Here I am in Belgrade, Serbia!

I`m so tired and weary from my treacherous travels.

Perhaps a massage will cure what ails me!

The story that follows is one of the most surprising encounters I`ve ever had in my young life…

Walking through the streets of Belgrade to find the massage parlour was no easy task.

For some odd reason, none of the streets in Belgrade are labelled, and I assume that people just know where things are, and thus don`t need any sort of identification system.

I finally found the place, as I could hear the thumping techno music in the distance.  I walked inside and it seemed like a rather upscale, chic little operation they were running, and I fell into an instant state of calm, knowing that I would soon be relaxed to the umpteenth degree.

I told the front desk I was here for my 2PM massage, and they summoned Olga.

My jaw dropped as Olga, who I later found out was named Elga (not that this would have mattered any), waddled her way over to me and squeezed my hand with her meaty palms.  She had to weigh over 300 pounds.

I was scared.

Olga led me downstairs, away from the chic reception area and neon lighting, to a long corridor with many small doors.  She opened the third door for me, and led me into a tiny room with nothing but a massage table and a heater.  This ambiance here didn`t really jive with upstairs.

“Fabriana will be with you soon,” muttered Olga, as I was relieved and exhilarated to hear that Olga would not be massaging me, but rather I`d be entertained by somebody named Fabriana.  Sweeeeet!

A few minutes later, the door opened and in walked a tiny, 105-pound Serbian girl.

I was sooooo relieved!  However, I should have kept my guard up.

But I didn`t.

When I hear the term “massage,” I think of the most relaxing experience known to man.  I think of a massuese gently tingling my senses with her soft, oil-lathered hands, and rubbing my aching muscles.

Apparently, this is far, FAR from what was in store for me today.

Fabriana began by oiling and massaging my feet, and perhaps she was unaware of how ticklish the underneath of a person`s foot is!  I squirmed a bit at first, but eventually I toughed it out.  I was so proud of myself.  I began to think about how tough I was, and how most people wouldn`t be able to endure this ticklish-torture.

“You are tough guy, yes?” asked Fabriana.

“Well, I’m really into weightlifting, I’ve been to Japan to compete in Karate…I’m not a wimp, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

I wish to God that I never said that!

She began to work my calves, working gradually harder and harder, until it became rather uncomfortable.  This is when I began to first think about my expectations of a massage, and how soothing and relaxing it should be, and how this was actually beginning to hurt.

“You don’t make much noise,” said Fabriana in her thick Serbian accent.  It was almost as if she was surprised that I was keeping quiet.  I began to think again about how tough I was.

After a few minutes, I began panting really hard, and almost groaning.  She was working my calves so hard, almost in a way that resembled putting an article of clothing through the ringer.

That’s when I first did it.

I let out a loud, “Aaaaarrrrhhhh!”

Fabriana said, “My English is not so good.  What does this mean?  What is this ‘Aaaarrrhhh?'”

I didn’t know at the time, but her English was excellent.

And so was her sense of sarcasm.

I began to grind my teeth in a way that would have made my dentist angry, and the panting became full out gasps.  The one single “Aaaarrrhhhh” became a series of exclamations of my displeasure.

“Yeeeessss,” said Fabriana, almost like she was gently stroking the fur of a favorite pet, in her mind at least.

I was now in so much pain that I started to wonder if I’d be able to finish.  “Tough it out,” I told myself.  I’d been in way worse situations before.  But this was not relaxing at all.  This was a test of wills.

Fabriana was done using her knuckles, and was now using her elbows.  She was putting every single pound of her body weight through her elbow, and into my hamstring.  It felt like a really dull knife that just refused to penetrate the skin, but was being pushed by a woman like Olga.  If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that Olga and Fabriana had switched places!

“AAAAAARRRGGHHH!”  This was excruciating!

“You have very lovely voice,” said Fabriana, again showing off her sense of humor.

I was gritting my teeth so hard by now, and taking short breaths every five seconds.

“AAAAAARRRGGHHH!”

“Yes!” said Fabriana.  “Just like singer James Brown!”

I began gasping for breath!  “Huh……huh….huh….”

“You sound like marathon runner,” said Fabriana.  “But you don’t go NOWHERE!”

For a split second I thought about informing her that “don’t go nowhere” was actually a double-negative, and that means that I actually should be leaving, but I didn’t want to stir the pot.

