There is a reason why I don\’92t like being touched, much more so, being kneaded and stomped all over. I am ticklish as hell and I do not relish the thought of some person making a dough out of my butt. The SO however is in ecstacy whenever some masseuse gives her a foot massage. The downside here is that she wants to share her ecstacy with me, which means, if she\’92s getting a massage, I have to get one too. And because there are some things we have to endure so as not to go down some circuitous route that more often than not ends with the exclamation \’93You don\’92t love me anymore\’94, I had to capitulate.
I\’92ve had experience with male masseuses before and all they\’92ve done was turn whatever scarce muscle I have into fat. If there was a way that parts of your body apart from those orifices can be raped, these masseuses were, how do I say it, giving it to me, baby.
I didn\’92t want to repeat those experiences so I asked for a lady masseuse. While I was waiting in that icebox of a room for my massage, clad in a sleazy robe\’97the kind that old men wear thinking that it would make them unbearably sexy to their very young prey\’97I was imagining that perhaps the girl that would be doing me (harhar) would be a cross between Angelina Jolie and Elisha Cuthbert. A man can fantasize right?
When she came, I was in the process of removing my top robe, as I turned around to face her, my initial reaction was to cover myself. It was a reflex move. I hate to say this but she looks like, err, let\’92s just say I should have just requested for a male masseuse.
While some will consider these sessions heavenly, this to me is a preview of what hell is all about, like folks preparing for marriage. Everytime the masseuse lays a hand on me I had to stop breathing to blunt out the pain and the other thousand natural sensations that a ticklish man is heir too (William ikaw ba yan?). Some folks would want their massages to last forever. I just want them to end, period.
Perhaps sensing my disdain, the masseuse started to knead my back muscles as if she was Peter North and I am Rachel Weisz\’92s boobs. But being the macho person that I am, I never even squeaked a peep to ask her to temper the torture. Perhaps I didn\’92t say anything because I was too busy holding my breath due to the hellacious pain it was causing me. Elle, Reese Witherspoon\’92s character in Legally Blonde, would have been furious at me. It was her who said that if we are not happy with what is being done to us, her example being her hairdresser doing something she didn\’92t want, then we should speak up– otherwise we run the risk getting a bad haircut. Suffice it to say that I\’92m not a big Elle fan. I continued to hold my breath.
When the masseuse started to stand on my back and then push hard downward to make my spine crack, I thought I was gonna be paralyzed for life. Goodness gracious woman, you\’92re not exactly the epitome of petite, what the hell are you standing on my back for? I wanted to shout, but then again, me=macho. So I silently screamed, bring it on!
The SO was waiting at the end of the buffet line when I finished dressing after that grueling session. She was flushed from her blissful experience while I felt run over by a pick-up truck.
Oh gad, the things we do for love.
Comments on this entry are closed.