We had visitors in town and I took it upon myself to play hostess. We three ladies went to a rather high end spa, one that doesn’t feel like a sweatshop massage parlor where sweaty tourists are packed in like a can or sardines. One with a zen ambiance and a reputable interior and service.
Between the three of us, we got a Royal Thai Massage, a Swedish Massage, and a Back and Neck Stress Relief Massage. The girl and I, having the latter two, got our first. We dragged our jelly-like bodies into the lobby, where our three pairs of shoes sat waiting. As we approached the counter, we noticed four service bills sitting, ready for payment. We picked out ours, labeled by massage service, paid, and went to the couch with straight faces.
Without a word, we both made a dash for the service menu sitting on the coffee table. We looked to see if the fourth bill, written “Happy Massage” was on the menu.
Then we looked up as an attendant came out, bringing out a fourth pair of shoes for a finishing customer. It was a worn pair of man’s sandals.
Exchanging a look, we bolted out of the lobby, not wanting to be caught staring at the mystery man when he came out.
Now, we need to find a male volunteer to go in, straight-faced, and request how much and how long the “Happy Massage” is.