It now occurred to me that I was at the mercy of Fabriana, and the pain I was enduring was not going to stop any time soon.

I decided that the only way to get her to lighten up was to yell louder and louder, as she seemed to be getting off on my pain.  I started to yell at her first amount of pressure on my leg, even though it usually didn’t hurt until the 3rd or 4th.

“I am stupid Serbian woman,” said Fabriana.

I yelped again.

“I am so stupid, that your pretend scream almost sound like real scream.”

Oh God help me!  Not only did she know I was lying, but now she was sure to be upset with me.

She worked harder and harder, and then she stopped ever so briefly and said, “You know what best part is?”

I did NOT want to know the answer!

“You have only two legs.”

As she began working on my other leg, I realized not only that I had to endure, again, exactly what I just had endured for the past fifteen minutes, but that I really was lucky to only have two legs…

As I sensed she was finishing up my legs, I thought about how strong my back was and how surely this wouldn’t hurt as much.

As I removed my face from the massive pile of my own drool on the towel, turning my head to the side like she asked, I felt her yank my underwear right off.

My heart began to race, and not in a good way.

WHAT was she planning on doing?

The back massage was twice as bad as the pressure she put on my calves, and I began to scream.

Not groan, not moan, but SCREAM!

“Yes, Yes!  You sing such lovely melodies,” said Fabriana.

I could actually see my own spit flying out of my mouth and hitting the wall ahead.  I was gasping!  Fabriana sensed this.

“You must breathe,” she said.  “If you don’t breathe, you will not have air!  If you not have air, you will DIE!”

She said “die” like it was a good thing.

I was beginning to wonder if death would be easier at this point.

“And if you die, you will be my second one this month.”

Was she serious?  She very well could have been!

It had been about an hour now, and she had finished with my legs and my back.  She asked me to flip over, and that’s when I realized that she didn’t finish my legs—just my calve and hamstrings!  After one hour, she did the BACK of me.  Now, she was going to do the FRONT!

I thought I almost blacked out a few times from the pain, and I felt like an emergency room patient in a TV show or movie, when they film the ceiling from the patient’s view as it becomes blurry and out of focus.

“You not pass out to sleep now or we have to start aaaaalllll over!” said Fabriana.

I was beginning to hate this woman.

I was screaming out on cue now, every time she touched my body.

I was drooling, almost foaming at the mouth, and grinding my teeth and biting my lip.

“You hate me” said Fabriana.

Gasping so hard, I could barely muster out, “No….no….I don’t hate you.”  It was almost as if I was also speaking in broken English!

She applied more pressure, and I blew my top!

“AAAARRRRGHHH! I F*cking hate you!”

“Yes, yes you do,” she said.

“Mother f*cking hell! I hate you, I f*cking hate you!” I screamed.

She applied more and more pressure, and I screamed and swore even more, until I finally hit my limit.

She broke me.

I began to cry.

I couldn’t believe it, but I was now in tears.

“Big strong man sure cry like little sissy girl.”

I didn’t care at this point, I really didn’t.

I lay on my back weeping as she said, “You sound just like my two-year old nephew when he wet his pants.”

After two full hours of Serbian torture, with my will broken, my manhood all but gone, and the towel soaked with my drool and tears, Fabriana announced “We finish.”

All of a sudden, the day I scored 4 goals in one hockey game, the time I told my girlfriend “I love you,” and reaching the base camp of Mount Everest all took a back seat as the best moments in my life.

I had never been happier than this moment.  My “relaxing massage” was over.

Then the surprise of all surprises came when Fabriana held out her hand: “Would you like a cupcake?”

Huh?  Speak into my good ear, please!  After two hours of torture, she takes it upon herself to offer me a goddam cupcake?  Was this the Serbian version of the Olive Branch?

Here stood this little woman offering my a chocolate cupcake, which surely contained cyanide, ex-lax, or some sort of snake venom.

I politely declined, as she gave me a “suit yourself” kind of look and took a huge bite into the chocolate pastry.  She then winked at me, and left.

I got dressed, went upstairs and paid my bill, and let out a deep sigh as I looked around the reception area for what will be the one and only time I’d ever set foot in there.

My only smile of the day came a moment later when a man slightly smaller than me walked in through the door, and said something in Serbian to the receptionist.  I then saw Olga and Fabriana approach him, shake hands, exchange smiles, and then lead him towards the stairs.

That man has no idea what he is about to go through…