Thai Massage in Thin Pajamas

Khaosan Road, Bangkok

The fluorescent lights. The cotton skirt
sweat-stuck to my thighs. The clammy
air conditioning. The changing room
with wooden lockers. The coarse linen.
The black vinyl mats, the half-naked patrons
sprawled on the floor. The smell
of Tiger Balm. Music from the bar
next door. The couple who wanted
a side-by-side. Pink neon. Calloused hands.
"I've never been massaged by a man," I say.
The invading moose-knuckle. The privileged
groan. His awkward leap across the mat.
"Really? Never a man?" he asks, and heaves
my upper body like a sack of potatoes
or net of fish, swinging once, twice.
And on the third try my vertebrae separate—
creating a momentary space within.
Then another torque of knee cartilage.
Another twist of spine bone.

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