A Marrakech Massage or a First Lesbian Experience?

So,  I climbed a big ass mountain this week, I may have mentioned it in passing.  Following the three-day hike, it was deemed necessary to have a couple of days in Marrakech; because one should not fly immediately after experiencing altitude.

I don’t know who makes this shit up but I can’t tell you how chuffed I was to slap an enforced mini break on top of my mountain climb.

Marrakech is beautiful, if you have haven’t been, add it onto your must see places.  It is a tapestry of vibrancy, a city drenched in history, and swiftly changing as Morocco embraces tourism, and begins to consider women’s rights and political change.

You can spend hours traipsing round the souks (markets to northerners like me), the gardens that decorate the city are intensely picturesque and people watching whilst sipping mint tea is a perfectly pleasant way to spend the afternoon.

I did all of the above, and then I got a massage.

It was meant to be a treat for my legs as they had carried my bulk up and down a mountain. But since the price was exorbitantly cheap compared to the UK I decided to give my whole body a rub down.

Here is how it went.

First there was the language barrier, the masseuse came into the room where I stood, fully clothed and sweaty from the 40 degree heat outside.  She nodded to me and I chirply gave her my best French,

“Bonjour, ca va?”

She stared silently and I realised either she was insulted by my Del Boy style pronunciation or was Arabic Moroccan rather than French and therefore conversation was going to be limited.

Still, who needs to chat when one of you is rubbing oil into the other for payment?

She busied herself around the room, flushing towels and lighting candles,  she plunged the room into darkness and nodded to me to strip.

I instantly went into charade mode, and flung my arms out wide and did a crude version of heads, shoulders, knees and toes with a quizzical look upon my face.  I was asking if I should remove all my garments, and the message was conveyed.  Although she did look at me as if I was a little ‘poco loco’.

So I stripped down to my bra and pants and positioned myself face down on the bed.

Then she began….

Christ alive it was heavenly, each stroke of her hand, each firm rub of her palm caused my rather weary body to dance internally with ecstasy.

It was all I could do not to moan.

I really didn’t want to moan, because let’s face it, any moan sounds like a sex moan, and I didn’t want to sex moan on the bed of a massage parlour in Marrakech.

So I bit my lips and thought of England.

She pummelled my legs, expertly worked out the joint ache in my quads, she worked her way up to my lower back and then….

Well then, she got a little close for comfort….

I think in a 50 shades type of novel you would use the terminology, ‘she brushed over my tenderness,’ or as a friend of mine  on the trip accurately stated ‘she got a little close to my lady garden…’

Instantly I was awake with brows raised – bloody grateful I had not done a sex moan.

Then she reached my bra, and like a 14-year-old boy she began to struggle with the clasp.  My bras are made of stern stuff, none of this flimsy two clasp stuff, my over the shoulder boulder holder is a three clasp and always tightly fastened on.

It took a while.

You need serious focus to get in my bra.

I offered to help, but she merely shooed my hands away and wrestled some more.  I heard her grunt in exasperation as she rested her elbow on my lower back and heaved some more.

Finally the bra gave up the fight and fell apart in her hand.  She muttered with relief and then gestured for me to roll over.

I hate laying on my back bra less.

Four years of breastfeeding plus a bit of age means as soon as I flip over my breasts disappear to go chat up my armpits.  I change from being a decently endowed woman to a flat chested girl.  I could almost see the masseuse trying to see where my lady lumps had gone.

Then she clocked them….

Determined not for them to evade her again, she scooped them into her palm, held one firmly in place and began furiously massaging with her free hand.

Clearly in Marrakech, full body means full body, and I was getting my baps some action.

But how to react?

It was simply unexpected.  Finding myself with another woman massaging my bosom is a first for me, and giggles rose childishly in my throat as I thought of my friend Sara in the next room who was undoubtably having the same experience.

One boob done she let it drop back to my armpit where it continued to flirt shamelessly, then picked up the next and continued with the massage.

My eyebrows stayed up by my hairline for the rest of the session.  I may need botox to smooth out the damage.

Then it ended and I nodded my thanks, scooping myself into my clothes and walking out the room.

Even now, I am still not sure if I just had a bloody good massage or a bloody good first lesbian experience.

Either way, I’d highly recommend.