I’ve had more massages than most humans. This is probably true both of “massages” and of massages.
The other day, while I was having a massage (as opposed to a “massage”), I found myself thinking – as I have on occasion – about the odd way we relate to sex and sexuality, and to genitalia, in massages. I mean, here I am, lying on a table, covered by a sheet. I’m in my boxer briefs (because this particular modality of massage is done in underwear) and nothing else. My masseuse, over the course of 90 minutes, touches every inch of my body. Well, almost every inch. She leaves out, say, 5-6 inches on the front of me, and a slightly wider region on my backside.
I understand all sorts of practical reasons why this is so. But I want, for a moment, to entertain the possibility of a world in which a full-body massage might, actually, be a full-body massage.