The thought of getting his first full-body massage gives blogger Kevin Harris the giggles and shits.
Let me start by admitting the following: although I am 37, a father of four, and an employer to forty-plus adults, I am not mature enough to enjoy a full-body massage. I got the giggles because a woman who was not my wife was about to touch me for sixty minutes. The shits came because a woman who was not my wife was about to touch me for sixty minutes.
The anxiety, the questions, the fears, the terror and the neurosis left me toe-tapping in the waiting room. How much should I tip her? Am I supposed to talk? What if she’s hot? What if she’s ugly? What if she wants to talk? What if I take off too many clothes? What if I don’t take enough clothes? What if she touches my feet and I threaten to kill her? What if I fart? What if I get a boner? What if I giggle a lot? What if I shit a little? How much should I tip her then?
How the hell was I supposed to enjoy a massage with my mental meter running this way?
My wife bought me this massage for my birthday knowing that I might need a little relaxation after running my first marathon last week. My wife also bought me this massage because she knew exactly how uncomfortable the whole endeavor would make me.
This was not a birthday present. This was a personal challenge.
Let’s just say Roma, my masseuse, was not my type and leave it at that. Oh, and she looked like she could hurt me. Oh, and she kind of looked like she wanted to hurt me. And I was scared.
Roma dropped me off at Room #3 and left me with little instruction. When she returned she found me on top of the towels (instead of underneath them) in my underwear and my socks, with a large quirky smile. She snickered and accused: “This is your first time.” I knew then she didn’t like me. And I knew she was going to hurt me.
I was reminded that I was not the right person to be lying there face down. I just could not relax enough to enjoy a massage. For one hour Roma chased the tension around my body. When Roma massaged my neck, my legs tensed up. When she massaged my legs, my feet tensed up. When she massaged my feet, my arms tensed up. When she massaged my feet, my back tensed up. After one hour, all my anxiety settled right back in my neck where it stayed as I walked out the door.
I felt pretty lucky to be walking out of there alive. At three different moments, I’d been certain Roma was about to kill me:
The massage began with me lying face down. Roma put her entire weight into one early stroke to my upper back. My Adam’s apple flattened against the massage table and damn near protruded out the back of my head. Now I knew why there was a hole for my face in that table—I began drooling lifelessly all over the floor.
Later, Roma took the cylindrical pillow out from beneath my knees. For seconds the dark room remained deathly still and, while I cannot prove what she was thinking, I am fairly certain she thought about suffocating me with that thing.
Finally, nearing the end of this massage, Roma took her thumb and attempted with all her might to pierce the bottom of my nape and hook her thumb into my skull. Have you ever seen the movie Very Bad Things when Jeremy Piven accidentally kills the hooker with the towel hook? Well, it was about to be my turn to end up in pieces in a large plastic bag.
The Happy Ending
This was not one of those places, but I swear at one point Roma was trying to get my left foot to climax. And if anyone could get a foot to have an orgasm, this was the woman to do it. (I know, I know, but I told you I was not mature enough to receive a full-body massage.)
The sadness is that, just at the moment when I started to relax—just when I thought I could stay in this spot for the rest of my life—the massage ended. Just like that. Abruptly. Leaving one with disappointment. Just like this article.
This article originally appeared on My Pathetic Blog.
Photo by marinakvillatoro.