I stumbled across a “couples massage experience class” online, and on a hot-headed impulse I signed us up, without telling Jiang Ming what it was — I just said I was taking him somewhere fun. When he walked in and saw that wide double mat and the full set of massage oils, he froze for a beat, looked at me, and shook his head with a smile: “You, honestly.”
The woman therapist taught it seriously: how to warm the oil between your palms, how to use the heel of your hand instead of your fingertips, how to glide along the grain of the muscle. She had me lie face down first, and Jiang Ming followed along: “Right here on the wife’s shoulder, like this, press down — yes, ask her about the pressure.” “Like this?” His hand landed on my shoulder, clumsy, but careful. “A little lower,” I said. So he went down, “Here?” I made a soft “Mm.”
After a dozen or so minutes of teaching, the therapist stood up: “You both have the feel of it now. The rest, you two practice on your own.” She left the oil by the edge of the mat and, ever so tactfully, pulled the door shut. In an instant it was just the two of us left in the room, and the warm scent drifting in the air. Jiang Ming knelt beside me, his hand still resting on my waist, both of us a little shy, and a little in on the same unspoken thing.
“Keep going?” he asked. I lay back down on the mat and gave him my back: “Keep going. Teacher said we have to practice.” He laughed out loud, warmed the oil in his palms, and let them settle onto my back again. This time, with no teacher beside us, his hands slowly loosened up — and slowly, stopped behaving.