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My Kind of Town Don Chapman |
Ego massage
>> Kahala
Things were getting slippery that night before the Dalai Lama and the young Hawaiian lama were to appear at the Blaisdell.
"Oooh, babe, your neck is really tight tonight," Bodhicita Guzman said, and poured more lavender massage oil on Fon Du's back.
She considered the art of massage one of her feminine skills, how to turn a man to putty in her hands, physically and otherwise. She worked her fingers into his neck muscles, going deep.
"Mm," Fon Du grunted. "How do you Americans say, hurts so good?"
"That's the idea, babe. No pain, no gain."
"I do enjoy your language."
"Yikes, what a knot!" Indeed, where left shoulder meets neck was a golf ball-sized mass of muscle gone mad. Straddling him, she leaned into the knot, working it with her knuckles, felt it begin to loosen.
"Mm. Thank you."
"Hey, I can tell you've been under a lot of stress lately. This is the least I can do." She said it coquettishly, inferring there was more she intended to do later. "It's that Dalai Lama thing you mentioned, isn't it?"
"And the boy. No good can come of this. None at all. It's very bad for China when these Tibetan Buddhists tell the world lies."
She worked her thumbs into the knot. "Lies are bad." She leaned down, nibbled his ear. "And you are good."
She was giving him a sound therapeutic massage, learned at an actual massage school, but somehow while working him over from head to toe and back again she'd managed to cover much of her own body with massage oil, and now she slithered across him and soon they were making love, lavender blue, oil wrestling at its finest.
Later she lay with her head on his shoulder, nuzzled his neck. "I think you're gonna need another massage tomorrow after work, babe."
"Something to look forward to. But I must work tomorrow night."
For bankers, it seemed to Bodhicita, Fon Du and his housemates sure worked a lot of nights. Some banker's hours.
"I'm afraid," he continued, "that I have been asked to attend tomorrow evening's event with the Dalai Lama and the young Hawaiian lama."
"By who?"
"My superiors at home, to show that Bank of Lhasa wants what the Dalai Lama wants, what's good for the Tibetan people. Ultimately, we serve the same ends. So we've purchased several seats."
Boy, Bodhicita thought, he's so slippery, next time she wouldn't need oil for the massage.
"Hopefully, though, their plane will crash," Fon Du said, and slept the sleep of man well loved while Bodhicita tossed and turned, barely able to wait until morning when she could tell Kamasami Khan that the Chinese secret police were crashing the lama party.
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Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek. His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin. He can be e-mailed at dchapman@midweek.com