If you have successfully devoured Part One of my Honeymoon Saga, you may now advance past Go and collect $200. If you haven’t, click here to catch up. Don’t worry, we’ll wait for you slowpoke! There is always the wild card third option of flying blind and not knowing how or why I ended up here, so whichever route you choose to take – here’s Part Two.
Part of the draw of going to The Body Holiday in St. Lucia is that it’s an amazing beach-front tropical paradise where your body is pampered with spa treatments every day. Their tag line actually is “Give us your body for a week and we’ll give you back your mind.” At first glance that might sound really appealing to a normal person, but in case you didn’t know: I’m not normal!!! I hate to be touched in any way shape or form and I gave my mind over to those internal voices and their fighting years ago. I know my body pretty well and its idea of a holiday is not being man-handled – it’s resting on the couch or reclining in an air-conditioned movie theatre.
After dinner one night and just before the bed broke the first time, we went to a fashion show where the staff members (they actually refer to the help as “Bodyguards”) model some of the clothes you can purchase in the gift shop. It was at that moment when I first saw an ebony goddess strutting down the runway in slow motion. She was clad in a white bikini smaller than my pocket square and working that runway like she owned it when I suddenly realized that despite the heat, the birds, or the outdoor dining – I love St. Lucia!
As part of your body’s holiday, there is a spa treatment scheduled every day. I didn’t want to go to the treatments, but my wife talked/forced me into it. I don’t like the idea of being oiled up and jostled about like a show pony, but it was a no-win battle. Also (and more importantly) as I was now a married man, anyone besides my wife rubbing, fondling, or karate chopping me was gonna start something that wouldn’t be finished. If I am not making myself crystal clear put it this way: Do you know what happens when you knead the bread dough and it starts to get hot? It starts to rise people!!!
Do I even “Knead” to explain this one?
As I headed to my first treatment, I asked directions to the spa. The friendly male bodyguard (no, not Kevin Costner) gently directed me to “follow this path towards your Oasis.” What he neglected to mention in his cult-like directions was that the path to the spa was almost ninety steps up the side of a very steep cliff. His “path” was a winding steep staircase the likes of which I thought would never end. I made it up about twenty steps before I had to sit down to catch my breath. There were smokers and senior citizens – literally fucking seniors – passing me as I sat there like a lump. Did I mention the blistering heat and no shade on the path? As a general note for the resort: If you want a fat fuck like me to climb all those steps up a cliff in that heat and you better have a paramedic on standby!!! I thought I was gonna drop dead right there and then.
To let you in on how and when the spa treatments are assigned; when you arrive, they plan out an itinerary of spa selections for each day that you’re there. I tried to get them to give my wife two treatments a day instead of getting any for myself, but they wouldn’t do that and my wife convinced me to “try it you might like it.” I gave in – but once again my Immodium Spidey-senses were tingling. Also, I couldn’t help but be self-conscious after the therapist suggested that I might want to upgrade and get a Cellulite Flush. Obviously, I passed as there’s no way I’d ever get anything resembling a literal stick of dynamite for the sole purpose of “flushing me out!” I want to know who in their right mind would choose to cleanse the circulatory, lymphatic, and digestive systems and then walk down ninety steps. Hello? There would be a massive cleanup on aisle two for sure!
By the time I finally made it up that never-ending path, I was soaking wet and almost ready to die. As a point of reference, let me just tell you that Hannibal actually crossed the Alps with those elephants in less time than it took me to get up that path. I went into the locker room and looked at myself in the mirror and I was just disgusted. Forget being tired and out of shape, I looked like the Pillsbury Dough Boy in a Girl’s Gone Wild Video with that sweaty, slicked-up chest hair peeking out of my wet T-Shirt. That white rag that used to be my T-shirt was stuck to me like saran wrap around chop meat. I peeled it off me, threw it out, and then took the coldest shower I could.
The very top of the never-ending “Path”
When I got into the room that my massage was in, I was not looking forward to it but thought it might be OK. I was on the table and tried to explain to the male masseuse that I didn’t like to be touched and that I didn’t want a massage. He said to calm down and relax and before I knew it, he was rubbing my feet with nasty oil and smiling. At that moment, I knew exactly how date rapes start – because he wasn’t taking no for an answer and I wanted him to go slow because I was unsure. He told me to lie back and close my eyes and then released my feet. I was about to do just that when I saw these two big hands covered in oil moving towards my face which prompted me to scream “What are you doing? You just touched my feet – don’t go near my face.” He was laughing and telling me to close my eyes and relax but that was enough for me. I jumped off that table and out of went to scrub that oil off my feet.
Afterwards, I didn’t have to give my wife the play by play to tell her what happened because she was actually in the room next to mine and she said that I ruined her massage. She couldn’t concentrate with me complaining the whole time and because I kept saying “What are you doing? I don’t like this. Why is that oil warm? Where is your hand?” she was actually happy that I gave up and left so that she could enjoy what was left of her massage. She also rescheduled her treatments for different times than me so I wouldn’t be anywhere near her as she said she “wanted to relax” (which I took to mean pretend she didn’t know me.)
I wasn’t going to go to the next treatment (or any others after that) at all, but my wife made me promise that I would give just one more treatment a fair try and she advised me to “not be myself” and try to enjoy it. I caved in and went into the treatment room where I met up with someone facing the wall with her back towards me telling me to get undressed and under the sheet on the bed. Apparently, she wasn’t even attempting small talk and who was she kidding about a sheet – it was more like a short towel. I obviously didn’t want any part of it until I realized who the woman saying it was: It was the ebony goddess from the fashion show! I dropped those shorts in an instant and thought I actually might enjoy this treatment after all.
