(not an) ORIENTAL HEALTH SPA
I went to a massage parlor for the first and last time on Friday.
It was owned by one of Amy's family friends whom we met at a Korean restaurant (as usual).
I've been feeling down lately so trying something new seemed like a good idea. Plus I've always wanted to get a massage, just to see what it's like.
But I never wanted to be one of those guys with those rusty pickups who would always be parked at the "Tokyo Oriental Health Spa" either (a real place in Ann Arbor).
Amy went by herself first and booked me an appointment with the same masseuse she had.
"So, how do I say 'A little more down there' in Korean? Hahha! I'm kidding!" I joked to Amy.
"You just say it in English. My cousin is the only Asian person there and she doesn't give massages."
Prior to this moment, I had assumed we were going to be seen by Amy's relatives or at least family friends or something.
"What?"
DEJA GOOBrittania The Masseuse was about our age. She had cropped brown hair. Last week she had bright red ponytails, according to Amy. Spritely and nice, but a little more nervous than I would expect someone who does this for a living to be.
Then again, when I have patients my age in the hospital, they probably think the same about me.
Brittania took me back into a comfy dimly lit room with plush chairs and mood music. It felt like déjà vu.
"I like to tailor my massages. Do you have any problem areas I can focus on?" she asked, almost subvocally.
"What? Um, no problems. I'm okay."
"Well, then, we'll probably do the overall relaxation massage then," she explained.
"Okay."
"Is this your first massage?" she asked.
"Okay … I mean, yeah, my first."
Yeah, I was nervous. Not just because this girl I was about to strip for was my age and quite nice and pretty. But because I had just realized the last time I was in a room exactly like this, I was ejaculating my seed into a plastic cup for thirty bucks a shot.
COMMANDO
In the changing room, she left me with sandals and a robe.
And it dawned on me that I had no idea if I was supposed to take my underwear off or not. I'm not being a perv about it. I just didn't know what proper massage protocol entailed. I was going to be covered by a towel anyways, right?
But I didn't like the idea of freeballing it for some girl I just met. I don't even take my skivvies off in the men's locker room at the gym. In fact I didn't even take my undies off for my first girlfriend (not by MY choice though) … she thought she'd get pregnant by diffusion or something. So I decided, THE UNDIES STAY ON!
I then fell over into the lockers with a clang as I rushed trying to take my pants off. I was hoping she wasn't …
… Right outside the door, Brittania asked gently,
"All set?"
"Okay," I said with practiced precision, still feeling naked in the bathrobe and wondering how sit com-ish this all seemed.
WOMEN LIKE THINGS HARD.
MEN LIKE THINGS SOFT.In the massage room, I laid on my stomach, with a towel covering my lower half. My face rested on some donut cushion looking at the floor.
The massage … well… things started off well. But once she got into the deep muscle pressure, it started to … um, hurt.
During some parts, I nearly felt like saying,
"Hi, I signed up for a massage, not the Ultimate Fighting Championship."
At least I could covertly wince in pain in that little face cushion thing.
I guess I could have said something, but I figured this was part of the experience. Maybe the pain would release endorphins later. Plus, I didn't want to be a wuss. I bet all of her other customers love this. Maybe her demure exterior hid an alter ego of a dominatrix/sadist. Maybe this is the massage-for-masochists special? I didn't want to be the only guy who complained that he got the shit beat out of him by Brittania's Elbows of Rolling Thunder.
I didn't want to hurt her feelings (or piss her off!) either.
I would have rather she just caressed my skin over those areas instead. That seemed insulting to ask since a masseuse is professionally trained to do so much more. And Amy would get bored doing that for any length of time. But honestly, that's what I really needed. I wondered how much a prostitute would charge.
WAY OF THE HAND
In between wincing, I wondered why I've been feeling so lost lately. I realize not everyone has a job much less a house or someone they love. On the outside, my life would look pretty well on track. On the inside, sometimes I have the uneasy feeling I've gotten on the wrong train.
Brittania held my hand and started massaging it. It felt surprisingly good. It felt like an answer to my own questions. I had to voluntarily keep myself from grasping.
I wanted that. An armed angel to firmly take me by the hand and show me the way. A Lady of the Lake to hand me my weapon and my destiny.
But what if I don't like my destiny? What if this is my destiny?
I've felt lost most of my life (I think it's just my personality), but I've been able to at least "fake" direction and focus. I studied hard through high school, college and medical school and sacrificed a lot, "faking" my desire the whole time. Not knowing if I really wanted to go where it was taking me.
I think we all want someone to guide us sometimes. To show us the way. To take us to our alternate future or to a longed-for past. I also think this is why disillusioned couples cheat on each other.
Maybe I'm right where I'm supposed to be. I might not enjoy what I do, but maybe it's what I'm supposed to do. I don't know. I'll never really know I guess.
I've probably had too much time to think about all this these past few days.
The massage ended.
ROAD WARRIOR
"How was it?" Amy asked as we walked to the car.
"It was good, but it's not really my thing. I feel like I got the shit beat out of me," I said.
"The other massage lady said men don't like it as hard as women do," Amy replied.
Amy and Baby Boy are relying on me to be strong so I have to at least pretend I know where we're going. I can do that. I've been doing that my entire life. I have to be our pilot.
"I'll drive," I said.
"Do we need an oil change?" she asked out of the blue.
"How do we figure that out?"
"You look at the mileage on the sticker I put in the windshield," Amy pointed out.
Okay. We're copilots then.
I held her hand and we drove home.
_____________________________________________________
Amy finally got up the courage to take a picture of her beautiful pregnant belly.
Baby Boy kicks a lot now. Amy says she can see the covers move over her belly when he kicks.
Amy's belly feels incredibly soft when I lay my head against it.
It's also a good place to rest your cup.
It won't be long until I'm joining the ranks of Danny and Paul now.
