The Ladle

You can improve almost anything by putting ‘Thai’ in front of it. You like iced tea? Try Thai iced tea. Think kickboxing’s cool? Thai kickboxing’s cooler.

Point is, after a 12-hour potholed ride to Pai, I at least knew I could find the one thing better than a massage—Thai massage.

Thai massage is like regular massage with the added bonus of deep stretches. The massager twists and contorts your body, opening muscles you didn’t know you had. It’s like someone doing yoga for you.

The going rate in Pai is 150 Baht per hour. That’s about $4.65 USD. Many places advertise at 140B/hr, and some at 120, but when I saw, carved on a sheet of rusty tin, ‘Thai Massage 100B/1hr,’ my curiosity got the best of me. I wish it hadn’t.

I followed the sign into a room of spartan décor: 1 mini-fridge next to a door in the far corner, 1 large water stain above it. Otherwise the room was empty, save for a young lady meditating in the center.

She sensed my presence. Massage? she asked, her eyes still closed.

Yes, I said.

She let out a low, resounding bellow. This was not an Om. It was a beckoning. The door by the mini-fridge opened.

The Thai rule of thumb, I’d been told, is the older the massager, the better the massage. So when a roundish prune of a woman emerged, I smiled eagerly.

Come, she said.

We walked through the door. It was dark on the other side. When she turned on a light, we were standing in what I can only assume was an empty storage closet, a naked mattress on the floor.

Lay, she said.

My smile quickly faded. Excuse me?

Lay, she insisted.

I lay down, surveying the closet.

Take off your pants.

I want to tell you right now: the rule of thumb is wrong.

I later learned that the 150B massages offer things like robes, pillows, and mattresses with actual sheets on them. When the massage parlor is the storage closet of an empty apartment, ‘robe’ means, ‘the boxers you’re already wearing.’

The old woman’s age belied her speed. Just as I pulled down my trousers she was on her knees, clapping her hands up my legs. I tensed. She kept clapping, up and up, approaching my glutes. I strained a whimper. She reached my buttocks. I tried to speak, but couldn’t. She clapped at my inner cheeks, establishing a fuzzy line between ‘in’ and ‘out.’ Then she threatened to cross it. I sprang up, grabbed my trousers, and ran, pantsless, out the door, past the meditator, and into the street.

Let this be a cautionary tale. Discount bodywork is not worth the price of your dignity.