Liam Levitz
Variations on a theme (2)
Words continued from previous two shots...
For a moment I surveyed the octagonal room trying to find my bearings and steady my over-heated nerves. In the centre lay a marble slab which replicated the shape of the room. At four points around the slab the masseuses were stationed with their buckets of water, pillows, clothes and those hulking, bulky arms. Beneath each of them lay a participant, or as I saw it, victim. Those trunk like arms were putting the victims through a very visual, very real demonstration of all the positions of the pain-pleasure principle. Everyone in the room was clad in rags, the masseuse with it tied around his waist, the victim with it bundled tightly up around their groins. I could not yet deduce if they were clad in anything else beneath. The torment continued.
Around the outside of the room was a marble bench, interrupted by 10 marble sinks with water permanently running into their overflowing basin. There were 5 or 6 men sitting around various sinks (the woman thankfully having disappeared) occasionally using silver bowls to slosh water all over their bodies. I managed to pierce a ray of sense through the cloud of nerves and establish that I was to sit next to a sink and await my turn on the marble slab. I sat down, selecting the sink furthest away from everyone else, partially due to nerves and partially due to a hope that from a distance I could subtly establish some clarity regarding their underwear situation.
Placing myself down on the bench, legs firmly closed, I picked up a silver bowl, filled it with water, poured it over my head and promptly let out an almighty yelp. Freezing cold water and the remnants of my facemask dribbled down my body. My body temperature dropped from near cremated to Scottish winter in seconds. I sat mutely for a moment, vainly hoping that my cry of surprise was not as audible as had first seemed but one of the Turks was already slowly padding his way across the room towards me. A look somewhere between amusement and sympathy on his face. He patted my head in a gesture of patronising friendship and turned the hot tap on. He then sat down on the other side of the sink and proceeded to drown himself in bowl after bowl of water, gesturing for me to mimic him. I did just that and this is when my trip began to come to life. This is when I fully felt immersed in another world, far from home, far from what I know but at one with my surrounds.
The cleansing water rushed over my face, down my body and splashed across the chamber. It seemed to calm that thunderous cloud of nerves. Slowly my shoulders relaxed, my head sank back against the marble wall and I let the water and the steam heat me through. Closing my eyes I heard the slaps, cracks and laughs from the marble slab. Those hulking arms were working their wonders just yards away, just as they had done for centuries. The room seemed filled with pure release. The endless flow of water, the gentle sigh of quiet breaths, the swirl of the soporific steam, the plaintive cries of 'I Want to Know What Love Is' and the yielding creak of the massaged bodies took me away from myself. Away from my ideas of what this should have been and allowed me to finally become just another part of that most aged and venerable tradition. And then I was beckoned.
Somehow I knew the noise was for me. I can't recall now if it was a grunt or a word but my eyes opened and standing a mere 6 foot away was the perfect embodiment of every Hammam cliché. Thick, proud hair stood atop a mirthless face. Dark eyes bored out from that face without a hint of emotion or empathy. His chest swelled proudly in front of him, his stomach bulged. Huge yet taut with muscle. As for his arms, his tools of the trade, well they were adequate to terrify any man. A mass of sculpted form and hair. They hung down by his sides, resting in quiet preparation for their next task, their next body; my body. As I stood from the bench my helpful friend with the water bowl gave me a gentle slap on the back. I turned back and he smiled and nodded towards the centre. Making my way, slowly, towards the central slab the MOR gods kicked in again. As I looked towards, into and through the dead eyes of my torturer to be, Phil Collins began bleating 'Wouldn't you agree, baby you and me, we got a groovy kind of love'. I smiled in wry recognition, the masseuse didn't.
