I have a bad back, so I go for therapeutical massage frequently. I’ve always seen female therapists; not for any real reason, just because there are more women than men in the field.
Lately, my back’s been so tight you could bounce a quarter off it and my neck has gotten so stiff that friends have started making “stiffie” jokes. It’s time for a massage when people start to make boner jokes about your neck. (Haha, by the way, very creative.)
I called my massage therapist (you have to call them therapists. They correct you if you accidentally slip in “masseuse”, and you do NOT want your masseuse angry with you) to schedule an appointment. She’s a popular lady, so I’m used to waiting a few days to get in, but this time it was a TWO WEEK wait for an appointment. The only one in the office who was free soon enough for my liking was:
The Massage Dude.
Hey, I’m amenable. I don’t discriminate. I’m sure he’s wonderful, of course I’ll see the dude. Why not?
Everything was as usual as I walked into the office, there was a waiting room full of ladies, peaceful colors everywhere, the waterfall was tinkling and Enya was playing softly in the background.
The place is like a monastery; you don’t want to speak above a whisper – if you talk at all. I waved hello to the receptionist, thought briefly about giving her the old Buddy Christ,
I decided it wasn’t really in keeping with the ambiance.
but sat down across from the serene waterfall instead, my back to the massage rooms.
The Massage Dude came out to get me. I got up and turned around to greet him warmly (as I am wont to do) and…
I was startled.
Let me preface the rest of what you will read here with a better understanding of my usual “massage therapist”. My usual lady is a sage-burning, bangle bracelet tinkling, warm, relaxing, hippy-dippy delight. Her long, flowy, hair is always down even though it’s a thousand and one degrees in her room, so it tickles my back while she works. She’s strong but gentle, and afterward she sings a little song to me and leaves me there to get up and dressed at my own pace. No rush. There’s always cold water waiting. I could take a little nappy if I wanted to. It’s a beautiful thing.
SHE SINGS A LITTLE SONG.
And so, on that fateful day, I had it in my mind that the Massage Dude would be just like her, only… A dude… You know, a crunchy dude.
Yeah, okay, so I pictured Tommy Chong, but I bet he gives KILLER massages.
Massage Dude looked like an Olympic gymnast. All he was missing was chalk on his hands and a pommel horse. He was considerably shorter than me, 5’4”– tops, and might have been friendly with the ‘roids.
I should stick a funny caption underneath this picture, but I think this might actually be him.
I schooled my surprised face (I’m not very good at this. Once surprise and/or disappointment have begun the facial expression party, all a good schooling does is to add “confused disgust” into the conveyed emotional mix. I end up looking like I smelled something very bad.) and shook his beefy hand.
His neck was wider than his head, which made his head look sort of pointy. The whole effect made him look like a gigantic upside-down novelty pen. Like, If you clicked his feet, a pen tip would pop out of the top of his head. He could schedule his own appointments while practicing his handstands. He should have had the name of the office written across him.
I wasn’t getting a little song.
Upon this squat yet sturdy body, he was head to toe white. A white athletic shirt, tight enough to see every rippling ab and peck beneath it, tucked into white pleated stirrups.
The kind of stirrups that show, even upon first glance, whether Mr. John Thomas is swinging righty or lefty. Where do you even get those?
Does Amazon carry them?
He must have Googled “stirrups that show off my tool” and bought them online.
Yep, there he is… Mr. Johnson. How are we today Mr. Johnson? How’s it hanging?
YET… it is not for me to judge others in the Zen garden which is my massage therapists office. Besides, weird massage experiences make for good blog fodder. Just ask Whyistherebreadinmykoolaid?
I followed him back into his room (also white and antiseptic, which was a disappointment. And absolutely no scent of burnt-sage-meant-to-cover-the-telltale-scent-of-marijuana. Which was a rather big disappointment) and he introduced himself.
For our purposes, I think
Douchy McDouchington Massage Dude will do just fine. Then he left me alone, presumably to go do some work on the rings to undress, (I was wearing clean and pretty undergarments that day, just for the record) hop on the table face down, and pull the sterile white sheet up to my neck. I don’t really know why I bothered to do that, he was just going to turn it down anyway.
The bed was really narrow, narrow like the width of the pillow narrow, so my shoulders and hips came just to the edges of either side. My poor squashed boobs were locked in a fierce battle with my upper arms for table space.
There was a knock at the door and The Dude walked in,
lubed up put massage oil on his hands, and began the massage.
I stifled a scream. Instantly I knew why it is that I see a woman.
He was rough, and not good rough either. Bad, bad, rough. Rough like he had a recipe calling for the juice of one Naptimethoughts.
I had to tell him several times to lighten up, interrupting him as he talked incessantly; making sure I knew all his credentials, his training, and his background in physical therapy. I pretended to care with my eyes closed, mumbling “Really” and “Good for you” at regular intervals. Don’t try this at home, kids. Not listening to a stranger is a finely honed skill one can only truly develop with years of practice not listening to their husband.
When he finished with my legs, butt and lower back, he went to work on my upper back and shoulders. Since he’s shorter than most men, he had to lean over the table a little. He leaned in maybe 30 degrees, but it was enough. It was that moment that I felt it on my upper arm.
There was no doubt.
It was not a pencil in his pocket. He was not saving a banana for a snack, and even though my memory of the 80’s is kind of foggy, I’m pretty sure stirrups don’t have pockets.
