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Nathan G-Chats me on Friday afternoon to suggest we start our weekend inhaling dumplings in Chinatown. During dinner, he tells me more about a girl he's just begun seeing. He's excited—they've just had their first sleepover on Wednesday, which is always nice. But he didn't sleep well in her bed.
He'd been positioned awkwardly and was now nursing a kink in the neck. He's right. We decide there is no time like the present—especially since we're in Chinatown. We stroll around the neighborhood, the stench of fish markets overtaking everything. Nathan chooses the first not-so-shady-looking establishment we encounter. A woman at the front desk tells us we don't need an appointment and that our respective masseuses will retrieve us momentarily.
A few minutes later, a woman who appears to be about our age mids leads Nathan to the back of the building. Shortly thereafter, a slightly older woman emerges and summons me back. I follow her through a beaded curtain to a hall with a bunch of doors, one of which she points me through. She tells me in broken English and hand gestures that I should disrobe, don a towel, and lie down on the table. She leaves the room so I can strip down to my privates in private.
Let me be clear here: I did not expect any sort of funny business at this point. She begins by standing above my head and kneading at it, which feels fantastic. I don't know why, but having another person wash your hair is the greatest feeling in the world, next to an orgasm or, I am told, love. Before this experience, I have only ever had massages from my mom's go-to practitioner, a woman named Faye who only speaks English—and a lot of it—while she's working on you.
Thinking of Faye, I take a stab at conversation, asking the woman how long she's been giving massages. I come to when she taps on my side. I pull my head from the table's donut and groggily digest that she is motioning for me to turn over onto my back.