Thursday, September 01, 2005

Can't Touch This; Break It Down Hammer

I'm the only person I know that goes into a massage feeling relatively relaxed and comes out tense. And the verdict is still out whether I even like massages.

I did not get my first professional massage until I was 27 and pregnant with my first baby. I was in Vegas on business which when you're eight-months pregnant is non-stop fun because there is nothing more you want than to be on your feet constantly, inhale 24 hours of smoke, drink heavily and go to strip joints especially when you’re weeks away from being initiated into goddessness. (I did go to the industry party, however, in a short, tight black dress that repulsed some and excited others. Freaks!) While in Vegas, I partook of the luxurious spa massage where I just laid on my back like a big slab o' meat and the masseuse slid her hands under me and worked some heavenly magic. I put my feet in her face as she rounded the table hoping she'd get the hint. And she did. I drooled as she kneaded my pillowy sausage feet. I haven't had a good pro massage since.

I have realized most recently the following things about my massage experience - as I search to make it good again:

1. I don't like women massaging me for the simple reason that their slim fingers feel like chopsticks digging into my back. Like, little ginsu knives tediously needling me until I'm so tense that I am flexing my muscles to fight her back. My goal is to completely push her off of me with my deltoids, but so far I've only ground my teeth down a quarter inch. "Boy, you're tight," she says. You think?

2. I do not like a massager touching my legs. Nothing makes me tenser than that. And I've realized that my calves are annoyingly sensitive and my thighs, apparently, are the most intimate part of my body. They could massage my ass, my titties, but touching my thighs seems to be a form of sexual harassment to me. Not only does that feel extremely sexual, but all I'm thinking is, "Oh, did you get a nice handful of fat pocket there? Swish, swish - does that feel good to you? Because it doesn't to me. Ok, fuck me now. I mean, STOP TOUCHING ME."

But all this doesn't keep me from getting massages because admittedly about 50% of a massage does feel good. I keep wanting them to do my feet more and my shoulders and hands but they don't listen. They seem lost if they can't do my legs.

At the Post Ranch Inn, I booked a His n Her in-room massage. A man and a woman showed up. The woman says to me, "Ok, so what style would you like?" And I say, "Oh, you're with him,” pointing to Husband. And I look at the guy massager who is Corky Romano in white gauze yoga pants with the fly open (creepy) and I say, "I don't like my legs massaged. It's just a thing I have." He says all compassionately, "No problem." But he adds, "It's only half your body." Oh, Corkey's a funny man. I say, "I do love my feet, shoulders and hands best." "Great," he says. Nice and clear, right?
Mid-way through the massage he whispers in my ear (creepy again) "Do you want me to try a couple compression things on your legs? Just to see if you're comfortable with that?" Mother fucker, what don't you understand about I Don't Like My Legs Touched? Did it sound like I wasn't sure? And I say, "Sure," Fuckin Corkey. "How was that?" He whispers each time he presses down on my legs like he's curing me of my leg-touch issues. "Yeah, that's great," I say when I'm thinking HURRY THE FUCK UP.

Yesterday, the company I work for generously brought in a masseuse to massage all the employees for 20 minutes at a clip. She set up one of those cool chairs where you lean your face against a toilet seat and a pad presses your boobs back into your sternum. I should've said, "May I please just sit in the chair for 20 minutes?" Because honestly, that chair is more comfortable than the massage. I wonder if I could work in one of those? Could you image, typing while peering through a toilet seat? So, my massage was alright. Chopstick fingers digging and poking and jabbing . . . ug, but the 3 minutes she spent on my hands were divine.

There is one massage that I know I will like every time. It's when Husband rubs my back which is him asking "Can I stick my penis inside you?" And I could have worked 23 hours that day and I could be beyond exhausted -- and I hate when they wait until you’re on the downswing into sleepdom -- but once he puts his hands on my back I'm like, God that feels good and yes, you can have sex with me, and don't stop massaging my legs . . . It works every time. Which is unfair because he knows this. I could go to bed furious about having to pick up 5 billion socks scattered throughout the house -- how many socks can a man wear in one day? -- but once he puts his magic hands on me, it's over.

No comments: