My mother, God love her, had plunked $250 on plastic so I could take a journey. There were four ways to get wet and have someone rub my body for a couple of hours. And since no one else was vying for that privilege, I chose the Philippine Journey during which some poor unsuspecting soul would exfoliate me with fresh ginger and raw sugar before misting me with a sweet orange concoction. My choice no doubt had to do with the fact that this treatment involved more food substances than the Brazilian Rain Forest journey. It also included a seductive soak in a tub of “secret herbs” which Esmelda, my spa attendant, informed me was ready and waiting.
Her timing was impeccable. The deluge dwindled to a trickle so I dropped onto the floor the soaking wet towel that my privates rested on and reached around the glass door for a dry terry. Esmelda was waiting knowingly with a fresh, fluffy bath sheet to drape over my sagging form. She gestured toward curtains across the tiled floor on the opposite side of the central feature of the spa, the tiled hot tub with the killer view of San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge beyond. At that moment it sat empty and the jets idle. But I figured it could hold at least twelve rich women and maybe half as many middle class gals. Across the floor, Esmelda pulled back a drape to reveal my bath festooned with flower petals and sprays of fake orchids. The entire set-up was a little goofy but the aromatic water smelled divine. Since no one else was around, I was able to sneak behind the curtain and step down into part two of my journey without anyone but poor Esmelda to see the way my bee-boos, as Zach named them, and abs competed to reach my thighs.
Her timing was impeccable. The deluge dwindled to a trickle so I dropped onto the floor the soaking wet towel that my privates rested on and reached around the glass door for a dry terry. Esmelda was waiting knowingly with a fresh, fluffy bath sheet to drape over my sagging form. She gestured toward curtains across the tiled floor on the opposite side of the central feature of the spa, the tiled hot tub with the killer view of San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge beyond. At that moment it sat empty and the jets idle. But I figured it could hold at least twelve rich women and maybe half as many middle class gals. Across the floor, Esmelda pulled back a drape to reveal my bath festooned with flower petals and sprays of fake orchids. The entire set-up was a little goofy but the aromatic water smelled divine. Since no one else was around, I was able to sneak behind the curtain and step down into part two of my journey without anyone but poor Esmelda to see the way my bee-boos, as Zach named them, and abs competed to reach my thighs.
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