My friend scheduled a massage in her room. She requested a male therapist. “Their hands are stronger,” she told me. “I’ve used the same guy in Lauderdale for years. He’s great.”
It is true there are good, reputable massage technicians. It’s true there are fun, reputable spas that monitor the behavior of their staff. Not all promote quackery. But my friend wasn’t in Lauderdale, and the man who came into her room carrying towels and a folding table was a stranger.
After half an hour on the table, the hotel’s “therapist” started using a technique new to her, concentrating on her inner thighs. The man’s intent was obvious, but only in hindsight—gradual sexual persuasion. My friend didn’t participate, but she didn’t protest. By the end of the hour, she was no longer fully draped, and the man’s hands had moved to what the industry refers to as “inappropriate regions of the body.”
That’s when my friend’s husband walked in. No reason he shouldn’t. The massage had gone over the allotted time. He was paying for the room—and the massage. It was only a few seconds before they realized the husband was watching, but it was time enough for him to see what the therapist was doing, and to misinterpret his wife’s role.
For years, the husband had believed his wife. Massage was therapy. But what he saw transformed years of trust into suspicion. Accusations, denials, and arguments led to counseling.
When I asked why she didn’t protest, she was sincerely puzzled. “I really don’t know. I guess I was so out of it I didn’t realize. . . . Wait. I don’t believe that. Why should I expect you to believe it?
“Massage is . . . intimate. You drift off. You give your body up to the therapist. Of course I knew. I didn’t stop him because, well, it felt good, damn it! I felt safe because he was a professional. It just . . . happened.”
She’s a fine person, my friend. She hadn’t done anything wrong, but she’d been conditioned to accept an intimate and dangerous environment that real professionals—physicians, chiropractors, sports-medicine specialists—wouldn’t tolerate even if it were considered ethical. An hour alone with a naked patient?
It is a bizarre phenomenon—another reason I’d researched the subject.
The massage industry doesn’t publish data that hurts business. Newspapers do. Cases of sexual assault and prostitution are public record. An example is the “Tibetan healer,” a massage therapist licensed in California, who was expanding his practice to other states when charged with seventeen felonies, including rape and oral copulation with an unconscious person.
Because it’s rarely reported, there’s no accurate tally of the number of women assaulted after inviting “therapists” into their rooms. For sexual predators, it may be the safest of all covers. Juries aren’t sympathetic to women who willingly take off their clothes and invite a male to touch them. Why bother to report a crime that will never be prosecuted? It’s a sad capitulation to the dim-witted belief that women invite rape through their behavior.
I found a confidential poll of female massage clients and gave it to my friend to read. A startling percentage responded that on at least one occasion male therapists had touched them “inappropriately.” Only a tiny percentage reported the incidents.
“It happens,” I told my friend, echoing her own explanation.
Instead of being relieved, though, she became furious.
“What are you telling me? Oh . . . I get it! It’s wrong if a man massages a woman, but it’s perfectly okay for a woman to massage a man. Give him a hand job, a blow job—whatever! But never the opposite. I’ve been hammered enough with that goddamn double standard. I’m not going to take it any more—even from you, Doc!”
There wasn’t much I could say. She was right.
SOMETIMES LIFE’S weird symmetry gets weirder. The same technique used to seduce my unlucky friend was now being used to entrap me.
I was naked, faceup on the table, draped with a sheet, while Norma stroked the inside of my legs, forcing blood up the thigh into the femoral triangle and genitals.
Spa literature was right. It is an ancient technique. The geishas of Japan study it; the massage prostitutes of Southeast Asia are masters. Squeegee strokes up the inner thigh affect even unwilling men and women for reasons that have more to do with hydrology than sexuality.
The clitoris and penis are the same organ but for the differentia of an X chromosome, a few inches, and thousands of years of sexual taboo. Both have spongelike regions of tissue. In the penis, the tissue is called corpus cavernosum; in the clitoris, it is glans clitoridis.
