave a comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: