At the Sandals resort in Montego Bay, Jamaica, the ruum [sic: imagine as pronounced by Johnny Depp’s Jack Sparrow] flows like water, the sun shines natural radiance, and every greeting is “Ya mon!” Until I went there, I thought people only ever said that in movies.

The all-inclusive resort experience is, for anyone who hasn’t enjoyed one, a little insane. I wasn’t aware such a thing existed, so I’ll explain for anyone else not familiar: imagine booking a swank hotel room for a week. And I mean swank: plush, with a giant bed and marble sinks.

Heck, the room even had a walk-in closet. Crazy.

Now, provided, said room was an upgrade because we’d booked the least expensive room possible, but then, due to a fluke of timing and American Airlines’ losing our luggage, ended up getting VIP treatment to the resort and plusher accommodations. With said plush room—and every room—comes everything you can think of. This place had, like, 12 restaurants. Italian and barbeque (wtf bbq?) and an English pub (wtf pub?) and of course a seafood place, all of which serve things like lobster. And steak. And . . . well, the menu is stacked.

And so’s the bar. With fine Jamaican ruum purchased from a rummery whose estate guests could tour, but also with Johnnie Black and Grey Goose vodka and . . . I mean, these tenders could make pretty much anything. My favorite thing about the trip quickly became approaching a new bartender, asking what he or she was best at, and requesting one please.

I was never disappointed.

When you’re not dining or drinking, or going on a tour of a rummery or some horseback adventure in the surf or scuba diving, there are a million blue canvas lounge chairs overlooking the Atlantic ocean. So you can sit with your book, watching your resort-goers doing those things, or you can do the same thing by the pool, which also has a swim-up bar—

Wait. That bears repeating.

Swim.

Up.

Bar.

Because it’s all included in room price, it feels free. So go ahead: order the lobster. Order the steak. Hell, order both! Have another drink, and why stop there? Bring your tumbler down to the beach, so you can drink the daily special while you watch the ocean or read your book.

I’d brought Caprice Crane’s A Family Affair. Caprice Crane’s books make me think she’d be great beach company, not to mention the fact that I wager she looks uh-MAZ-ing in a bikini.

Some things aren’t included, obviously: the tours, for one thing, and they also had a gift shop. But you go to those places and the people behind the desk or the counter just ask for your room number. I could see how that could lead to a crazy amount of trouble, not to mention financial ruin, especially given the freely flowing ruum, but then again there’s not a whole lot to drop coin on. And the tours? I mean, you’ve got the food and the drinks and the chairs and the oceans, and don’t get me wrong, I like many things historic and cultural, but why would you leave the pool?

But there was the Spa. Ah, the spa.

***

My roommate mentioned the spa before we left, but I remained ambivalent about it. I have boundary issues sometimes. I’m a private person, for one, and for two, I won’t say I won’t like to be touched—I’m a handshaker, a fistbumper, a hugger—but more than that and touch becomes intimate. I can be touchy-feely with gals I’m romantically into, but otherwise? Personal space. Comfort zone.

I know masseuses are trained professionals, and I was a personal trainer for a while, so I know about professional touch. I’ve spotted clients. But I also know that even the personal trainer/client relationship requires some dynamic, some chemistry, some comfort. Or for me it did; I didn’t work with clients I didn’t feel comfortable with, and I would have assumed they felt likewise. They were paying too much to spend an hour uncomfortable.

Still: a massage? I can get pretty tense. I carry a lot of tension in my upper back right around my neck and the backs of my shoulders and my shoulder blades and the like. I’m also pretty muscular, so when I get tense, I get really tense, because my muscles contract pretty hard, and they don’t relax easily.

So while relaxation seemed appealing, I was thinking of being nekkid in front of a total stranger, lying face down on a table with nothing but a thin sheet or a small towel to cover arse and junk. Quite frankly, if the point of a massage is relaxation, I couldn’t grok what about that situation was going to be relaxing.

Worse: what if it was a dude?

I’ll admit it: I was uncomfortable with the idea of a strange dude rubbing and kneading my upper and lower back while I wore nothing at all and had only a towel to maintain what little modesty I’ve ever been accused of (that’s a lie. Of many things I’ve been accused of, I’m not sure modesty has been one). And if the point of a massage is relaxation, and relaxation of muscles is precisely what causes erectile blood flow in the first place . . .

I just wasn’t comfortable with the idea of popping towel because some dude I’d never met rubbed my back. He could at least buy me a drink first—which let’s not forget were free!

I’m not sure that’s homophobic, as phobia, by definition, is intense and irrational discomfort or fear, and I don’t think there’s anything irrational about that discomfort. I wasn’t afraid I would like it; I was quite certain I would, in fact, at least on a physical level, which, let’s be honest, is the only level guys actually need, mostly. The male orgasmic mechanism is largely a simple matter of motion, friction, and speed.

But then I was also aware that, if I was going in with a solid mass of tense back muscle, the massage was going to require both work and strength, and hey, as long as I’m being homophobic I might as well go for chauvinistic, too, and hypothesize that a male masseuse might have stronger hands with more power in them.

***

On our first full day there, we decided to explore the ground further and found the Spa housed in a small rancher with textured, off-white walls. It was non-descript but pleasant about it.

My roommate wanted to stop in and see about appointments, so I followed. Inside, it was dim, with soft lighting and tiled floors and simple wicker furniture. On a coffee table, a large bowl held spindly twigs twisted into balls, and around the bowl were the sort of rocks I assume are used for a stone massage.

A woman behind a tall counter greeted us with a warm smile and asked if we were interested in a treatment. I figured I’d take a look.

She offered a two-page list of all the treatments available.

