she didn't exactly knead right. despite making a big display of swinging her body outwards and up into the air and then descending palm first into my thigh, i felt little more than a muscular shove.
the guy being massaged next to me - Herman from Holland, i would soon learn, as we exchanged travel itineraries while arched and upside down, skewered over pulp, round knee caps - oooed, aahhhed, and made other entertaining noises, while i lay in comfortable silence.
"hhhooow are you so quiet?", he finally asked, almost self-consciously, as if it were his personal inadequacy that kept me from massage climax.
and what could i answer? i would have loved to be screaming, howling, mirroring his deep sighs. But Bit.. Kit.. Kim.. Sien.. whichever one she was, just didn't have that magic touch.
and I'd known within seconds, as you do, that she wouldn't deliver. but for an hour, i indulged nevertheless, and left just as happy as herman.
because even a bad massage, on the banks of a tropical paradise, is still pretty good.
the massage place is in a little straw hut at the very end of this beach
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