Gender Bender

About once a month I get a massage at one of the various storefronts in our neighborhood that offer several different menu items: foot, whole body, head only, with oil, with herbs, and so on. These places are all above board, but the routines, decor, and prices vary widely.

They also come and go—I suspect that not many of the proprietors have had business training. This turnover rate means that I’m always continuing the quest for the perfect massage. I know that there is no such thing. I also know that I’ll never run out of possibilities.

This week I tried a new spot, located on a lower floor in an apartment building that rents to people of several nationalities. About half the time my masseuse turns out to be a man, but this time I wasn’t really sure at first. Trying not to stare, I kept sneaking glances, but s/he wasn’t giving me any clues. Loose clothing, unisex haircut, never said a word. I wasn’t even clear about whether or not s/he was Thai.

Eventually the kneading and pressing that characterizes massage here began to get closer to some classified areas. For my peace of mind, I sort of wanted to know a little more about who I was dealing with. I reasoned that perhaps the rules at this establishment were different from what I was used to.

I cleared my throat and tried to communicate in Thai an idea something like, “Go easy—that place on my upper thigh is a little tender.” In fact the pressure wasn’t too bad. I simply hoped that s/he would answer, so I could tell if this was a soprano or a baritone. “Why? Did you get injured there?” he said in a deep voice.

Ah. Relaxation came easily after I had a gender to assign to my masseuse. He did a pretty good job, despite a few failed attempts to bend my body into a pretzel shape. (This guy was athletic, and I think he wanted to show off his own flexibility, without perhaps stopping to assess my own lack of it.) His appearance might be a fashion statement that I would be able to interpret more easily if I was still in my twenties.

Afterward I went to the front desk to pay up. Normally I like to hand a tip directly to the person who worked on me, so that I’m sure it reaches them. I waited for a few minutes, but my guy was nowhere to be seen. As I was putting on my shoes, an angry-looking woman customer stormed into the room from the place in the back where the massages happen. She was wearing a head scarf of the kind seen in moderate Islamic countries.

In English she said to the boss, “Give me phone.”

The boss smiled but looked surprised. “Is everything OK?”

“Give me phone. I want talk my son.”

Soon she was shouting into the phone, “They give me man. I come here get massage. I no want man. They trick me. He not speak. They think I not know. But I know! (Pause.) How I know? I no need check. You not believe? You check! You come downstairs check!”

As I left the building I saw a young man trudge out of the elevator and head for the shop. Something told me that nobody in there was going to be able to relax for a while.