purplecthulhu

There I was, in the Maple Leaf Lounge, quietly sighing with pleasure.
It was definitely the best that a machine could do.

I'm on the way back to London after a very pleasant three weeks staying with
purplejavatroll.
See earlier journal entries from both of us on this subject.

I'm at Calgary airport,
awaiting my connection to Chicago, and am in the business lounge.
The decor here is dark, whether that is intentional, to minimise exposure
to sunlight and thus have some effect on jet lag, or accidental,
due to the design of the airport, is unclear. But they have done their
best to make what is fundamentally a square room of concrete, feel
comfortable. The walls are decorated with a material that is sufficiently
restful to the eye that it leaves no really lasting impression. I think it was a vaguely grey-green fabric, but I really am not sure. The furnature
is coffee-shop modern, dominated by small tables with chairs around them in groups of four, but with several easier, more comfortable, slouching
chairs around the sides. There is a sideboard of dark woodesque substance
at the front, with a selection of various beverages, including a rather nice buttery chardonay that I've been enjoying. In one corner lies a
box of delights - a fridge containing rather nice fruit ices. I had a
mango delicacy from this a little while ago, my tastebuds
luxuriating in the rich, refreshing dark sweetness and the cool viscous
texture. It wasn't quite a sorbet or an icecream, but something somehow in
between and probably healthier, much more dominated by fruitiness than by
the creaminess or iceiness of the others.

In another corner rests the black leather covered source of my pleasure. According to the attached description, this is a Panasonic Massage Chair, and I have opted for the full back massage. Mechanical fingers move up and
down my back, alternately vibrating and rubbing with a rotating action. At first my back tries to fight this invasive pummelling, especially in the small of my back which is probably the part that needs the massage most. But my back's defences are worn down. This begins at my neck, where I begin to relax as it gently rubs me, and then am too late to tense up as a deeper, harder more insistent motion starts up. I start to struggle against the pushing of my muscles, but am seduced, fall back, and am overcome by the relaxation. This procesess then continues down my back, alternately thrumming, then kneading, as my resistance breaks down and my back is forced to relax. As stress is ground out of my muscles an occasional moan of pleasure escapes my lips. I hope I'm not making too much of an exhibition of myself, but I'm enjoying it too much to want to stop, and besides there aren't too many people here anyway.

The massage seems to go on for ages, working its way up and down my spine,
trying to grind out the immediate stresses of travel, and maybe some of the more fossilised sresses of modern life. I gradually start to stop thinking, and just exist in the physicality of blunt firm mechanical fingers working their way into my muscles, but all too soon, it is over, and I lie there, relaxed, and with my back glowing gently where it has had a good seeing to.

I wonder whether to start the whole process up again, but my plane is due to board soon, and there are other things I want to do.

So I head back to my table, and secretly smile to myself as one of my fellow passengers takes his seat in the rubbing chair. Maybe my quiet groaning made him wonder what the fuss was about.

Now if only I could afford one of these chairs at home...

There I was, in the Maple Leaf Lounge, quietly sighing with pleasure.
It was definitely the best that a machine could do.

I'm on the way back to London after a very pleasant three weeks staying with
purplejavatroll.
See earlier journal entries from both of us on this subject.

I'm at Calgary airport,
awaiting my connection to Chicago, and am in the business lounge.
The decor here is dark, whether that is intentional, to minimise exposure
to sunlight and thus have some effect on jet lag, or accidental,
due to the design of the airport, is unclear. But they have done their
best to make what is fundamentally a square room of concrete, feel
comfortable. The walls are decorated with a material that is sufficiently
restful to the eye that it leaves no really lasting impression. I think it was a vaguely grey-green fabric, but I really am not sure. The furnature
is coffee-shop modern, dominated by small tables with chairs around them in groups of four, but with several easier, more comfortable, slouching
chairs around the sides. There is a sideboard of dark woodesque substance
at the front, with a selection of various beverages, including a rather nice buttery chardonay that I've been enjoying. In one corner lies a
box of delights - a fridge containing rather nice fruit ices. I had a
mango delicacy from this a little while ago, my tastebuds
luxuriating in the rich, refreshing dark sweetness and the cool viscous
texture. It wasn't quite a sorbet or an icecream, but something somehow in
between and probably healthier, much more dominated by fruitiness than by
the creaminess or iceiness of the others.

In another corner rests the black leather covered source of my pleasure. According to the attached description, this is a Panasonic Massage Chair, and I have opted for the full back massage. Mechanical fingers move up and
down my back, alternately vibrating and rubbing with a rotating action. At first my back tries to fight this invasive pummelling, especially in the small of my back which is probably the part that needs the massage most. But my back's defences are worn down. This begins at my neck, where I begin to relax as it gently rubs me, and then am too late to tense up as a deeper, harder more insistent motion starts up. I start to struggle against the pushing of my muscles, but am seduced, fall back, and am overcome by the relaxation. This procesess then continues down my back, alternately thrumming, then kneading, as my resistance breaks down and my back is forced to relax. As stress is ground out of my muscles an occasional moan of pleasure escapes my lips. I hope I'm not making too much of an exhibition of myself, but I'm enjoying it too much to want to stop, and besides there aren't too many people here anyway.

The massage seems to go on for ages, working its way up and down my spine,
trying to grind out the immediate stresses of travel, and maybe some of the more fossilised sresses of modern life. I gradually start to stop thinking, and just exist in the physicality of blunt firm mechanical fingers working their way into my muscles, but all too soon, it is over, and I lie there, relaxed, and with my back glowing gently where it has had a good seeing to.

I wonder whether to start the whole process up again, but my plane is due to board soon, and there are other things I want to do.

So I head back to my table, and secretly smile to myself as one of my fellow passengers takes his seat in the rubbing chair. Maybe my quiet groaning made him wonder what the fuss was about.

Now if only I could afford one of these chairs at home...