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Why was she squeezing my nipples? | page 1, 2, 3
I was especially grateful since most Western massage therapists generally avoid this area, presumably for reasons of propriety. But we all know that there's nothing like some good bottom kneading to ease away one's existential pain. I was beginning to slip into a delicious alpha state, when suddenly a tap on the shoulder indicated to me that it was time to flip over. How different things were from the discreet New York ritual of therapist trailing towel over body like a toreador's cape, masking the turn and keeping the client's nudity intact. While the massage had proceeded in somewhat of a regular fashion while I'd been lying face down, things began to get a bit odd when I turned over. I continued to keep my eyes shut, but sensing the woman's gaze on my face I looked up to find her smiling at me. "Bootful," she mumbled, pointing at her eyes and then gesticulating towards mine. I felt quite self-conscious all of a sudden, but thanked her for her compliment. Politely, I responded that she was beautiful, too, even though I found her mini-frame a bit too doll-like and her pinched features rather bland. She was nothing like the long-limbed, swan-necked Tongkinese graces that floated through the streets of Hanoi. At any rate, this little exchange seemed to have broken some discursive ground and she became quite chatty. Uncurling a tendril of my pubic hair, she remarked "no cut," which caused me a little embarrassment. I had been somewhat lackadaisical about my pruning and primping during my travels. What's more, I started to feel vaguely uncomfortable: It seemed like she was hovering over prohibited territories. This perception of mine was intensified when she began gently prodding my stomach. "No baby?" she inquired. I confirmed her supposition. "You, baby?" I asked. Yes, she nodded. "How old?" I quizzed her, partly to distract myself from the pressure of her palms way down low on my abdomen. She lifted her hands and held up her 10 digits. Was it 10 years, 10 months or 10 days old? I wondered. I made several attempts to inquire whether she had a boy or a girl. I might have asked for cement-and-handkerchief soup: Each time, she shook her head uncomprehending. I left it there, unable to think of how to reformulate the question non-verbally without making a series of obscene gestures. I also didn't want to point to my exposed private parts in case of promoting any further misunderstanding. Replacing her hands on my belly, she then arched forward and squeezed my left nipple. "Bootful, no baby," she remarked, pausing. "You bootful. Veh bootful." Vietnamese is a tonal language, but I couldn't figure out her tone. After our brief but bizarre conversation, she resumed the massage. As she continued to stroke me, now luxuriously it seemed, I started to feel increasingly disturbed. What had she meant by poking at my naughty bits, her flattery and unremitting stare? What was going on here? Was this some sort of not-so-subtle seduction routine? And if it was, should I, who had been unwillingly celibate for so long, leap on the opportunity as it were? No sooner had this idea flickered through my head than I became flushed with guilt. If I succumbed to what could very well be a come-on, wouldn't I be just one of the endless series of colonialist, foreign pigs who had ravaged this people? At this point in my cogitations, she reached over and twisted my right nipple.
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