The Botox Diaries

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Authors: Janice Kaplan, Lynn Schnurnberger
for a can of Mace, Ravi Master yanks my arms back around his head and clasps my hands to his neck. This makes my back arch so steeply into the much-heralded cobra position that my breasts pop out straight into Lucy’s face.
    “Feel good?” she asks me. I can’t begin to answer because in this stretched-out state, my vocal cords are bulging and all of the air seems to have been socked out of my lungs. Just wait till it’s your turn, Lucy, I think.
    For a blessed moment, Ravi Master releases my wrists. There is a god. But within nanoseconds he’s turned into The Hulk, lifting me up in the air and slamming me over on the mat into the missionary position. Upon which, yes, he mounts me again and pins down my shoulders.
    “U-uncle,” I stammer. “You win.”
    But he’s not done. Now that he’s working on Side Two, he pushes, pulls, contorts and distorts my body into a series of positions that would impress any Pennsylvania Dutch pretzel maker. And much as I resist, it starts to feel good. I don’t know if he’s loosened my muscles or my spirit, but after about twenty minutes of this I’m all warm and tingly. I’m so at peace that the room is all happy pinks and purples and the meaning of life seems much, much clearer. Uh-oh. What’s in that incense anyway? I don’t have time to worry the question as I drift into a light sleep and Ravi Master abandons me to minister to Lucy.
    Half an hour later, Lucy and I drag our Ravi-relaxed bodies to the sauna where it’s a steamy 180 degrees—we’re paying $150 apiece to experience the exact conditions that cause thousands of New Yorkers to flee the city each summer. We’re sipping small bottles of Evian, sitting on hard benches, staring blankly at glowing coals.
    “Amazing, wasn’t it?” says Lucy as she wipes away a bead of perspiration and lets her towel slide down from her breasts. Naked again. Makes you wonder why she needs that personal shopper at Barneys.
    “Amazing,” I agree. “How did you find out about this place?”
    “I heard about it in Los Angeles. Ravi Master’s bicoastal.”
    “Never a dull moment when you’re in L.A.,” I say.
    “I find time for a couple of other things when I’m working,” Lucy says coyly, and I swear she flutters her eyelashes.
    Oh no. Please, no. Not this. “Don’t tell me you and Hunter go to Ravi Master out there,” I say.
    “Hunter?” Lucy squeals. Well this is something new. Lucy never squeals. My sophisticated friend is turning into a puddle, and it’s not just from the steam. “That’s a laugh. Hunter doesn’t have a Zen bone in his body. He’s a total guy’s guy.”
    “Meaning?”
    Lucy giggles. “You know, he does those guy-guy things, like he eatsbeef and drinks Jack Daniel’s. You should see us in restaurants. He gets the steak with everything on it, I get the salad with dressing on the side. He teases me about what a girl I am. He’s just so cute.”
    She pauses to take a sip of water, but I’m the one who gulps. Hello? Isn’t this the woman who considers meat the dietary equivalent of Enron? “Doesn’t sound like your usual type,” I venture.
    “I guess not, but what I love is that he’s a take-charge kind of guy. In everything. If you know what I mean.” She grins slyly and looks up at me. Waiting to be asked. I don’t want to ask. But she’s primed. Lucy makes small circles on her chest with a well-manicured finger and she’s off and running.
    “Want to know how we got together for the first time? We were in the elevator at my hotel and he started nuzzling my neck and whispering how beautiful I was. Then he started kissing me. Hard. He came to my room and there was none of the usual should-we-or-shouldn’t-we?—he just pulled off my sweater and carried me onto the bed.” She has that faraway look in her eye that you see in women in love and mental patients. And she’s not done. Lord knows, she’s not done. “He’s so forceful. So strong. For once I don’t have to make any

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