Farts & Fantasy in Fort Cochin

On my 13 hour leg of the flight to Abu Dhabi I was seated next to a lovely couple who were going on to Hyderabad. The gentleman explained that his wife spoke no English. Not quite - the three words she could say said it all - "gas forming food." Who thought curried beans would make for good long haul airline food? Whoever they were, I would like to invite them to a Dutch oven party.
The next leg of the trip was even better. They served fish curry. I got on the plane in Ottawa smelling of roses and I got off the plane in Cochi smelling of fish and farts.

My first stop on this trip is Fort Cochin. Fort Cochin is all about Ayurvedic tourism with doctors and massages on every corner so, I decided to treat myself to a Marma Massage. I don't know what it is about my belly button but it makes the Ayurvedic masseuses dive right in there, right in the spot Doc Bollywood scar tissued all to hell while rearranging my innards in the summer of 2014. There I was on the table, wearing nothing but a paper thong, greased like a wrestling piglet and wham! right in the old navel. Oh right, I thought, next time I need to remember to tell them to cut that shit out.

The massage was going fine enough when she leaned over my head to massage my belly and whack! her boobs slapped right down on my face. I would have laughed out loud if I could have found a space to suck in air. She just kept on rubbing away, oblivious to my impending suffocation, while I tried to decide if this would constitute a "happy ending."

I did make it out alive in time to roll over and have her slap them down on the back of my head. This time it felt more comforting somehow, at the least it protected me from the fierce gale of the overachieving ceiling fan.

Then we were done and she marched me to the shower to de-grease. She watched me in the shower, ostensibly to make sure I didn't slip off my greasy little feet and crack my head on the toilet but, I felt like I was finally living my women's prison fantasy.