Male or female, penis or clitoris, the spongy tissue becomes engorged with blood when stimulated—or when blood is manipulated into the region. The primate brain reads the increased pressure as arousal. The body readies itself.
But my body wasn’t reacting as Norma expected. She kept at it, though, applying more oil, cupping the inside of my thigh, using strong fingers to accelerate blood through the saphenous vein, and also to stimulate the sensitive pudendal nerve, a high-voltage link between thigh and genitals.
A couple of times she pretended to slip and her fingers made contact— teasing what Tomlinson refers to as “Zamboni and the Hat Trick Twins.” No results.
It wasn’t the first time in my life I didn’t respond to a woman’s touch, but it was the first time I was ever happy about it.
Not that it was easy. Almond-scented oil . . . the woman’s knowing hands . . . sound of ocean waves rolling from the stereo . . . waves and the occasional caw and moan of sea birds.
I kept my eyes closed and pretended to be unaware of what the woman’s fingers were doing. I concentrated mightily on lofty topics— shark dissections . . . jellyfish . . . befouled water filters—because I was enjoying Norma’s frustration a hell of a lot more than I would’ve enjoyed what Norma was offering.
It helped knowing that this classic massage finesse had been used to hurt a friend. It also helped knowing that I was being filmed. Filmed . . . or, at the very least, watched on a monitor.
There was a miniature camera lens mounted over the massage table, disguised as a sprinkler head. There was another built into a smoke alarm hanging on the wall at the foot of the table. Common little minicameras—amateur spy shops sell them.
I’d located the cameras as I got undressed. The discovery wasn’t accidental. Recalling my friend’s experience had provided linkage to what should have been obvious: Shay, Beryl, and friends had been entrapped by a similar ploy using gradual sexual persuasion.
My friend’s hotel “therapist” had done it for his own amusement . . . or maybe he’d had a hidden camera, too. But Norma was doing it because she worked for a woman who profited by luring wealthy people into this orchid-scented trap.
A health spa with snob appeal on a tropical island—the perfect vehicle for someone like Isabelle Toussaint. I reminded myself of something else: Toussaint enjoyed humiliating her victims.
Of course there would be cameras hidden in the treatment rooms. In the cloisters, too. I’d already confirmed there was one in my room—a mini-lens in the clock radio. Someone had searched the place, too; expected—which is why I’d stashed my contraband gear in an overhead gallery bay outside my door.
"YOU GOT BIG, thick muscles, Mr. North, you sure do. And some scars here and there, more than most. That tells me you live a man’s life.” Norma had switched to the other leg and was lathering her hands with oil. She had also switched her approach.
“I feel bad now, being sharp with you earlier. Man like you deserves to be treated right. So you just . . . you just let go for Norma, and Norma will make you feel very fine. Sure you don’t want a drink of my herbal tonic?”
I said, “No, but I’m just about ready for a beer. Hey—take it easy.”
“Little pain’s good for the body, but I’ll be real gentle from now on.”
Norma cupped her hands around my thigh, and began forcing the blood upward. You can’t remain sexually disinterested when someone you find attractive does what she was doing
. Physically, Norma was attractive—an abundance of curves in a select few places.
Focusing on sharks and jellyfish was a battle. There was also something oddly arousing about the stereo sounds of those ocean waves with birds crying in the background. Why?
It was a battle I began to lose.
“Well, well . . . I can see you like that. Um-huh. Yes . . . you like that a lot . . .
“. . . nowwwwww you’re starting to relax. Why . . . yes, you are. I bet you’d find it even more relaxing if I started massaging this part right here—”
There was a delay of a foggy few seconds before I put my hands under the sheet and stopped her.
“Why . . . what’s wrong, Mr. North? You’re enjoying what I’m doing. That’s very obvious.”
“Yeah, I am. Feels great.”
“Then why stop me?”
“Surprised, I guess. I’ve never had a doctor do that before.”
