I like to think I’m a man of the world …

I’ve certainly not ‘done it all’, but I’ve lived my life, fully. And greatly enjoyed each challenge as it came, often learning in the process, especially from the disasters.

But I’d never met a tanga, before. Well not in a personal way…

I’d better explain.

I’ve just turned 70. “Surely not!” I hear you say – and thank you. But the great wheel of personal time has brought me here in a healthy state, ably assisted by a lot of effort at family Pilates, dog-walking, and a wife whose healthy cooking is second to none.

We were in our previous location of Sirmione when we stumbled across the historic spa at the foot of the hill on the way to the old town.

It looked inviting … but expensive. I went ahead into the town to line up two latté macchiatos while Bernie entered the spa to explore. She’s a big fan of such places, whereas I can take it or leave it. Give me a good walk with the Collie, any day.

Ten minutes later, she rejoined me with a smile. I knew that spelled trouble…

“I’ve booked myself into the spa for a two hour session, tomorrow,” she said.

I began to relax. “Excellent!”

“And you’re having a massage with Olga on the morning of your birthday…”

“Hmmm…”

Two days later, as scrubbed and showered as I could be, I trundled down the hill to meet up with Olga. She approached me at the inner door of the ‘personal treatment’ rooms. She was Croatian, delightfully pleasant yet serious, gently perfumed … and gorgeous.

Olga instructed me to remove my clothes and lie face down on the massage table. I looked to where she pointed and saw a rolled up towel at head height.

“I will leave the room while you undress … and put this on”

She handed me a small blue bag containing a piece of black ribbon which narrowed to a string, with what appeared to be white trimming at the edges. Horrified, I started at the cloth serpent uncoiling on my palm.

“‘It’s a tanga,” she chuckled in response to my catatonic state “The thin bit goes at the back…”

I remained frozen as she left the room. Even allowing for the shock of the thin bit at the back – literally between my butt cheeks, the ‘larger’ bit wouldn’t cover a Canarian banana, let alone Horatio, down there…who’s not as inert as a banana. I should point out that I’m perfectly average, unlike the tanga.

I’m kidding. He’s not called Horatio.

I lay face down on the table, my head resting sideways on the rolled up towel. Olga returned.

“I’d rather have you like this,” she said whipping the towel gently away and urging my head down into a padded hole in the massage table.

I had little time to respond before I felt warm liquid being gently dripped up the back of my calves and thighs … and all points north.

Expert and strong hands followed, and I entered a state of heavenly floating as everything but what was beneath the thin strip was stroked, prodded and squeezed into a relaxed mush.

Olga did eventually roll me over. She may have shot a disparaging glance at the errant Canarian banana, but I’ll never know, there was a warm and perfumed towel over my face before I could blink.

Heaven continued. Eventually, she left me to come back to earth. “Shower and dress when you’re ready. No rush….” She chuckled. “Keep the tanga.”

I did, but only until I could photograph it for this blog. it’s going in the bin now.

Thank you, Olga. You were expert, wonderful and entirely proper. And thank you, Bernie … for a memorable birthday event.

©Stephen Tanham 2024

All images taken and processed on an iPhone 12 ProMax or created using NightCafe Studio AI.