It was his private eye, and it was staring at the sky. It was his tubesteak.
I was facing away from him with my eyes closed when his pizzle made its first dramatic appearance, but there’s no mistaking the feel of the pink cigar with naught but thin white fabric between… The two of us. My eyes popped wide open and immediately turned to saucers, looking in every direction for…
A little bottle of Boner-be-Gone tucked away on one of the shelves?
Every muscle in my neck and back stiffened along with his… Unit. I tried to squeeze in on the narrow table, so it wouldn’t be so… Touching me, but I could shrink no more.
I tried to move over, almost my whole left shoulder and hip were dangling dangerously over the table’s edge and I was willing my leftover flubber to stay where it was. Who falls off the table in the middle of a massage? It was all, sadly, to no avail.
Donkey Kong was in hot pursuit of the princess.
I didn’t know what to do. Should I say something? How do you tell your massage therapist that his hard on is creeping you out?
Me: “Hey, not like it’s any big deal. but it seems that you have a fire down below. Could you, maybe, put it out before we continue?”
Because I want to be a part of that conversation. As far as I could see, here is the best case scenario to come out of that mess:
Him: “Oh, thank you so much for bringing it to my attention! I’ll just nip into the other room and have a little flute solo. Back in a tic! And no worries, I’ll wash up.”
Then I’d just offer my thanks and wait quietly while he jerked the chicken and came back to finish my massage, no harm no foul. Because that’s not disgusting, horrifying and mortifying all at once.
Oh. My. God.
Plus, I had turned my phone off in the car. I couldn’t even pray for a disruption.
There would be no salvation for Naptimethoughts, and Massage Dude was climbing onto the tiny table. There was simply no graceful way to deal with this… Problem.
Think about washing Grandma’s underwear. Think about baseball. Think about your Mom and Dad doing it. Think of Britain.
Him: “You’re really stiff (Jesus, that doesn’t even require a joke, snide comment or horrifying pause). I’m going to try and get at this trigger point under your shoulder blade”
Me: “Umm… Okay”
(That’s his sausage rubbing on my buns. Oh, and there’s his knapsack swinging around back there too. Maybe I should just ask him to stop. No, he’ll ask me why, and THEN what do I say?)
Me: “Listen, when your boner was just rubbing up against my arm, I was good with it, really, but now your coin purse is all up on my ass, and this is (just now) getting weird.”
Him: “Oh, my apologies Ma’am. I’ll just go finish off the zipper trout so we can get down to business.”
Because that would work out well for all parties involved. There is no way out of this. Short of faking my own death (and what if he tried to give me mouth to mouth? Plus, since I’ve never actually died, I’m not really sure how to play it. I’d probably screw the whole thing up, give a totally unconvincing “Blehhhhhhhh” in the end, and he’d laugh, and I’d just have to get back on the bed and
let him finish finish him it THE MASSAGE. Finish the massage) or have a stroke, which, at that point, was a real possibility.
I no longer noticed what he was doing to my back, all I could feel was the twig and berries on my ass. This couldn’t end well.
And then it was time for me to turn over.
I don’t know what my face looked like, but I imagine it did not say “serene relaxation”. I turned over anyway, careful not to look at Willy Wonka.
He asked me if I was comfortable having my chest and thighs massaged.
shhhhhh… No one will notice.
Errrrmmmmm. No. Upon reflection, I was not comfortable with his hands in between my thighs.
How could he not know that I know he’s sporting some wood below the equator? He’s wearing STIRRUPS. Everyone can see it in its flaccid state, it’s like a train wreck after he’s pitched a tent.
So suave. I’d never have noticed.
Shouldn’t someone talk to him about his work attire? Not that I’d be first in line to have the “we can all see your penis” conversation with a co-worker either, but they could draw straws or something. Don’t they have a boss somewhere? Or a full length mirror? Whoever gets the short straw could just put him in front of the mirror and ask him if anything jumps out at him.
“It’s shocking, I know, but there’s a slight possibility that it might put off some of your clients.”
Him: A full body might be a good idea, since you’re so impossibly tight today.
Me: No thanks, if you want to touch me there, you have to buy me dinner first. (Haha hahahaaaaaa yeah. I made a funny. Cough-boner-cough)
So he took to my head, which is always the final, and usually my favorite, portion of the massage. But IT was there too. He wasn’t rubbing it up against the top of my cranium or anything disgusting like that, but I KNEW it was there. It was there, inches from the top of my head, taunting me, with posture like my mother always wanted me to have at the piano.
Him: “Are you usually this tight?”
Me: “…… yes?……”
Him: “You need to come back to see me more often. Your back and neck muscles are likely to spasm if you don’t keep them loose. Have you been to PT recently?”
Me: “No, conventional physical therapy is extremely
hard on DIFFICULT on my (don’t say boner don’t say boner) BACK, since both my neck and… (boner) BACK are injured. I swim and do massage therapy instead.”
(How does he not know?)
Me: Oh, look at the time. (I looked down at a freckle on my wrist) I have a meeting, so time is tight for me today. It was so nice meeting you, (ram rod) MASSAGE DUDE. (Please leave now)
I started dressing while he was still in the room and I was out of there before the massage oil dried on my skin. I did not tip him. His tip was big enough when I left.