A year ago, I took on the mission of getting massages at Thai massage parlors across Los Angeles. The exteriors of the buildings were covered with kitsch posters of a woman’s covertly ecstatic expression. The fonts were inconsistent; sometimes cursive, sometimes Arial Black. The mission stemmed from my interest in lymphatic drainage and dedication to ritual. Living alone during the summer had driven me over the edge. Although I wasn’t deprived of physical touch, I craved a soul touch, brimming with the conviction that I was withering away right in my apartment. I hoped the change of scenery could be more than a mockup.

There was something about being in an almost-dark room with another woman–a woman with a petite frame, lean, with dense bones foreign yet similar to mine. I entered the room feeling like my body had been crystalized in brown sugar, needing at least a hundred tongues to dissolve. For an hour, I was situated in a funerary boat of peace. I was Maat’s feather. I was Kundera’s Unbearable Lightness of Being.

I regularly visited a place in Santa Monica, a semi-ghetto spa with prices reasonable enough to justify weekly indulgences. I know myself: I come for the kitsch stay for the mastery. A wall of intricate woodwork paneling interwoven with fuchsia fairy lights greeted me. A man in Adidas slippers would lounged on the couch, holding his phone horizontally. The lilac drapery was cute, it reminded me of a pastel goth era. Maneki-Neko welcomed me past the front desk, past the lounging man, and into the almost-dark chamber of the massage parlor. I was focused on getting naked. I lay down on a thin cloth that mimicked a toilet seat cover. I corrected the placement of my neck on the headrest so I didn’t have to adjust myself and prompt the masseuse to talk to me.

Thai massage etiquette is uncomplicated. Problems only arise only after the masseuse, with the fervor of a control freak, reiterates instructions. “Oh no, no. You go under the sheet.” I already am, except for maybe a couple of toes slightly dangling. Some places treat you with reverence. I always opt for the Deep Tissue because I’m not afraid of exchanging pleasure for discomfort and enjoy the thrill of guessing how people utilize the ceiling bars. My worst nightmare is to waste body oil, feeling its unforgiving slither down my back like a finger skateboard. I treat my body like a child’s body. .Under the recessed ceilings, I can feel my heart open. One time, the emotional release lumped in my throat and I cried in silence, fearing the masseuse’s traveling fingers would find my tears.

The parlor near where I lived didn’t meet expectations. Once I entered through the

coral colored beads, I was warped into an alternate reality of incense smoke, squeaky parquet, honeymoon towel art and Valentine’s Day-themed cutouts on the wall. In the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the Bath & Body Works aromatherapy lotion that would later disrupt my endocrine system. Resigned to my commodified shimmery, commodified fate, I noticed the rooms were too narrow and the curtains too untrustworthy. Nothing extraordinary ever happened in that establishment except for a drunk man entertaining me next door with his adoration for the masseuse. He kept saying, “I love you. I love you, baby girl,” and relieving himself with air puffs and moans. They were in the self-care dungeon where lemongrass and jasmine couldn’t cover up his hormonal erections as he continued, “Ahhhh, this is so good. Woaahhh.” I could sense how he was melting away on the table, leaving a mark of skin grease on the sheets and maybe even drooling away the alcohol. This man was disrupting my moment as I pictured him. A ripe simp who had escaped his friend group after a baseball game of chugging beer and burping fizz. “No. Sir, you quiet. Or I stop.” the masseuse replied, not knowing how to curb his behavior. The man was in love and she was testing whether negative punishment could resolve his behavior. At one point, the warning “There is no happy ending, okay?” flew over his head.

For my most recent massage appointment, a male masseuse was assigned. The protruding headrest felt like a fellow’s palm, a rare and pleasing find. My contentment was disturbed when I heard a masculine voice. Only at that moment did I fully conceive of the absurdity of a stranger kneading your body parts while your stare at a grainy floor to regain mental clarity. And only then did I have the urge to lift myself up to profile a masseuse. As a result of not giving in to the passage of circumspect thoughts, we didn’t make prior eye contact. This phenomenon also happens with female masseuses; personifying is postponed until the end of the service unless she does the check-in. After several gentle and rhythmic pressings, his elbow circled the side of my torso, encountering the rocky road of my ribs. His magical fingers suddenly intervened between the connecting tissues, unlocking a deep sentience. He enters my extracellular matrix. No one’s ever done that to my lying kneecaps. We are staying in the meta, and I won’t get closure until he pops the knot on my right shoulder, pulls my fingers like a mean toddler, firmly foot-walks on my back, and deep-thumbs down my spine line, bending the discs. Knock knock on my temples! Welcome to my Meridian Palace (sounds like an all-you-can-eat three-star hotel by the Aegean Sea). Everything has been built up – somatic tensions, faint cellulite, congested chakras, mosquito bites, incomplete hair laser removal, dysregulated nerves, skin blood vessels. Be my guest and build it up anew from the inside out. I tipped generously and dismissed my fragile female spirit as no hint of impropriety occurred.

Gülen Çelik is a writer.