“Didn’t say I was a doctor. Said I was highly trained like one.”
“You’ve had a lot of practice, I’m convinced. But what’s the catch? You aren’t selling. You’re not the type . . . or are you?”
The woman pulled her hands away. “I don’t tolerate that kind of talk, mister. Why say something so nasty?”
I sat up. “Because you’ve got too much going for you to make a living giving hand jobs to strangers. There has to be another reason.”
She was flustered by my reaction. “I’m . . . I’m just trying to make you feel good. You’ve got knots and ching chi blockages from your feet to your neck. You don’t want me to get rid of those things?”
“Sex isn’t allowed—that’s what they told us at orientation. You’re a pretty woman, Norma. Beautiful, in the right gown, the right makeup. I’m attracted—obviously. But who am I supposed to believe?”
People paid to act like drill sergeants seldom receive compliments. I was surprised at how she softened. The woman touched a hand to her hair; her tone became confidential. “You’re right, but not all the way right. Novitiates aren’t allowed to have relations with their partners. It’s a way of purifying—so the man and woman can start fresh together after they leave.”
I asked, “But it’s okay to have sex with someone who’s not your partner?”
The woman gave me an odd look, her expression asking, Are you kidding?"It’s possible that’s why some clients come back. It’s a spiritual thing, experiencing other human beings. Just another form of therapy, like we’re doing right here. Don’t think of it as sex.”
When she reached to continue, I took her hands in mine, and squeezed them fondly. “It is tempting. You’re more than attractive—you’re spectacular when you get rid of that frown. But what would I tell my lady friend?”
Norma looked at me like I was crazy. “Man, why do you have to tell the woman anything? What happens in this room stays in this room, I promise you that.”
I was tempted to wink at one of the cameras. Instead, I said, “If you were dating a man who didn’t tell the truth, how would you feel?”
“Not surprised. I buried one man, got engaged to another, but it didn’t last. Neither told the truth.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But I think the lady and I should at least be engaged before I start lying to her. Don’t you?”
Instead of bristling, Norma smiled, then chuckled. It was genuine, and she softened even more—a good-looking woman with tropical eyes, sweat beading on her skin where her blouse was open, showing rims of beige bra cupping her breasts.
“You don’t want me to go any further? You’re serious.”
“This time, yeah.”
“You must be in love with the woman.”
“Will I be breaking a monastery rule if I say no?”
Norma grimaced and gave me a warning look. “It’s plain you’re in love. You won’t do your therapy. I’m done trying to talk you into it, so you’re just gonna have to live with those toxins.”
HAD NORMA turned off the cameras?
Maybe. As I got dressed, she faced the wall, cleaning her hands with a fresh towel. Before turning, I noticed that she tried to block my view as she flicked toggle switches near the lights. The sound of ocean waves stopped. Maybe the cameras, too.
“The woman you brought, I saw her picture in a magazine. She’s pretty for a woman her age. Has looks, a fine education. You’ve got good taste, Mr. North. But you have to learn not to talk so free while you’re at the monastery.”
Yes, the cameras were off.
I said, “The walls have ears?”
“I’ve got ears, just like the rest of the staff. That’s what I’m telling you.”
Gossip traveled fast here, so I wasn’t surprised Norma knew I’d arrived with Senegal. But why would she bother to offer a warning?
“I hope I don’t get you in some kind of trouble by refusing that ching chi business—”
She cut me off. “Don’t worry your head about me. Worry about yourself. I expect that’s a full-time job for a man like you. I heard what went on at the Lookout this morning, when they were fishing the boy out of the water. I heard you told Fabron to mind his own damn business—be best if he showed some respect for the dead. Isn’t that what happened?”
I said, “Something like that,” recalling the face of the tiny woman in the maid’s uniform, picturing her smile.
“How’d Fabron swallow that? That man, he’s dangerous.”
“Then I’m glad you gave me the massage, not him. He wouldn’t have gotten nearly as far.”
