Rachel and Janie's Magical Massage
Part 1, A Place to Go...
"It's in the loft in that building over there." Says Rachel. Hmm, I think, dark street, old brick building, less than inspiring neighborhood, not to mention it's 10 at night—what's not to worry about.
"Rach," I say tentatively, "maybe we ought to think about this? We've both had too much to drink...so, you know, this is weird."
"Nooooo," moans Rachel mournfully, almost stamping her foot "you aren't going to chicky-chicken on me are you?"
"Trust me, girlfriend," she says and lets up on the drama, slipping her arm companionably through mine. (Like a French couple, I think, just a pleasant stroll along the boulevard...here in the dark.) "This is really the best massage you'll ever get!"
"Yeah, right" I say, "but lets get inside before we get mugged, OK!"
Rachel is my roommate here at Clemerson U in the quaint college town of Oakmont, a green, leafy glen of students, townies, with a little light manufacturing (hence these old brick buildings in a less than desirable neighborhood). Rachel is a southern girl who is at home in the warm moist climate here. She is gracious and engaging with a pretty face and playful spirit that commands a beautiful curvy body the guys are wild about. Despite her fiery red hair, she is good humored and hardly ever a grouch. Her forehead is an expanse of luminous white with no worry lines. She is also endlessly demonstrative. She touches me constantly: A pat on the shoulder, a hug whenever we meet, along with what seems an obligatory kiss, euro style on both cheeks. She even tries to kiss me goodnight like she's my mom, but I swat her away playfully so that she isn't offended.
I just turned 18 after attending lots of accelerated prep courses. All study and no play have left me a little shy and sometimes bewildered during these first few weeks on campus. Rachel is a sophomore. I am rooming with her because she's my designated mentor. Her job is to help me adjust given my early start. I am small and petite with a slim body and rather pronounced breasts that I am self-conscious about. My mentor isn't much help, especially since she is always trying to dress me in her silky bras. She says with a little satin I could be a Victoria Secret model. I tell her Victoria Secret models don't flinch on the runway when boys stare at them. Rachel brushes this off as she holds up yet another frilly bra up to my tee shirt that I won't take off despite her coaxing. "You're just shy." She says as she presses the bra against my chest, her fingers holding it to my breasts, a little too closely I think.
We're out this Wednesday night when we should be studying because I'm making up to her for what she calls my standoffishness. Her words, "Janie, jeez, lighten up I'm your roommate and mentor, OK?" Big eyes, moist with fake impending tears, then a smile and all is forgiven, southern girls are really good at manipulation. "Let's go to Georgie's! It's too hot to study. Plus I have a surprise for you."
So here we are at Georgie's which is this neat old bar on the townie side that seems to cater more to women than men. I do see a few men here and there, but they are rare, like an endangered species. The bar's got a nice groove to it: Low incandescent lights cast shadows that give the booths lining the walls some privacy. The booths curve out like seating at a fancy Italian restaurant so you end up facing the bar and the little dance floor where it seems just the women dance (lots of slow dances for some reason).
Anyway, its past nine on a school night when I should be studying for the chem quiz tomorrow. So, while I enjoy the white wine cooler my now tipsy roomy makes by pouring wine into my 7Up when she thinks I'm not looking, I know we should be going. Rach has already taken Chem 101 and has told me what to expect. For what seems a ditz she has all of last year's quizzes neatly filed. I already know the quiz can't be that bad. Knowing this, Rach has already drawn a bead, like a true confederate daughter, on my fidgety ways.
"Janie," she says with that twinkle in her eyes that tells me to watch out, "have you ever had a massage?"
"Nooo," I say piqued, "I already told when you tried to get me to come with you last time to—what's her name—Jasmine's."
"But sweetie," Rach says, putting her arm around me like a possessive boy, "It's really nice. You will be so relaxed you'll ace that little chem quiz tomorrow."
"Oh hell," I say into her captivating smile, my head buzzy with alcohol, how can I let my bossy roomy down, "my first massage!" And, true to form, she rewards me with a wet, wine-soaked kiss on the lips!
So here we are walking carefully up shadowy steps tacked onto the outside of this old brick building. They lead us toward a wooden door on the third floor with a low-watt bulb shielded above it. "Hey" I say, nervously "this looks like a scene from Fright Night or Chinatown...maybe she's...ah...closed?"
Rachel laughs knowingly and says Jasmine never closes.
Okayyy, I think, holding a little tighter to the stair rail. At the top of the stairs Rach yanks open the door like she owns the place. We walk down a dark narrow hall. How noir, I'm thinking, until she knocks on a glossy red door covered with sinewy green vines enameled onto its insets. This is the first hint of something...
different
. She calls out, "Jasmine look who I brought you!" I wonder with the curiosity of a slightly drunk, oddly horny girl whether Jasmine is some sort of vampire...and I her sacrifice.
The door opens and this beautiful black girl steps out: Confidence in iridescent, deep blue black. She smiles at Rachel and then frowns, "I have a client already."
"Oh" Rach says like a deflated balloon.
"Hmm," Jasmine says, hugging Rachel lightly. "Let me ask my client--you've met her--if you can watch until I'm done. She is very open—so maybe it will be OK."
Jasmine leads us into a small foyer and returns shortly, smiling. She says her client would love to have us join her. As she leads us into a large candlelit loft where high ceilings surround us in shadows, she tells us there is a stipulation: We must sit together over there on that purple love seat. It is my spectator couch she says.
"See, it is raised off the floor so that you can watch all of my good moves. Also, my client, her name is Miss M, Janie, wants you to hold each other's hands and not say a word—just watch. OK? She is one of my favorite and very generous clients. If you two behave—no giggling, Rachel—I will give you both an extra special massage." Then she puts a forefinger to her beautiful full lips, warmly smiling in glossy pink, and leads us to our love seat.
Rachel and I sit down. The love seat is small and soggy, so we end up snugged together, hip to warm hip. Jasmine takes my hand with a little shake, and leans over and kisses each one of my fingers, caressing them lightly with her own long slender fingers. She repeats the same ceremony for Rachel, placing Rach's hand in mine and setting our hands together onto my thigh. Since we are so close, I think, maybe there is no other place to put them.
"Remember," Jasmine says, her eyes large, mischievous, "hold on to each other and no talking!"