Happy endings…aren’t for everyone

Location: Berlin

Errrrrrrm, well that was interesting.

Hungover and having just completed the coldest city tour of all time, I saw a board on a quiet street near Alexanderplatz saying “massage open” and darted straight in.

Aware that I appeared to have caught the two Filipino therapists off guard, as they stared at me in a daze, I requested a full body massage in English and asked if they could see me now. Sadly my conversational German is reserved for introductions to the year 9 German supply teacher, “Hallo ich bin Hollie und ich bin vierzehn jahre alt”, otherwise I’d have pulled the sentence out of the bag.

The therapist pointed to a sign that read “PAY FIRST”.

Bit odd, but thankful to be in the warm and eager to shift my airplane induced backache, I parted with my euros and paid upfront.

As she left the room I undressed, removing layer upon layer of winter warmers and thermals until it was just me, my thong and my chilly nips.

Was it the lack of paper pants, slippers and a robe that seemed a little odd, or the overpowering smell of Lynx Africa, mirrors located at bed-height and a whip in the corner of the room that had my suspicions raised?

Who can say?

Intrigued as to what I was going to be massaged with (other than her breasts!), I looked for aromatherapy oils in the room. There weren’t any.

Toying with asking Siri what the least offensive end of the bed was to put my face on, I took a 50/50 chance on the DIY structure without a face hole and opted for head furthest away from the door.

I lay down listening to that spa classic “Groovy Kind of Love”, followed by Boys II Men’s “I’ll Make Love to You”, enjoying the Valentine’s-style mixtape whilst questioning what and whose naked body part had been placed where my face currently was.

The therapist returned to the room, shocked that I was practically naked and ready without instruction. The speed at which she gestured for me to place my face at the other end of the bed confirmed that yes, I’d tossed a coin and it had literally landed on tails.

Bringing a miscellaneous oil and kitchen roll in with her, I closed my eyes and wondered what she would have to do before I would explain in a broken German/English hybrid that I wasn’t there for any funny (or fanny) business. Whilst I’m no prude, I was still getting over being informed what a FleshLight was when in Denver, and the ex who insisted on pulling my hair – I don’t like to be sexually shocked more than once a quarter.

My eyes were closed as she jumped up and straddled my back. Whilst I didn’t check, I feel fairly confident that she had pants on and so this still counted as a perfectly normal encounter. Ish. To her credit, it was a fantastic massage but as she worked her way up my back, I felt her pulling out the “sexy knee” move. You know, the type you bring out if attempting to show willing when inspecting your man’s bits with your tongue, but don’t much fancy the finger thing he’s asked for. Well, she was gliding her knee up between my legs and me didn’t much fancy it. As I wasn’t pushing back onto her, I think she realised that yep, I was just a lost English tourist who really didn’t mean to come here (no pun intended).

When I lived in Dubai I always wondered what the rub and tug massage parlours for men were like. I now feel I know. Two guys I dated admitted to going to one when they first moved over, and that’s not including all those I didn’t ask. I totally get why it would be appealing as a quick fix for men, but a happy ending for me? Not today honey.

Once over, I opened my eyes. My “therapist” was wearing significantly less than when she’d greeted me. Having heard a multitude of male customers come into the building and some unusual noises for a “spa”, I suspect she is usually met with a big, post-massage smile and an even bigger tip. Was saving her from deep throating the genitals of a German whose gut had prevented him from seeing his guy bits for a decade not enough of a tip? No. She waited patiently as I dug deep into my purse.

I left with significantly less tension in my back, significantly less cash in my wallet and significantly more desire to anti-bac my face.

*I called my Mum. “Mum, you are never going to guess where I’ve just been”.

**FleshLight – no this isn’t something my stepdad wants for Father’s Day Mum. It’s a penis sleeve, an artificial vagina, an anal opening sex toy… in case you are reading this and googling “handy torch lights”.

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Hollie Day

Hollie by name, HollieDay by nature. Join me on my journey, husband hunting on my holidays.