Last Thursday night my wife gave me a belated birthday present of his and hers massages at the Salish Lodge Spa. As I understand it, a massage is supposed to be rejuvenating and relaxing. Let’s see how this works…
I’m supposed to allow a perfect stranger, who is undoubtedly fitter and more attractive than I have been or ever will be, see and touch my body. A body, I will note, that is shaped and pigmented with "Before" photos in mind. Indeed, these two massage practitioners (the official Washington State term) were straight out of central casting.
Add to this the indelicate fact that men do not have complete control over a certain physical manifestation of arousal, and in circumstances such as these are highly motivated to focus their minds on suppressing said manifestation. Mmm… I’m relaxed already.
Lying there face down on the massage table, looking down at the floor, I was struck by the absence of a screen to stare at. And it reminded me of conversations I’d had with my friend Ben, whose wife has been known to frequent tony spas, about the need for a truly male-oriented spa. Such a spa would feature a recliner for each patron with a personalized remote control enabling him to watch any sporting event known to civilization. The morning wake-up call would be at 12:30 PM sharp. In the afternoon attendants would circulate constantly with platters of bacon and pitchers of beer. And so on.
Then I made my first trip to Vegas and learned that such places already exist.