We had just landed in Vegas.

I hate Vegas. I hate casinos – the blinkety-bing-bing-bing, the zombie faces, hourless days, windowless hellscape. 

Growing up in a casino town — my parents worked in casinos, I worked in casino buffets — did that to a lot of us.

But we were there for a wedding, and I was going to put my shit aside and celebrate the couple (who have since divorced).

We live in D.C., so the cross-country flight plus a rough week being tumbled in the Washington news cycle left us ragged when we got to the blinkety-binging, and as we rode the escalator up to reception, I saw an ad for the spa in the hotel.

“Escape to serenity,” it said, or some shit like that, next to a woman reclining in a tub, flower petals around her, massage hands on her shoulders.

My husband is better at getting massages than I am. He checks out, relaxes and can enjoy being serviced. 

I, however, am all self conscious, sucking in my gut, tensing my muscles, holding my breath and wigging out the whole time that my crap, potato-bag body is presented to an unknown human and I’m not pliant with drugs or booze.

This was before I had children.

Now that my body has done time as a vessel to bleed, shit, fart, pee or leak milk in public, before it was observed, poked, prodded and fileted in the name of creating life and I finally don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks –  I can’t afford the massages I may finally enjoy.

Nevertheless, back to the days we wasted money like that. I called the hotel spa as soon as we checked into our room to make massage appointments and ease our transition into wedding weekend debauchery.

“We have only two appointments left tonight”, the receptionist said. “One is Watsu, our water massage, and another is a traditional shiatsu”.

I imagined the woman in the rose petal tub on that poster.

Husband has always said he’s happiest in the water, floating. When he’s stressed from work and the nicotine gum isn’t doing it – he’s sober, so the martini isn’t an option –  he says he wishes he could just crawl into a sensory deprivation water tank.

Bingo! This looked as close as we might get to that.

“Do you need a bathing suit for the water massage?” I asked.

“Yes, please, we ask our guests to wear swimsuits.” the receptionist said.

I didn’t bring a suit, he had shorts that would work in the water. So that sealed it – Watsu for him, shiatsu for me.

We went to the spa, checked in, went our separate ways.

Maybe it was the flight or the tough week or knowing I’d never run into my masseuse in town, but I was finally able to relax a little, drop my shoulders from my ears and exhale.

I did the after-spa glass of mineral water, took an extra long shower and used every single free product available before changing back into my clothes.

Husband wasn’t in the waiting room yet, so I made myself a cup of herbal tea and waited, blissed out and excited to tell him I finally had a massage experience I liked.

Bam! The door slammed open like the kitchen door in a busy restaurant and there stood a furious, bald man, dripping wet.

The dry shirt was sticking to a body that clearly hadn’t been toweled off, the soaking shorts were still on. He carried his dry clothes and shoes in one hand and stormed into the tranquil waiting area, barefoot. All us tea drinkers scattered like pigeons in a town square as he stomped through the zen room.

“That was FUCKED!” he fumed.

I followed him out, trying to catch up as he threaded his way between the slot machines, dripping on the swirly, psychedelic casino carpeting.

“NEVER!!” he yelled. “ You’re never doing this to me again!”

A cocktail waitress balancing a tray in one hand whirled to face his bellowing.

The shit she’s probably seen.

“Is there a problem?” she asked.

He stormed on.

Watsu, it turned out, was not what I thought it was.

Instead of slipping into a deep tub covered in rose petals, the husband exited the men’s changing room into a low-lit chamber and a small pool aglow in blue light.

Inside the pool was a lithe man with a hairless body in a Speedo.

“Oh, my bad. Are you still using it?” he asked, thinking he walked in on another client.

“No, I’m your masseuse. Please step into the water,” the beautiful man said.

Oh no.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I thought, as he described the longest 50 minutes of his life.

Watsu is a full-body, floating massage experience, where the masseuse cradles you in the water, stretches your limbs and spine, kneads your muscles as you float in his care.

“This. Wasn’t. Fucking. Relaxing!!!” he punctuated his description of the humiliation we just paid $120 for.

Had I read up on Watsu – water and shiatsu – on Healthline, I would’ve seen what he was in for:

“During Watsu, a therapist gently moves your body in water. This is known as passive hydrotherapy, because you don’t need to actively perform the movements. Your therapist is in the water with you. They move your body in specific motions, which may include: 

- gentle twisting

- rocking or cradling

- stretching

- massaging pressure points

Watsu is typically done in a peaceful setting to increase relaxation. Many Watsu therapists play soothing music during the session.”

Relaxation definitely didn’t happen.

Nothing was soothed. 

My husband is not a homophobe. But he exists in a (slightly charming) and perpetual state of awkward. And I think that even if the masseuse had been a woman, he would’ve been uncomfortable with the unexpected amount of slippery, skin-on-skin contact this massage involved.

So there he was, a 250-pound ball of hairy flesh, curled up and stretched in a warm pool, spa music and soft lighting, in a scene that looked like a water birth, but without the pain and blood. The 6-foot-1 newborn had tattoos and eyes as wide as saucers. The. Entire. Time.

“Why would you do this to me?” he asked, once we got back to our room and he showered for at least 45 minutes to try and cleanse himself of the experience.

“I had no idea what it was going to be,” I insisted. “You saw that poster of the woman in the tub! That’s what I thought.”

We slept on far opposite sides of the bed that night, back-to-back. He didn’t want to be touched. Watsu was going to be our secret.

“Dude. What room are you in?” said the voice on the phone the next morning. 

The rest of the wedding party arrived – the wrecking crew that are his high school friends. 

“Knock knock knock” and they tumbled into our room, remarkably drunk for the early hour. They raided our minibar and kept going, catching up, punching each other.

Someone turned on the TV and the default screen was that endless video hotel rooms used to have, advertising a hotel you’ve already decided to stay in, highlighting the restaurants and shops and pool at the hotel. There was a scene from the spa.

And Watsu.

“What the fuck is that shit?” one of the dudes said, when he saw the womb-like, cradling scene on the TV screen.

“FUCK!!!!” my husband yelled.

The record scratched to a stop, the room froze and everyone looked at him, already pumping red with rage and embarrassment.

There was no going back. I confessed my mistake and explained his unfortunate participation in intimate, water therapy.

“Dude.”

“Oh. Dude.”

“Duuuuude,” they said.

And the video was watched, relentlessly, all weekend.

“Watsu!!!!!” they all yelled, at random moments during the wedding, the reception and the partying after.

More than two decades later, he never, EVER gets to be around the guys – who gather annually –  without a full reenactment of Watsu.

Sorry, dude.

You book the appointment next time, k?

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