Open Writing

My daughter had bought me a day at the beauty farm for my birthday. “It will take your mind off things,” she said. “You will be a new woman when you return.”

So here I was. I had endured the mud and seaweed, survived the steam and just about controlled myself as the large masochistic Swedish woman had slapped me about with hands as big as coal shovels as part of what she called “a leetle rubbing to ease the knots“. By this stage I had wondered whether to go home and escape from further indignity and pain. This was supposed to be a relaxing day out. However in fairness to my daughter I had decided to stay. After all there was only the foot massage and the manicure left and they shouldn’t be too bad.

Soon I was lying on a comfortable bed, wearing little else but a white shift, and looking at the face of the most gorgeous young man I had seen for years. His jet black hair curled provocatively around his ears, black eyebrows, curly lashes a fine aquiline nose with a firm mouth all set in a bronze clear skin suggesting a Roman or French heritage. He said little. He didn’t need to.

His hands did the talking for him. With the firm strokes of a master he moved his hands over my skin like a violinist would stroke the strings with his bow. A slow languorous, almost sensual feeling spread upwards through my entire body. I looked again at his face. His whole concentration was focussed on my feet. I could feel the love and care emanating from him as he gently twisted, pulled rubbed and stroked. Suddenly a feeling of absolute ecstasy moved through the entire length of my body. Was it? No, it couldn’t be. I was only having a foot massage for goodness sake.

I closed my eyes and was dreamily transported to Mediterranean beaches, to a yacht sailing on a deep blue sea, to vineyards basking in hot sunshine, to a deserted villa beside a sunlit pool always accompanied by the young god who was at present manipulating my feet. Oh goodness! That feeling again, what was this man doing to me?

I imagined us in a darkened nightclub dancing dreamily together before walking along a moonlit beach hand in hand, both anticipating further pleasures to come. I looked once more down the bed at the strong hands, covered with fine black hair and the tapering fingers that were doing so much damage to my equilibrium. My whole body felt relaxed, I was comfortable. The stress of the last two years had entirely disappeared and I felt like a teenager instead of the nearly seventy years that I actually was.

Was he Greek or was he Italian or French? I decided to ask him. It was a mistake. “No, ducks, I come from Peckham,” he replied, “though my wife’s got an Italian stepfather.”

I wished I hadn’t spoken. I closed my eyes again and tried to recapture the dream, but it had gone. Oh his hands still felt good, He still looked like a young god, but I was only having a foot massage.

Still my daughter had been right, I had been transported from my world of stress and worry for a short time. I had been able to forget that my husband was slowly dying of cancer, and I had experienced a short period of pleasure in a somewhat dismal world.

Will I go again? I think not. My real love is at home. Our memories are as good as any. For the moment that is enough.