My masseuse right before she attempted testicular manslaughter!
As she started to massage me, she was explaining the treatment to me, but I wasn’t listening because I was distracted by how much she moved around. She was back and forth from one side of the table to the other like she was playing ping pong, yet she didn’t miss a spot on me. She was gingerly moving the sheet/towel as she massaged and I really did try to just relax. She was all over me like a rash and I was actually really starting to enjoy the massage. She was firm and then gentle, firm and then gentle. That ended abruptly when she told me to turn over and get onto my back. I pretended that I hadn’t heard her and figured that if I ignored her, she would let me stay the way I was yet she didn’t. I actually COULDN’T turn over and get onto my back because I was REALLY, REALLY, REALLY enjoying the massage if you know what I mean…If you don’t know what I mean, see the comment below about kneading the bread.
She then got a little louder; “You turn over now.”
- “I’m OK like this, thanks anyway…” I offered back weakly as I tried to jostle myself and get the sheet/towel to try and cover me again so it wasn’t as obvious what was really going on….
- “I said turn over” she said sternly.
- “And I said No – No means No!” I shot back at her even more sternly – hoping upon hope that she would just take the hint and leave me alone – but then the unthinkable happened!
- She lifted the sheet off me and said “Turn Over – Now!” I jumped to turn over, lost the sheet/towel off the side of the table onto the floor when I tried to recover myself with it and just gave up all hope of modesty or self respect at that point. Her lifting the sheet is not even the unthinkable part I was referring to. As I lied back down and tried to reposition myself and tried to get the sheet/towel back over me, she flicked my testicle! She fucking flicked my testicle!
The play-by-play re-enactment!
Obviously I was shocked and scared at the same time (talk about a vulnerable position) and then she took the sheet/towel and tried to recover me which didn’t matter so much anymore at that point because I had taken a nosedive faster than Michael Phelps, if you know what I mean. I was in shock and pain from the flicking assault that I didn’t even notice what she was doing next until I felt this gritty mud being spread all over me as if it were crunchy peanut butter and I were the slice of bread. I tried to complain/ask questions, but she gave me a nasty glare and held up a finger that basically meant one more word and the other testicle gets it too! Needless to say, I shut right up.
I tried to remain calm yet look around for the nearest exit to plot my escape until she started to wrap what looked and felt like saran wrap around me. It was almost like I was the sausage and she was putting the clear coating around me. My bruised ego (and bruised testicle) got the best of me and I jumped up to get dressed and get out of there. No one was wrapping me in saran wrap and that crazy shit no matter how hot she was. She tried to get me to lie back down, but I had enough so I put on my shorts and made a run for it. Another treatment ends in disaster…needless to say my wife said it served me right for her flicking my testicle. I know sometimes I am a psycho and bring these things on myself – but in no way did I instigate a testicle attack! That’s literally hitting below the belt!
I was totally done with the treatments at that point, not to mention those god damn steps…The next day my wife forced me (literally) to go to my facial. “What could happen? It’s a facial…” she said. I got into the room and this tiny little peanut that spoke very little English said “OK, you take off now” and pointed at my shorts. I thought she must be confused and said “Just the shirt – It’s a facial right? No need to be naked…” I certainly had no intention of getting naked again , especially after yesterday’s testicular attack. You got me once, but I’m not a fool.
She stood up and said sternly “OFF!” and pointed at my shorts, which scared me a little so I did as I was told. This nice little peanut suddenly turned into a little bit of a bitch. Then she proceeded to hand me a “modesty coverup” which was a towel the size of a large index card, but I was just happy to have any coverage at all. As I was lying there on my back, she took slices of some sort of fruit and put them over my eyes. I was concerned being naked again and now having my vision obscured, but I really was trying. I didn’t make it ten seconds like that before she stared rubbing some sort of shit on my face. I’m not sure what it was and hope it wasn’t actually shit, but since my line of view was covered I can’t be positive.
This would have been less ridiculous than my facial.
She started rubbing that stuff on my face and she was leaning down over my head when all of a sudden I can only assume something got caught in her throat because she started coughing uncontrollably. RIGHT IN MY FACE! I got hit with exactly two bits of phlegm before I started screaming and jumped up. I was flailing around naked looking to get the towel to wipe my face off and ran towards the door when she tried to speak through the coughing…”You…(cough cough)…have a …(cough cough)…sit back down…(cough cough)” I started to open the door to make a run for the shower to scrub my face and get the shit and the phlegm off of it, when I realized that I was still naked as she was vomiting into the little sink in the corner. I found my shorts on the floor and put them on and ran to the showers. As if that wasn’t bad enough, don’t you know that my wife’s first response to me telling her about this latest assault was “Is she OK?” I looked at her like she was crazy and said “What? That’s not the point – who cares? I didn’t even check – she could be dead for all I care, she almost threw up on my fucking face and I was naked again. There’s something wrong with this place!”
Every treatment was originally scheduled to be an hour, but I didn’t even make it through a third of that for any one of the treatments. The facial must be a record, because I wasn’t even there for all of four minutes. My wife loved every minute of every one of her treatments and we actually did have an amazing Honeymoon in spite of me and my antics. The lesson here is that if you know that something isn’t right – stick to it or your gonna write a check that your testicle can’t cash!
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