The pleasure I have found bathing in hammams over the years has not abated. Until recently, I had always opted on washing myself and forgoing the in-house scrub and massage offered by the staff. However on a return trip to Morocco, my curiosity got the better of me; many consider this to be a requisite part of the experience.

I was introduced to a robust woman, her hair was wrapped up and she wore only a loose cloth that resembled what a baby might wear from the waist down. She led me to lie down on a long marble slab in one of the heated chambers and set out to fill her buckets and gather her necessities of the trade. She then soaped me thoroughly and I slid about.  But any fear of falling off the slab was quickly negated. My head was soon wedged between her enormous breasts and my body’s motion thwarted. Enveloped in her soft flesh was admittedly not an uncomfortable place to be while she scrubbed and rinsed and washed my hair. It seemed to be her best position for proper leverage.

The bathing was done quickly, efficiently, with a familiar routine guiding her movements. Somehow I do not recall a massage.  It was all over rather quickly.