TELL ME A TIME YOU WERE MOLESTED

On February 25, 2020 the day Harvey Weinstein was convicted, I went with my mother to a wellness membership club in lower Manhattan. I’d been invited to the millennial spa for a comped massage and an adaptogen infused latte with the understanding that I would talk favorably about the experience on social media.

The brightly lit space with floor to ceiling windows and walls painted salmon pink offered pedicures and vibrators that looked like iPhone accessories. From the moment I walked in I felt safe, surrounded by a diverse assortment of likeminded women and scented candles.

After filling out a short intake form, surveying more my mood than my medical information, I was introduced to their lead massage therapist, a man in his mid-thirties who’d come with glowing reviews not just from the staff but from personal friends who’d described him as “life changing”. I wore a cowboy hat, no makeup, sweats and socks up to my knees as I smiled and identified myself as his next victim. The therapist chuckled then pulled back a thin teal curtain and escorted me through a flesh colored archway that perhaps inadvertently resembled a vagina. I followed him down a dark hallway/ birth canal illuminated by glowing purple accent lights into one of several makeshift treatment rooms.

            The closet sized space, with nothing but a sliding glass door separating it from the hall was barely big enough for the massage table and all of my therapist’s new age man jewelry. He asked me to undress to whatever point I felt comfortable then followed up with the kind of disclaimer I assumed must be mandatory in places where people speak in hash tags and the bookshelves are organized by color.

“Since you are a first time client, I just want you to know that this is your space and you are completely in control no matter what happens.”

I couldn’t help but laugh as I nodded in agreement and looked at him like he’d just told me about the safety features of an airplane. This wasn’t my first massage, I was fairly certain I knew the drill.

“Got it.” I said, trying to match his professional tone.

Once I was alone, I took off everything aside from my underwear and slipped under the thin sheet covering the table.  I could hear my mom talking in the next room, saying something about the infrared sauna and asking about a cold plunge.

After five or so minutes, there was a knock at the door.