It’s nudity on a new level.

I’ll be gentle with you and start out easy. Idyllic Bali. Resort style. Two massages a day. No phone, no internet. The calm before the storm, you could say.

The Balinese are a very sweet and friendly people, but also freaks in terms of individual choice and freedoms. They think it very strange for a 34-year-old woman to be unmarried, and even stranger that she should travel alone.

“Did your husband leave you?”

And they watch you, all the time. Like stalkers, en mass. I shit you not. They knew where I was at all times. I guess you could say that the staff of the resort were my collective yenta. After I got used to it (insert freaking out and becoming paranoid for three days), I actually grew to like it. I felt very looked after. When I left, they said, “We are sad that you go. You here so long, you like family”.

How-ev-er. The massages are another experience. Say goodbye to zen, say hello to my little friend. My little Balinese friend, who told me her life story but also beat the shit of me under the umbrella of zen. It’s nudity on a new level. They dress you in, well, a Gandhi nappy. It covers… your bits? Nope. Your dignity? Nope. The preliminaries? It covers nothing.

Do you think you at least go into a back room and change, to actually put it on yourself? Ha! Please. Don’t make me laugh. You walk into a large room, the windows free of pesky curtains (and the gardener hovering with a watering can on the other side), with three massage tables ready to go. And they turn and stare at you. As if to say, “strip”.

You think you can negotiate. You can’t. No, you can’t keep your underwear on, sorry, no dice. And as for your boobs, they’re swinging free like Tarzan and Jane. And they stand in front of you and watch you undress. Two women – because this humiliating 1.5 hour spectacle is a two woman job. They fold up your clothes and take them away like an errant child, never to be seen again. You’re left standing there, in the only attire God gave you, and then they put the Gandhi nappy on you. Which is basically a strip of muslin tied around your waist, and an additional strip fed through your legs and fastened at the back. This puppy is flimsy, and comes undone with your first step.

Let’s just say, if Gandhi had a load, that nappy wouldn’t hold shit.

Now you’re ready for the next stage. And you thought the nappy was bad. You sit on the massage table, and they stand in front and behind. You’re officially a nude Gandhi sandwich. They take … five moments to say the Balinese traditional prayer. Which is, kind of a lovely sound actually (in sandwich stereo) but … did we have to wait until I was naked to do it?

You think, at least Tarzan and Jane will be covered because when you get massages you lie down on your stomach … right? Forgeddaboudit. They lie you down on your back, with your boobs cooling in the breeze and your … okay, what word can I use here? Your … ‘Gorbachev’ peeking from behind the muslin curtain.

By this stage, you’re feeling a lot like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole. How the hell did this happen? All you did was follow a white rabbit, for cryin’. Well my friend, you thought the rabbit hole was rough but you don’t even know what’s coming next!

“Off with her head!”

They get out the oils, and they baste you like a turkey ready for roastin’. I mean, literally baste you. They don’t have those baster squirter things, but they have ladles of oil which is marinated over your turkey for a good thirty minutes (at which point, you turn over like a good little roast so they can baste your butt). If you were smart enough to choose a different treatment, you become The Human Salad. Avocado, herbs, the lot. I grew quite hungry.

So, you’re a naked Gandhi, basted turkey … but it aint over yet. They then proceed to bend you every which way. As in, lift your leg as high as it will go (over your head) and then out, to the side. “You very flexible”. Uh huh. So the nappy, which was holding on for dear life as it was, is now about as dignified as dental floss, man.

Let’s just put it this way – there’s a group of women in Indonesia that have intimate knowledge of my body.

Ten women, who know my body better than I do. And it’s a sad thing to note that ten women have seen my ‘Gorbachev’ in recent months, but not one man has.

And you thought you were just buying a set of steak knives.

But wait, there’s more! Oh yes, I did go back for more. Why, I couldn’t say. Probably because all of these rituals of humiliation were in my resort package. Gratis, but not grateful. Do you want to be ritually humiliated, ma’am? Well, only if it’s free.

The coup d’état was the … pause for traumatic memory, biting my forefinger and tearing up … open chakra treatment where they (believe it or not) ‘open your chakras’. Apparently you have a number of chakras around your body, and there resides a chakra around your butt / Gorbachev region. Well that one must have been particularly blocked because she beat the crap out of me for ten minutes. Specifically, five minutes spent on each butt cheek.

She started on the left cheek and just went for it. Like she’d just got her electric bill and it was double what she thought it was gonna be. I’m face down at this stage naturally (nothing natural about it!) and she just goes for the cheek. I bite my lip, I figure she’ll spend a few slaps in the area and move on. Ha! Don’t make me laugh. She applied for a permanent visa and set up residence.

Five minutes later, she mercifully takes the slapping off the left butt cheek, down the leg and to the foot. That cheek burned like the town in Gone With The Wind. Even after the slapping had ceased, I could feel the hand print on my ass. And the worst thing was, I knew where she was going next.

The Right Butt Cheek.

I’m lying there, waiting for it. She’s making her way up the right leg … it’s coming, and here. it. is. And I thought that electric bill was bad, but the right cheek got it worse … like the black sheep of the family. It wasn’t fair was she did to that cheek. I mean, at least keep it equal, you know? The right cheek hurt worst than the left. Oh, the pain.

When I told my tale of woe, my friend said, “Didn’t you say something? Ask her to stop?”

“No, I took it like a good little Westerner”.

On the upside though, my chakras are now officially open.

Published by the wuc

I'm a chick living in Australia, working for the man. I hate office work with a passion usually reserved for James Cameron, but somehow I ended up with a career behind a desk, stapling my forehead at random intervals.

8 thoughts on “It’s nudity on a new level.

  1. i haven’t the foggiest idea how you stumbled upon my blog, but christ almighty, am i happy you did because i have been laughing myself stupid over here reading your stories. you write the way i wish i did – once upon a time, i was a sarcastic, witty and entertaining…still getting back into the swing of things :)

  2. Your blog = most hilarious discovery on this sweltering Texan morning. I was the recipient of the Indian version of the Gandhi nappy-massage, and now recall with great clarity every. single. experience. you describe.

  3. Funniest story I’ve read in a long while. Laughed out loud. Do they still do those massages? I want one.

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