The Extras

While traveling in Jordan, Corinne O'Shaughnessy visits a Turkish bath and gets a massage that does her 60-something body right.

The Turkish Bath, by Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres, 1780-1867. Via The Louvre/Wikimedia Commons

Susan and I have signed up for the Turkish bath as an extra during our tour of Jordan. Our group of twelve is greeted, then asked, “Anyone okay with a man?”

Four of our group, young Muslim girls who cover, have already let them know they can only be massaged by a woman. I give a resounding YES. I am okay with a man. YES, to stronger hands for kneading deep into tight knots. YES, of course, in the neck and shoulders, but more in the balls and sockets of my hips. Why my hips get all knotty, I don’t know. I’ve tried women massage therapists. Their hands felt too small. Too delicate. 

We start in the steam room, but as soon as claustrophic Susan sees the enclosed space, she heads back outside and I lose track of her. After ten minutes or so of sitting in the warm dampness, we’re led to a waiting area with a large double-sized platform bed of heated tiles in the center. Tessa, a young Brit, and I are told to lay down, our two prone bodies now first and second in line. The rest of our group takes a seat on the tile benches lining the periphery. Wearing only my bathing suit, I feel the heat turning—burning?—my skin red. 

“We need to say something,” I say to Tessa. We do, and the man who seems to be in charge, uses a plastic bucket to pour tepid water on our bodies. It flows down and over and then under, and cools us just to the point of steaming, the heat no longer singeing. After we’re sufficiently doused, he pours oil all over my arms, legs, and trunk, then dons two mitts that are like very thin, rough potholders and starts firmly stroking my body with circular motions.

I’m wearing a two-piece. I have never graduated to a one piece, though I did get the memo that at a certain age—an age I’m well past—you’re supposed to stop wearing bikinis. I don’t like the cold wetness of a one piece when I get out of the water, and that’s that.

He scrubs my ribcage. “See?” he says, turning over the mitt to show me that it’s covered with my gray dead skin. 

“Ackk,” I grimace. I know bodies are always regenerating more skin, after dead cells flake off. The dust in the air, the dust covering furniture, is made up mostly of dead skin cells. I know that. But I don’t want to see it. 

He turns me over, sloughs again, then sits me up and showers me with a few buckets of cool water, leaving my skin slick and pinkish. 

My masseuse, a thin, muscular young man wearing only swim trunks, comes and greets me. I’m wearing a two-piece. I have never graduated to a one piece, though I did get the memo that at a certain age—an age I’m well past—you’re supposed to stop wearing bikinis. I don’t like the cold wetness of a one piece when I get out of the water, and that’s that.

“This way,” he says. 

The author and her friend following their massages.

We walk a few steps through a doorway and into an area murky with wisps of steam, through which I can make out a long, wide hallway with tiled benches lining the walls. He motions to the bench nearby and points to a towel-wrapped pillow. 

“Face up or down?” I ask.

“Down.”

I settle into the towel, which smells like eucalyptus and mildew, and I feel silky oil trickling onto my skin, mixing with the wetness from the steam room and the body scrub. He runs his hands over my neck, then tugs softly on my suit straps, leans in and with breath smelling slightly of tobacco, asks, “Ok?” He wants to lower the straps so my shoulders are a blank canvas.

“Yes,” I answer. He tugs at the straps and I’m a little surprised as he continues pulling my top all the way down to my waist. He kneads and strokes. When he gets to the really tight spots he pushes hard with his thumbs, and I think I can actually feel my blood start swirling. When he reaches my hips, he leans in again and whispers, “Ok?” I nod. He tugs my suit bottom up, transforming what had been full coverage into a thong. I am aware that people are walking past us, the way you are when your eyes are closed, but you can hear and feel the soft vibrations of feet on floor and murmurs of talk.  

Are they averting their eyes? Can they see through the steam? I start mentally cataloging my bodily imperfections, then just tell myself, No. No. Do not ruin this by retreating into your head. The thoughts float off and I’m back, being there, as he works my hips, especially the right one. When he gets to my feet, they’re ticklish, and I laugh a bit, but not too loudly. 

Then he taps my side to let me know to turn over. I pause for a second thinking he’ll pull my top back into position, but he doesn’t, so I turn over and am aware of being exposed and being 61, but then I just let that go, too, because there are gifts to being 61. I love my body more now, even with all its sagging and crinkliness, because it’s stronger. Because I'm stronger. Because strength makes me feel deliciously confident. Confident I can handle potentially difficult situations with more grace and agency. 

I pause for a second thinking he’ll pull my top back into position, but he doesn’t, so I turn over and am aware of being exposed and being 61, but then I just let that go, too, because there are gifts to being 61. I love my body more now, even with all its sagging and crinkliness, because it’s stronger. Because I'm stronger.

I feel the steam and the oil and trust as my backside settles into the slippery, wet hard bench. I feel him climb onto the bench, between my legs, and kneel, knees slightly spread. I glance at him quickly as he pulls my legs to straddle his, because this position is familiar and for a split second I’m confused wondering, Are we going to have sex? And it’s not that I would be totally opposed for the reasons one might assume; I’m opposed solely because it would ruin the complete luxury of lying back and simply—receiving. 

His hands move to my belly and he kneads it this way and that, which feels weirdly pleasant, and then he leans his chest near my breasts as he reaches his arms under my armpits and clasps them at the base of my neck. He hoists my spine into a backward bend with his fingertips and releases each vertebra, one at a time. When he reaches my sacrum, he starts all over again. When he’s reached my sacrum the second time, he scoops his forearm under my knees and folds my legs toward my chest and stands, then sits me up, feet on the floor, facing him. He reaches under my armpits and around my back again as though he’ll pull me to standing, but between the water, the oil, and the tile, I slip off and land straddling his right thigh. We both laugh instantly and hearing his laughter, too, brings immediate relief. Silence might have meant our moment of accidental intimacy had shifted the ease of our connection.

He repositions me back on the bench, and this time I resist as he repeats the stretching move. I stay put on the bench. I feel taller as I feel him walk a few steps away. I’m surprised when warm water flows gently over my head and shoulders. I glance as he puts the bucket down, then feel him massage liquid into my hair. He’s begun to wash it and I feel like a well-loved child as he stands over me, working the gel that smells faintly of rosemary into a sudsy lather. This time I’m ready for the water that rinses the suds away, and he finishes by pinching the flesh surrounding each ear in between his thumbs and forefingers. When he gets to my ear lobes, he leans in close and whispers, “Go take shower.” 

I open my eyes slowly, like it’s morning, and they come to focus on his smile leaving half-moon cheek muscles protruding gently under his eyes. “Shukran,” I say softly, pulling my suit back into position, and wander in the direction he’s pointed. 

Showered and dressed, I find Susan in the mosaic tiled and plush pillowed lobby, drinking mint tea from a glass cup in a gold holder.

“How was it?” she asks. 

“Well,” I say, sitting down next to her, “…it was like the best love-making session I’ve ever had without actually…you know…making love.”

“Oh!” she says. “Then…we need to come back to Jordan.”

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Previously

Corinne O'Shaughnessy

wrote an essay called “UTI 101” for Oldster.