Standing by the edge of the slab my torturer ushered me to lie down on my front. I meekly obliged and slid awkwardly down onto the slab, my chin resting on a leather pillow, my body lying on the marble. The large hands tapped my shoulder and uttered one word. I didn't have a clue what that word meant and nodded with a gesture that meant neither yes or no, vainly hoping he might just go away. He tapped my shoulders again and then pointed at my rag. Once again he uttered the word and I realised then what was happening, he was asking if I had underwear on or not. Now was the time of reckoning, judgement day was upon me. The cloud of nerves arose once more and two words echoed and reverberated around my head 'pants' and 'why?'. I shook my head shyly and winced immediately, awaiting the sound of sirens or the crack of a fist across my face. Instead my masseuse smiled kindly, just for a second. 'Good' he said 'tourist shy, no good massage' and with that he flipped the loin cloth out from under me, scrunched it into one condensed bundle before, and there is no gentle way to say this, cramming it firmly into the line of my buttocks.
For the next twenty minutes I was folded and cracked, snapped and flipped. My bodyweight seeming no impediment to the dextrous hands of my masseuse. Muscles moved in ways I didn't think possible. Bones cracked in a way that didn't seem feasible and best of all, my thoughts drifted away to softer climes. I was all but naked. I was in the middle of Turkey. I was all alone far from home with another 3 months of travel ahead of me, and I was happy. So very, very happy. Mostly because I hadn't been thrown in jail for having no pants on, but also because this was too real, too new and too good to be anything but enjoyed to the full.
As my time on the slab came to a close my masseuse slapped my chest with a cupped hand. A common, oft repeated and painful gesture that seemed to be done purely for his amusement. I opened my eyes and through the steam I could see him leaning right over me. He was it, there was nothing else. There were the black eyes, the thick hair and that knotted face. Nothing more could be viewed. 'Good?' he asked. 'Good' I replied and smiled up at him, feeling so small and so grateful for all that he had done. It was then that the MOR anthems kicked in one last time. As I looked doe eyed and dazed into his unyielding eyes, my every move a gesture of thanks, relief and gratitude, Bryan Adams began to sing his song:
'There's no love, like your love...'
I could not have said it better. After a few more seconds of unreciprocated man love, I slid woozily off the marble slab, gathered my strength and went off to find my pants.
Variations on a theme (2)
Words continued from previous two shots...
For a moment I surveyed the octagonal room trying to find my bearings and steady my over-heated nerves. In the centre lay a marble slab which replicated the shape of the room. At four points around the slab the masseuses were stationed with their buckets of water, pillows, clothes and those hulking, bulky arms. Beneath each of them lay a participant, or as I saw it, victim. Those trunk like arms were putting the victims through a very visual, very real demonstration of all the positions of the pain-pleasure principle. Everyone in the room was clad in rags, the masseuse with it tied around his waist, the victim with it bundled tightly up around their groins. I could not yet deduce if they were clad in anything else beneath. The torment continued.
Around the outside of the room was a marble bench, interrupted by 10 marble sinks with water permanently running into their overflowing basin. There were 5 or 6 men sitting around various sinks (the woman thankfully having disappeared) occasionally using silver bowls to slosh water all over their bodies. I managed to pierce a ray of sense through the cloud of nerves and establish that I was to sit next to a sink and await my turn on the marble slab. I sat down, selecting the sink furthest away from everyone else, partially due to nerves and partially due to a hope that from a distance I could subtly establish some clarity regarding their underwear situation.
Placing myself down on the bench, legs firmly closed, I picked up a silver bowl, filled it with water, poured it over my head and promptly let out an almighty yelp. Freezing cold water and the remnants of my facemask dribbled down my body. My body temperature dropped from near cremated to Scottish winter in seconds. I sat mutely for a moment, vainly hoping that my cry of surprise was not as audible as had first seemed but one of the Turks was already slowly padding his way across the room towards me. A look somewhere between amusement and sympathy on his face. He patted my head in a gesture of patronising friendship and turned the hot tap on. He then sat down on the other side of the sink and proceeded to drown himself in bowl after bowl of water, gesturing for me to mimic him. I did just that and this is when my trip began to come to life. This is when I fully felt immersed in another world, far from home, far from what I know but at one with my surrounds.