Which made me panic even more. I mean, I wasn’t sure I even wanted to do it in the first place, and now they were asking me to choose among wraps and treatments and hot stones and cucumber exfoliants and such. And then options for body and face, hands and feet, unguents and lotions . . .

And then I saw it.

The Men’s Spa Experience.

I asked about it: a general purpose, versatile treatment that included a deep-tissue athletic massage, a paraffin hand and foot treatment, and a facial.

Deep tissue? Athletic?

That sounded perfect. In fact, it sounded—dare I say it?—manly (although the idea that a spa treatment should sound masculine is probably the opposite of manly. Surely the most masculine of us don’t care).

I signed up.

***

We returned later that evening for our appointment. The sun was on its way down.

A couple had signed up and arrived shortly after my roommate and me. A husband and wife on vacation from Montana or a Dakota. Two spa attendants came to collect them, one small woman and one tall man. The sight of the guy renewed my original fears concerning a strange man and strange hands, but the first question those spa workers asked was whether the couple was comfortable with a male and a female.

I breathed a little easier. At least I could request a girl. I hoped, if I did, it wouldn’t come off as creepy or lecherous, but I never had to find out; immediately after that couple had departed, our attendants came out. Two small women, both dressed in spa uniforms, both smiling. One shook my hand to greet me. She was about half a head shorter than me, and the first thing I noticed were her thin hands with their long fingers; even just shaking them, there was something functional about her hands. Like the hands of a guitarist. They were small but had some strength to them, and it seemed I could feel the creases in her palms and fingers so often were they used.

The room: large. Massage table. Very dim, to the point the lights were only just barely on. I asked the other question I’d been anxious about: “Erm. Do I take off all my clothes?” Because I didn’t want to drop trou completely if I wasn’t supposed to.

The girl—Sasha? Sheila?—told me that the treatment I’d chosen included some manipulation—stretching, extensions, so it was up to me, really—then left.

Which was a decided non-answer.

So I stood there. Staring at the table. And then I decided, fuck it. I dropped trou and slipped onto the table so the thin sheet covered my ass.

The experience turned sensual. I was face down, couldn’t see anything but tile, so other senses: some classical muzak. The door opened. Her soft voice a whisper in my ear. Preparation. “I’m going to use some lotion now.” “I’m going to move your arm now.” All I could feel were her small, strong hands.

They knew what they were doing. They sought tension and worked it out.

Something intimate: when I release tension—of any sort—I giggle.

I giggled a lot during that hour. Her fingers glode over my warm-lotioned skin, dug at knots beneath my shoulder blades, slipped around vertebrae. My body started releasing tension I hadn’t even realized it’d been holding, and every time it did I giggled a little more, and I could hear her breathy chuckle when I did. She didn’t seem to mind.

It turned out, as it continued, my anxieties hadn’t been all that off. It did feel intimate, especially when she did the facial. Perhaps it’s because I’m guarded and private, but there was something about the way her fingers so-gently touched my brow, my nose. I’ve touched other people the way she touched me right then, but only girls, and only in bed.

And then the paraffin. I was on my back by then, with something over my face and a warm compress on my forehead and then maybe cucumbers over my eyes—I couldn’t tell what it was for certain because I couldn’t see. All I could feel was cool and solid—and she told me she was starting the wax treatment. She began with my feet, rubbing (tickled enough I kicked), then cracking my toe knuckles, and then I felt something akin to a thick plastic bag, but there was . . . stuff in it. It was warm and thick and smooth, and it seemed to fit to my skin.

It was so weird.

She did the same with the other foot, and then she moved to my hands, and that’s when I had the only close-to panic moment. There I was, completely nekkid save for a thin sheet up to my navel, and there was a compress on my head and something I wasn’t sure of over my eyes, and now my hands and feet were encased in plastic-bag mittens filled with some warm, thick goo.

I was helpless. Totally and completely helpless. Totally relying on a complete stranger.

I realized, then, I could either panic or give myself over to it. Let myself relax and trust the universe—and a complete stranger—for a moment. I chose the latter, and it might have been the most cathartic part of the whole experience.

The plastic, goo-filled mittens only stayed on for a few minutes; as soon as she did my second hand, she removed the first one she’d put on. The wax hadn’t hardened; it slipped right off my foot. All four came right off, and then she smooshed the wax off my face, which I hadn’t even realized had been there in the first place, took the cool weight off my eyes, and told me she was going to leave now, while I dressed, and she would meet me outside.

So I stood. I stretched. I felt good. I dressed, went out the door to meet her. She gave me some shaving supplies, shook my hand again while I thanked her, and then I was on my way. I ducked out into a mild evening, returned to the room, showered all the lotions and gels and unguents off, and then went out for some free lobster, accompanied by some free white wine. Took a walk on the beach, and just kind of enjoyed feeling terrific. I'm not sure it was the release of the tension in my body or the anxiety about the idea in general, but on the other side of the experience I was really, really glad I'd done it.

I spent the rest of the time at the resort on the beach drinking ruum under the Caribbean sun.

TAGS: A Family Affair, all-inclusive resort, Caprice Crane, homophobia, Jamaica, massage, men's spa experience, Montego Bay, rum, Sandals, spa, Will Entrekin

Will Entrekin is a writer, professor, and Eagle Scout from New Jersey living in the New York metropolitan area. A novelist and screenwriter, Entrekin earned an MPW from the University of Southern California and is finishing an MBA from Regis University while pursuing what happens next. He can be found at his web site, willentrekin.com, and he has a self-titled collection available here. He hopes you'll check both out.

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This entry was posted on Sunday, January 31st, 2010 at 5:34 pm and is filed under Nonfiction, Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.