She chuckled, shaking her head. “You are a piece of work, you know that? Only men ever said no to the treatment weren’t really men, if you understand my meaning. But there’s something I want you to know—personally, I mean. I was only offering my hands. Nothing else. Never have. That part of me’s not for sale. I’m no damn B-girl, like some others. I’m a health-care therapist. I take it seriously, whether you believe it or not.”
I said, “I believe you. I’m also starting to believe I was a fool to refuse. Maybe I should’ve chosen another spa. Next time, I will—and maybe ask you to come along.”
The dark eyes became more alert—a woman who rarely dropped her defenses. “Some men toss out lies like chocolates. Others use them as carrots. Which are you?”
I was buckling my belt. “When it comes to getting what I want? Both.”
The woman wasn’t expecting that. She studied my face for a moment. “You’re a funny one. Kind of a smart-ass and stubborn, but that’s okay. You’re . . . different. I’m surprised the bosses let you in here.”
“Bosses?”
“That mean-ass German woman at the desk. And the other one—the one who owns everything you see around here. Maybe you don’t know who I mean. The White Lady.”
She used it as a proper noun, capitalizing the words with an inflection that mixed respect and fear. White Lady.
I nearly asked, Are you talking about the Maji Blanc? Instead, I said, “I don’t know who you mean. A friend suggested we come here—a last-minute thing. What’s the owner’s name?”
“Doesn’t matter. She owns the place, that’s all I’m saying. I do my job.”
“Sounds as if you don’t like her. Tough boss, or a bad tipper?”
Norma said, “If that’s a joke, it’s not much of a joke. The White Lady’s never come in here for a massage. Never will, either.” She put it out there, hinting at something, but she wasn’t going to let it go much further.
“A spa owner who doesn’t get massages? That’s not much of an endorsement. She must have something to hide.”
Norma shrugged. “I never said that.” Done talking about it.
“Well, if she’s anything like the woman at the front desk, I wouldn’t like her. There’s not much chance I’ll last a week here. This spa business seems like a bunch of silly bullshit, to be honest.”
“The wrong person hears you say that, man, you’ll be out of here faster than you think.”
I smiled at her expression of concern. “
You say that as if I should be afraid.”
“Maybe you should be afraid. You seem like a nice man—unusual, in my line of work. Could be, you should be real careful about what you say and do around here.”
“Friendly advice?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m flattered, but why?”
“Because of the boy you saw them hauling from the sea this morning. You showed respect. He was my . . .” The woman turned, and began folding towels. “. . . he was my nephew. The damn people who work here, they pretended not to even notice his body floating down there, but you took the time. You showed respect.”
I said, “I’m very sorry.”
“Me, too. You don’t know. He was a fine young man. Had a compass in his head that kept him steady—like you. I wished I’d known him better, but I . . . I didn’t get the chance. That boy could have been something.”
“What was his name?”
“His name was Paul, but—” Norma paused for several seconds as she concentrated on towels. “—but people called him Rafael, so I guess that was his name.”
It was a complicated subject, apparently. I decided not to press. “My name’s Marion. Friends call me Doc. Okay?”
“You’re a real one?”
“No. A nickname.”
“Then you watch yourself . . . Doc. There is somethin’ different about you, and the bosses don’t miss much.”
“You lost me.”
“Senegal Firth—you two don’t fit. She doesn’t like men . . . not nice men, anyway. Sometimes that’s the only way the cold ones can let go. And I heard you’re from Florida. Yesterday, a very pretty woman about my age showed up. She’s got a spa business same place you live—Florida. Kind of strange, a pretty woman checking in alone.”
“A lot of people live in Florida.”
“Maybe so. But the woman asked Miss Bunt—that’s the German manager—she asked Miss Bunt if a man named Ford was here. Dr. Marion Ford. And your name’s Marion North—right . . . Doc?”
Black Widow Page 24
