It’s where foot fetishists go to die. It is a sunken oasis beneath the grey and miasmic vastness that inundates all senses. An exquisite and priceless 90 minute experience for a paltry 25 dollars, introducing you to erogenous zones you never knew you had. Welcome to Oriental Taipan and their Beijing-famous foot massage.
The menu seems slightly misleading when, after donning de rigeur baggy, drawstring pants, the small, warm and remarkably strong hands of the masseuse begin to work your neck and shoulders while your feet soak in a hot ginseng pail. Soon after, and with all the strength of a floppy rag doll you ease into an oversized chair, fully reclined and relaxed.
What follows is a sensual lovemaking experience one has to experience to believe. With all the care of a brooding mother, the masseuse eases every aching minute of the long, endless day from your feet. One foot and then the other; never discriminating between the two, like a nurse caring for twins. Her thumbs and fingers knead deep into one foot and then the other. A lotion is applied and each silky foot is massaged with more attention than one would believe possible. Each toe is treated like a king among his minions. But again, each digit is his own master, and like the same loving mum caring for quintuplets, each receives equal love and thoughtfulness.
It goes on and on. Like a daydream that puts you in the most joyous place on earth before Morpheus sweeps you away and clouds fill your eyes and the dimly lit room fades to black. A little pleasant pain brings you back to the living, but as this beautiful maiden, in her clean white traditional Chinese uniform kneels before you, she compassionately cares for your feet as if each were a brave, wounded soldier.
The minutes keep ticking by, almost to the point of embarrassment. “Please, that’s enough. You’ve done more than is necessary”. But if a ‘foot massage’ starts with your neck and shoulders it seems perfectly acceptable that it would finish with a relieving and concentrated effort towards ones thighs. And if you’re back to almost lucid by this point, it may be necessary to chant over and over ‘Margaret Thatcher, Margaret Thatcher…’ as she works her way over every muscle and sinew to the very top of your legs, dangerously close to breaking the spell.
The menu seems slightly misleading when, after donning de rigeur baggy, drawstring pants, the small, warm and remarkably strong hands of the masseuse begin to work your neck and shoulders while your feet soak in a hot ginseng pail. Soon after, and with all the strength of a floppy rag doll you ease into an oversized chair, fully reclined and relaxed.
What follows is a sensual lovemaking experience one has to experience to believe. With all the care of a brooding mother, the masseuse eases every aching minute of the long, endless day from your feet. One foot and then the other; never discriminating between the two, like a nurse caring for twins. Her thumbs and fingers knead deep into one foot and then the other. A lotion is applied and each silky foot is massaged with more attention than one would believe possible. Each toe is treated like a king among his minions. But again, each digit is his own master, and like the same loving mum caring for quintuplets, each receives equal love and thoughtfulness.
It goes on and on. Like a daydream that puts you in the most joyous place on earth before Morpheus sweeps you away and clouds fill your eyes and the dimly lit room fades to black. A little pleasant pain brings you back to the living, but as this beautiful maiden, in her clean white traditional Chinese uniform kneels before you, she compassionately cares for your feet as if each were a brave, wounded soldier.
The minutes keep ticking by, almost to the point of embarrassment. “Please, that’s enough. You’ve done more than is necessary”. But if a ‘foot massage’ starts with your neck and shoulders it seems perfectly acceptable that it would finish with a relieving and concentrated effort towards ones thighs. And if you’re back to almost lucid by this point, it may be necessary to chant over and over ‘Margaret Thatcher, Margaret Thatcher…’ as she works her way over every muscle and sinew to the very top of your legs, dangerously close to breaking the spell.
A playful slapping of sorts, down both legs to your baby feet, brings you back to earth and reminds you that what you’ve paid for is gratification of the lower limbs only, and anything else would seem truly tasteless. The ninety minutes have ticked by like days and are complete. So too is this utterly hedonistic and serene experience. Each aching minute of your endless, painful day, swept away and forgotten.
"I finish, thank you".
"Ber bung, ber bung, xie xie"
Satisfaction never in doubt.
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