The cleansing water rushed over my face, down my body and splashed across the chamber. It seemed to calm that thunderous cloud of nerves. Slowly my shoulders relaxed, my head sank back against the marble wall and I let the water and the steam heat me through. Closing my eyes I heard the slaps, cracks and laughs from the marble slab. Those hulking arms were working their wonders just yards away, just as they had done for centuries. The room seemed filled with pure release. The endless flow of water, the gentle sigh of quiet breaths, the swirl of the soporific steam, the plaintive cries of 'I Want to Know What Love Is' and the yielding creak of the massaged bodies took me away from myself. Away from my ideas of what this should have been and allowed me to finally become just another part of that most aged and venerable tradition. And then I was beckoned.
Somehow I knew the noise was for me. I can't recall now if it was a grunt or a word but my eyes opened and standing a mere 6 foot away was the perfect embodiment of every Hammam cliché. Thick, proud hair stood atop a mirthless face. Dark eyes bored out from that face without a hint of emotion or empathy. His chest swelled proudly in front of him, his stomach bulged. Huge yet taut with muscle. As for his arms, his tools of the trade, well they were adequate to terrify any man. A mass of sculpted form and hair. They hung down by his sides, resting in quiet preparation for their next task, their next body; my body. As I stood from the bench my helpful friend with the water bowl gave me a gentle slap on the back. I turned back and he smiled and nodded towards the centre. Making my way, slowly, towards the central slab the MOR gods kicked in again. As I looked towards, into and through the dead eyes of my torturer to be, Phil Collins began bleating 'Wouldn't you agree, baby you and me, we got a groovy kind of love'. I smiled in wry recognition, the masseuse didn't.
Standing by the edge of the slab my torturer ushered me to lie down on my front. I meekly obliged and slid awkwardly down onto the slab, my chin resting on a leather pillow, my body lying on the marble. The large hands tapped my shoulder and uttered one word. I didn't have a clue what that word meant and nodded with a gesture that meant neither yes or no, vainly hoping he might just go away. He tapped my shoulders again and then pointed at my rag. Once again he uttered the word and I realised then what was happening, he was asking if I had underwear on or not. Now was the time of reckoning, judgement day was upon me. The cloud of nerves arose once more and two words echoed and reverberated around my head 'pants' and 'why?'. I shook my head shyly and winced immediately, awaiting the sound of sirens or the crack of a fist across my face. Instead my masseuse smiled kindly, just for a second. 'Good' he said 'tourist shy, no good massage' and with that he flipped the loin cloth out from under me, scrunched it into one condensed bundle before, and there is no gentle way to say this, cramming it firmly into the line of my buttocks.
For the next twenty minutes I was folded and cracked, snapped and flipped. My bodyweight seeming no impediment to the dextrous hands of my masseuse. Muscles moved in ways I didn't think possible. Bones cracked in a way that didn't seem feasible and best of all, my thoughts drifted away to softer climes. I was all but naked. I was in the middle of Turkey. I was all alone far from home with another 3 months of travel ahead of me, and I was happy. So very, very happy. Mostly because I hadn't been thrown in jail for having no pants on, but also because this was too real, too new and too good to be anything but enjoyed to the full.
As my time on the slab came to a close my masseuse slapped my chest with a cupped hand. A common, oft repeated and painful gesture that seemed to be done purely for his amusement. I opened my eyes and through the steam I could see him leaning right over me. He was it, there was nothing else. There were the black eyes, the thick hair and that knotted face. Nothing more could be viewed. 'Good?' he asked. 'Good' I replied and smiled up at him, feeling so small and so grateful for all that he had done. It was then that the MOR anthems kicked in one last time. As I looked doe eyed and dazed into his unyielding eyes, my every move a gesture of thanks, relief and gratitude, Bryan Adams began to sing his song:
'There's no love, like your love...'
I could not have said it better. After a few more seconds of unreciprocated man love, I slid woozily off the marble slab, gathered my strength and went off to find my pants.