An $80 + $40 mistake I’ll never forget

A Gift From Liz (Thanks?)
A few years back—three, maybe four—Liz got me a 45 minute massage voucher for my birthday. Or Christmas. Or just because I looked like I’d been hit by a bus. It was for that corner massage place in Orana Mall, across from Big W. You know the one.

Cash In, Check Out
We were at the mall, and I figured now was as good a time as any to redeem it. Liz probably paid anywhere between eighty to a hundred bucks. I hand over the voucher to this older Chinese bloke who immediately yells something out back. A younger Asian woman appears.

The Look That Said ‘No Thanks’
I smile. You know, friendly. She looks at me like I’m a suspiciously oversized carry-on bag. Then she whispers something to the old guy and vanishes. He waves me in, business as usual. Nothing to see here.

Mount Massage: The Straddle Begins
I hop on the bed-thingy. So far, so good. And then it happens. The old guy climbs on top of me. Literally straddles my back like he's breaking in a wild horse. Then he sits. Sits. Right on me. Then he proceeds to rub his arse up and down my spine like he's sanding a bench.

This Is Not What I Didn't Pay For
I'm there thinking, What the actual hell is happening? This isn’t a massage—it’s some kind of ancient punishment. Ten minutes into this live-action chiropractic cosplay, he hits me with:

“We Do Cupping”
Cupping? What’s that? Sounds like either a scam or a fetish. He explains it involves heated suction cups. I don’t know how to say “no” while pinned to a table, so I just agree.

The Upsell That Sucked (Literally)
He disappears, comes back with a tray of medieval torture domes, and starts suctioning my back like he’s vacuum-sealing leftovers. Then, mid-job, he goes:
“$45 dollar.”

Wait—what?

Trapped and Taxed
At this point, I’m half squid, half man, stuck to the table by science and shame. I sigh the sigh of someone who knows he’s already lost the battle. Ten more minutes of suction therapy and he says, “All done.”

Tapping Out
We walk out to the front. He looks me dead in the eyes and says, “You pay.” I want to tell him to get stuffed, but instead I tap my card, shoulders slumped like a man who’s just paid for his own mugging.

Post-Traumatic Massage Disorder
I haven’t had a massage since. Every time I walk past that corner of Orana Mall, I get flashbacks. Hear helicopters and gunfire. Okay—not really. But also yes.

Fuck those guys.
LOL.

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