Tread softly (for you tread upon my dreams)

so many times i’ve reached for the phone, only to stop myself at the last minute, not because i don’t care (in fact, it’s just the opposite) but i don’t know if i ought to, if i’m wanted at all.

like a star lost in the cloths of heaven.

very unsettling, very excruciating this… this… beyond words, i can’t explain or begin to make sense of, yet words are all i have left.

Nevermind the occupational hazard…

and nevermind that this came from interoffice mail… This ad really made my day (i.e. it made me laugh out loud, spontaneously).

Certainly puts a spin to baby olds, hey?

Addendum: A stupendously slow-moving day… punctuated by a client’s tardiness… I’m STILL STUCK IN THE OFFICE WAITING FOR A SIGN-OFF. Bollocks. Damn I need my wine, women and song. ARRRRGH.

Loopy copy snogs

Songs that I’ve been trippin’ to all day to get the juices flowing.

I really need to dance off (either that… or… hmm) this twitchy, nervous energy that won’t go away. Frankly, it’s driving me nuts. It’s not funny any more.

Touch

“You work with your hands.”

Since my face was comfortably nestled upon a towelled hole in the message bench, all I could do then was mumble an incoherent “mhhmmmyeaaaa” as the therapist went back to kneading, pounding and performing all sorts of strange oriental pain/relief-inducing techniques on my long-suffering back.

I never had a male masseuse work on me before — at least, not when I’m in a complete state of undress — so imagine my chagrin when he started admiring, out loud, the alluring silkiness of my skin.

“Wah, Miss, your skin got tan3 xing4 (eh, supple in Mandarin), your boyfriend must be very lucky, hor,” he mused. I rolled my eyes at the comment (not that he could see my eyes — like I said, face in hole) . Since I wasn’t in a pretty mood and my shoulder especially was flaring up in a most discomfiting fashion, I retorted, “Thank you, but I’m not into you. That’s why you’re servicing me, yes?”

To my surprise, he didn’t flinch at my acerbic reply. Instead, he laughed and went back to treating my shoulder with more gumption than before.

I suppose I should supply some sort of a preamble to this little encounter. ’twas one of those referral things where a spa calls you up, hooks you with a free massage/manicure session in the hope that you’d buy a membership after the deed is done. And since I had some time to kill between work and drinks, I decided “why the hell not” and booked an appointment with them.

When I got there, I was flabberghasted to see the spa, which took up an entire floor of a megamall, filled entirely by women of all ages, shapes and sizes. After an interminable wait, my liaison popped out of nowhere, looking extremely flustered. “Erm, Miss Pei Ling,” he stuttered, “today we overbooked, ah, got a lot of ladies. You mind if I get you male masseuse?”

I blinked. Very deliberately, I scanned the waiting area, filled with women whom I supposed were waiting like I was, and asked the dude, “why didn’t you offer the rest of them male masseuses as well? They’ve waited longer than I did.”

Beat.

“Uh Miss, they prefer to wait cos they want female”, was the sheepish reply.

Ohwells. I shrugged, and said yes, lead the way. Upon which he promptly led me into a pretty nice little cubbyholish room, where a comfortable-sized massage bench took centerstage. Ambient light flooded from the top corners, and the air was sweet and heavy with the scents of ylang ylang and lavender. It was pretty nice, to say the truth.

Then the masseuse came in. Roughly 50 years of age, balding and sporting a rather healthy paunch. He had a pair of workmen’s hands — thickly fleshed with muscle, with strong padded fingers. He gestured for me to remove my clothes, which I promptly shed and made myself comfortable on the bench.

Then he got down to work.

He begun by probbing the soft, fleshy areas around my spine and pelvis, lingering long enough to exert the faintest of pressures as he traced a path alongside the ridges then to the shoulder blades and arms. Whenever he hit a particularly sensitive spot, I grunt and exhale in relief. After about five minutes of this… acupressure mapping business, he made his informed pronouncement:

“Miss, your left shoulder recently got problem issit? There’s water around your rotator cuff and I’ll have to spend more time on it,” he gravely intoned.

(Aside: I’m not gonna bother with translation from this point on. Suffice to say, he conversed in a telligible mix of Mandrain and English. It’s almost become a national institution, this bastardised hybrid vernacular)

I related my little mishap a week back, and he tut-tutted throughout, pausing only to jab at my shoulder when I tried to explain how my shoulder jam-crashed into the seatbelt receptacle-likething when the cab swerved and braked.

That’s when he made his deduction that I use my hands to work.

So he devoted more time treating my shoulder and back, using a hodge-podge of sport massage therapy, shiatsu and Thai massage techniques to unbreak my back. The rolling and pulling motion of his gentle giant hands eased the tension that had been building up for the past two weeks, and at one point in time, I nearly dozed off.

This went on for about an hour. When he was finally satisfied that my back was knot-free and my swollen shoulder joint, sufficiently prepped to jumpstart natural healing process, he began to conduct one final rubdown starting from my head, neck, shoulder, back right down to the legs. His fingers skimmed the sides of my breasts many a time but I didnt’ feel a tinge of eroticism, only staunch professionalism; what I truly relished, though, was the almost-infinite, careful kneads and touches that seemed to flow into one another, a successful orchestration of many fluid movements.

I haven’t been touched like this for a long time. Not in a way that made me feel as if I were the centre of the universe, as if my body held a trove of secrets that must be explored, enjoyed and returned in kind. And to be touched and paid attention to by some one out of their own volition and altruistic concern was something I haven’t experienced in a long while. Especially not as a passive participant. Give give give, take take take. It’s always a balance of both isn’t it? And tonight, I took. I took it all, and soaked in every plesurable sensation, every healing comfort. It may not be the sort that my body should crave for, but heck, give me the bleeding scrapings any day.

Who doesn’t enjoy a little bit of attention every now and then? I paraphrased this from a vexing conversation sometime back. And this is somewhat out of point, or maybe, I’m too tired to have the faculties to string it into the central thesis. Maybe I should explore the concept of “Me, Me ME!!!!” a little further. Understand how that works.

But oh, what healing wonders a simple touch or caress can evoke. Whether or not these are physical or emotional ones. Even the actions of hearing or talking to a loved one, no matter if they’re stolen moments over the phone, are enough to connect people, connect souls, temper the irrationality that unanswered concern often ferments. Bleed away a simmering tension. A soothing salve for the soul. If touch were the branches of affection and care, a little goes a long, long way.