Groupon Brothels Are the Worst
Zack lives in fear that I will accidentally take him to a brothel and ruin his life, both emotionally and professionally. It’s not an entirely unfounded fear, not because a brothel is on my bucket list, but because I am susceptible to online advertising, naïve, a sucker for a deal, and we also live in Las Vegas.
This poor judgement was probably best illustrated when I bought a bikini wax on Groupon and had to have a friend pick me up due to the injuries I sustained.
A few years ago, I picked up a Groupon for a couple’s massage deep in the heart of Chinatown. The kind woman on the phone spoke next to no English and I spoke no Chinese, but thankfully Groupon is a universal language for all.
When we arrived at the address, we discovered it was a “spa” located in a two story strip mall, above a discount furniture and Hello Kitty toy store to be specific, and was only accessible by an unlit metal stairwell. A small crowd of young men smoked together outside the stairwell entrance. In the distance, sirens.
“I’m going to get fired. There is going to be a raid and I am going to be in the middle of it and no one will believe this is all because of Groupon.” Zack was beside himself.
“You’re fine. It had 4.6 stars on Yelp. No brothel here.” I was determined to get that massage.
He was not swayed. “People looking for a brothel and then finding it are exactly the people who leave five star reviews.”
When we were led to the couple’s room for our massage there was a big sign on the wall proclaiming in several different languages NO SEX, DON’T ASK.
“Look,” I told him. “Let’s get a picture of you by the sign. Raid or not, it’s plausible deniability. You are FINE.”
Against all odds, we had amazing massages. Perfect pressure, delightful hot stones, nothing terrifying, and an array of scented lotions. So delightful that a few months later when I had a friend preparing for a major surgery, I offered to book massages for us the day before her appointment.
She told me to be specific when I booked the appointment. “DEEP TISSUE. I want every knot in my back obliterated before I’m spending weeks in recovery.”
So, I called them and was a specific as I could be given that we did not share any common vocabulary. DEEP TISSUE. TWO PEOPLE. YES. VERY DEEP. LOTS OF PRESSURE. BOTH OF US.
We rolled in together, my platonic friend and I, and checked in. We were surprised when they walked us to the couple’s room. It turns out that I had lost two massages for two peoples versus a couple’s massage in translation. And no, there were no more rooms.
She shrugged. “I don’t care if you don’t.”
See above about being willing to overlook a lot in the name of getting a massage. The unfortunate part is that the meaning of “deep tissue” was also lost in translation. Or, it was translated through either Guantanamo Bay or the Russian Mafia. I remember the events of those 55 minutes in a kind of montage…. gritting my teeth as my thighs were pummeled with closed fists… vague awareness of my dear friend a few feet away, naked and being slapped the day before her surgery…an elbow driven into the back of my neck.
If Naked and Afraid, Slumdog Millionaire, and Real Housewives ever chose to combine franchises…. it would illustrate that hour of my life.
We eventually staggered out, down the metal stairs, and blinked into the sunlight. We headed for spring rolls and agreed to never talk about it again.
I never learn. Tonight I booked, through Groupon, a couple’s massage at a Thai Spa I’d never heard of. The reviews were good. It’s probably fine.
It seemed fine. A nice waiting area. A form to fill out about what you expected from the massage. Again, never learning, I requested deep tissue, removal of stress knots, and something to alleviate insomnia. Zack was more conservative, asking for light pressure and carefully noting any sore spots.
When we were led to the room and left to change, Zack asked about the metal bars hanging from the ceiling above each massage table. Specifically, the 8-foot-long secured metal bars that ran parallel lengths above each table.
“Oh yeah,” I told him. “You hear brutal stories about Thai massage. The masseuse will grab onto those bars and basically stomp up and down your back. I have a friend who said he almost fainted from it. But don’t worry. I didn’t book that. I booked the standard couple’s massage.”
“Whew,” he said. “Thank goodness. That sounds rough.”
We can go ahead and file this conversation under “foreshadowing”.
Our masseuses arrived shortly after we were tucked into the massage table sheets like the stressed out, knotted, hot pockets that we are.
It’s probably worth noting a few key points before we go any further. First, Zack and I are both Midwesterners at heart, despite over 20 years in Vegas. We do not send food back in restaurants, we do not complain, and the most aggressive statement you might get from us is an “Ope” if we bump into you. Second, I am overly competitive in all areas of life, including relaxation. Not only do I desperately need to hear the gasp of the masseuse when he touches the knots in my upper back and asks what I do for a living, I also need to be acknowledged as the client who can take the most brutal massage beating. In the name of health and fitness. Last, I am not a small person. A pair of heels pushes me over six feet tall and I can absorb the impact of everything from a slow-moving Kia Soul to a herd of middle schoolers who stare at their phones while walking. As an added bonus, my resting face is mean and suggests that I welcome a physical confrontation.
It is not a coincidence that the Commodore’s released their hit “Brick House” within just a few months of my birth. I was not just being born; I was actually fulfilling a prophecy set forth by Lionel Ritchie about a new generation of Vikings.
Zack, a kinder soul, had his massage began with a light rub over any sore muscles with heated rocks and scented lotion. Mine began with the small man leaping up onto the table Matrix style and proceeding to gallop up and down my legs like I was a late season Merlot grape. At one point he buried all ten toes, apparently covered in metal toe thimbles, into my carotid artery. I relaxed into it, assuming that pushing me into a blackout was the Eastern medicine version of addressing insomnia. Being one third my size was apparently an invitation to unleash the beast.
He lifted me into a chokehold and I considered confessing my sins, while out of the corner of my eye I saw Zack receiving a gentle foot rub and some cucumber water. Yet I refused to tap out. Not even when he pressed his full standing weight into my sciatic nerve and my leg went numb. Not even when he arm barred me into submission. I’m particularly proud of not making a peep when he dug so deeply into the tender spot under my ears that I saw TV static swimming behind my closed lids.
When it was over, the adorable masseuses left and Zack sat up with the serene face of someone touched by the angels. I rolled off the table and onto the floor my hair a knotted bun of full of lotion, Alice Cooper mascara, and the general air of a refugee from Grover’s trashcan.
While I tried to stuff myself into my sweatsuit, I swear to you I heard laughter in the hallway about “climbing Mt. Everest”.
As we scurried to the car Zack told me that was his favorite massage ever and he would love it if we booked their services regularly.
Once again, see above about desperate for a massage. I am going to get on their books weekly and work on building some sciatic and artery callouses for protection. And, at least there is no risk of going to prison for accidentally being in a Groupon brothel.
