Fiction: Baby Massage

June 13, 2008
Dianne Sharma-Winter

“No body speaks in there!”

“He doesn’t have any English.”

“It’s more than that,” Clare insists. One thin wall separates her from Baby. “You can hear a mouse fart between these walls.”

“Depends what you are listening for,” says Cedric, smoothing down his hair.

“What is it that you are listening for O Super Sleuth of the Coconuts?” Chris teases as he hands Clare a drink.

“A groan of gratitude, a sigh of bliss” she sips and pouts at the same time. “A yelp of pain.”

“Darling, he is good but he is not Mr Bhim,” Cedric closes his eyes and sighs. “No one ever did it as hard or as good or as long as Mr Bhim.”

Lisa laughs mockingly. Behind her hand to Clare, she whispers. “I never went myself. Are you crazy? This is India. Last season in Arambol! My god! I can tell you some stories! I blame the women myself."

" I have a nice little woman from Kerala. O so nice, she and her husband. You remember? I introduced you on the beach? I only give two hundred rupees though. I have my price. I tell her! I have my price.”

“He did slap my ass when I got onto the table though,” says Cedric.

“Totally asexual,” Chris confirms. “Darling, you know you want it! Just go and see Baby!”

“Even when I go to my lady, I always wear a thong. I would never completely strip. Are you crazy? Tomorrow when I go to my lady I will make you an appointment.

Just pay two hundred rupees no more,” insists Lisa.

But twenty minutes into the session with the lady from Kerala, she closes her eyes and thinks about Baby.

Once these thoughts take root in the mind, action will always follow.

No screens to hide her as she strips to her knickers.

The last time she walked naked across a room in front of a man was springtime. The newly green leaves of the poplar tree brushed her window. Her lover was packing to leave.

Then she walked naked across the room and broke his heart. Now she could be a rotisserie chicken, all goose bumps and hair follicles; white in the darkened room.

The oil is sharply sweet, like lemongrass but spikier; he mixes it himself. She has smelled it bubbling on his gas cooker at night.

He smooths the oil from her toes towards her heart pausing at her rump to hook her knickers over her hips.

Her radar is alert to his body which he keeps at a professional distance. He listens to his breathing, sends out senses. Gets back a negative report. Relaxes.

He works a line from her toes to her butt and back again, smoothing buckles of tension.

She closes her eyes.

Doesn’t think of the woman from Kerala.

Her eyes are shut like a nun against her nakedness. His hands are running in the thin line between the top of her leg and the beginning of trouble. She is alert to any ‘accidental touch’ but he never crosses the line.

He grades the corrugations of her twisted back into a smooth path. Bliss.

On the flip side, as he is working the oil up her right leg, he speaks for the first time.

“Excuse me?”

Shit! She has to open her eyes now.


He is poised with his hands cupped on a neutral area of her body. They look like black birds preparing to fly.


God, she wishes she had kept her eyes shut now!!!! What is the etiquette? Does she say yes? If she says yes, will he think she is a slut?

Does she say Yes Please? If she says yes please, will he think she is a desperate old slut?

She shuts her eyes.

“Yes.” She squeaks.

Oil goes over her breasts; she could have been a lump of ivory being polished. Really Chris was right, the man is a total professional.

His hands move around her right breast.

No lover has ever touched her beast in such a way.

Totally. Professional. Baby, baby.

She smooths her lips into a straight line, hopes her left nipple isn’t giving her away.
Too soon he stops. She bites down on the whimper that will betray her.

Her left breast goosebumps in anticipation.

When it is over, she staggers to her feet, pays and thanks him without looking in his face.

“How is the arm pain? The back pain?”

Back? Arm? She is a walking Breast Chakra.

She mumbles something like Baby Baby and staggers into the sunlight.

“Tomorrow?” He asks.

For a minute she thinks of moving out of her hut, sleeping on the beach and eating coconuts for the next three weeks so she can go to Baby every day.

Maybe, Baby.

Dianne Sharma-Winter is a writer and wanderer. She enjoys being lost in translation and sleeping on rooftops.
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June 14, 2008
08:15 AM


nice...sensual....makes me wonder about bhim

digression (as usual)

over here there are two kinds of masseuse - the pro at the spa

and the other pro...usually imported from southeast asia or eastern europe


June 14, 2008
11:38 AM

wow, you write well! i felt i was right there.

June 15, 2008
07:27 PM

oh I wish I could remember the name of the italian who gave me my massage in arambol. he looked like a sufi. I saw him on the beach and had no idea he was the one everyone was talking about. I was scared of getting a massage from an italian. I know my people. we're... well, that's another story. then here comes whats-his-face, the italian sufi... best effing massage ever given.

I liked this story, the narration was excellent, but I got confused about who was actually giving the massage.

Deepa Krishnan
June 16, 2008
01:40 AM

Awesome, Diane.

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