Day 23: Rubbing One Out, So to Speak

Anyone who knows me well knows that I am plagued with constant neck and shoulder tension as well as frequent headaches. Regular visits to the chiropractor are the only thing that actually succeeds in helping the headaches, but it is massage that makes me salivate. It doesn’t much matter who you are, after years of chronic pain, I am not so particular about who’s doing the shoulder massaging, so long as it’s getting done. When the husband is not vacationing in war zones he rubs me on an almost daily basis. I came to depend on these mini-sessions and would often lounge about complaining of sore shoulders hoping he’d take the bait, rather than outright nagging him. (A blog on my manipulation skills and passive aggressiveness is forthcoming.) All in all, we had a pretty good routine going, but then he left and I began to seek out professional assistance. Upon deep reflection, I realize that I am a massage whore, but honestly, I’m okay with that.

Massage is funny. It can evoke images of professionals with various oils or lotions attached to utility-like belts that they seamlessly dispense during a massage, $6 massages in Vietnam and Thailand, over-priced spa “experiences” at world-class resorts, and the $10 for 15 minute Qi Gong massages at dank little basement level spaces throughout Manhattan. I have experienced all of these and found each pleasurable, but vastly different from one another. Even so, I cannot say that I have a personal favorite, to me massage is massage and I am game for it all. The exception is the massage “parlor” which is almost always a front for something less massage and more “happy ending.” While I have not frequented such an establishment, I did accidentally work at one for a day.

Massage has always held a certain allure for me. When I was in my early 20’s and looking for a side job while going to college, I took a job at a massage therapy place in hopes that the training would lead to a possible second career. The first day on the job, they told me I would start out working the front office. I observed their filing, phone answering, and scheduling techniques, before also observing that all the “therapists” were women in their early 20’s wearing short shorts and tight tops. Given my proclivity for showing off the girls, it was not the tight tops that put me off, but the prospect of shorts. Until this Summer I had not worn shorts since high school so that in itself was enough to put me on my guard. I began to look a bit more critically at the types of massages these young, scantily clad girls were giving to mostly middle aged men with beer guts the size of Octomom’s pregnant belly. The final straw for me was when I overheard one classy client most likely calling from either his waterbed or El Camino, ask if he had to use the towel to cover himself.

I’ll let anyone rub my shoulders and once while living in New York City a homeless man massaged them for a dollar. After dinner, a few friends and I were standing on the corner debating where to head to next when said hobo (that word really amuses me) approached looking for cash. The rest of my group shooed him off, but being the type to always carry some extra ones or coins for the homeless I asked if he’d like to work for it. Three minutes and a Sacagawea later, the tightening in my shoulders (a sure sign of an impending headache) was scaled back just enough to let me relax them on their own and avoid the headache until later. Was the guy’s hands dirty? Sure, I bet they were, but he didn’t smell like his own urine or feces – or anyone else’s for that matter – and he didn’t look like he’d been living in the trash compactor scene from Star Wars either. The guy was just down on his luck and willing to do a few minutes work for a down payment on a future bean burrito at the Bell.

These days I find it difficult to survive without a semi-frequent massage and since the husband is not around I am forced to pay for a professional’s touch. Until recently I never stopped to notice that the only real stipulation I have is that the therapist be female. I did not avoid being massaged by male therapists for any reason other than that I thought it would seem slightly skanky on my part to specifically ask for a male. It has never been an issue until recently, when the only deep tissue therapist available during a particularly nasty headache was a dude.

Steven began normally enough, but after replying “you can’t hurt me” to his question about whether or not he was using too much pressure, things got a little weird. At first, I began to relax and really enjoy the massage. The experience of having a man’s hands touching me in a slightly intimate way resulted in my body reflexively softening and I began to believe that each stroke of my skin was somehow more personal than it should have been. This feeing of intimacy and slight arousal did not make me nervous at first. No, for a while, I was ready to throw off the towel and writhe about in my best Elizabeth Berkley overacting impersonation, open to experiencing the joys of a happy ending firsthand (no pun intended).

I felt this way, that is, until he began to speak. Utilizing his best low, soothing voice, Steven informed me that he was about to “take it deeper now.” The low lights of the massage room, cheesy jazz guitar soundtrack, and aromatherapy were clearly getting to me, because for a moment this statement did not make me want to laugh out loud. It was not until Steven asked, “do you want me to go really deep,” that I started to extract myself from the hazy glow of massage-gasm. Do I want you to go really deep? I’m going to take it deeper now? What the . . .? At this point, I got a little spooked, mostly at my own fantasy moments before, and began working to break the quiet by asking random questions about cool places in town and his life.

It turned out to be an informative day. I found out that Thomas Street Tavern is a cool, eclectic bar to hang out in, Yoga One is the best studio in the city, and that his girlfriend is a 23 year-old who likes to call him Daddy. Suffice it to say that I’ve gone back to female therapists or homeless guys. You may have to deal with stories of their divorce or the struggle to find quality corrugated housing, but the massage part is pretty cut and dry. When you’re a massage whore like me, you’ll take it where you can get it, but you don’t always feel good about yourself afterward. For that reason, it’s best just to avoid those situations whenever possible. The husband will be home in five months, hopefully he’ll be up for “taking it really deep.”