Creepy Massage

I was just musing about my first massage. It was a birthday gift in college. But I'm pretty excited for it. Who doesn't want a massage? I check into the Salon ready to go, but already feeling a bit....odd. I mean, for me, its a bit invasive.

I'm ushered into a small massage room. Its what you expect. Dim lights, cheap fountain in the corner, reeks of incense. There's a shower in the corner full of stuff....I hope its not for me.

"Go ahead and take off as many clothes as you want. A lot of people go naked, but some people just strip to their underwear."

...

As much as I want? What I want to wear is a goose down parka while some stranger caresses my jiggling body. I want to not feel like a beached whale and have someone I don't know start feeling me up. But, I suppose the massage will be less effective that way. And lets just come out and say it. At this point, I'm in college, doing the saving-yourself-for-marriage thing, and I'm the v word. That's right virgin. So virgin Chris is stripping to his skivvies, crawling into a bed in the middle of the room, and waiting for a burnt-out hippie named Marge to come rub him down.

And in walks Marge.

You think the burnt-out hippie part was a joke? No. 50-something white woman. Frizzie hair adorned with dreads and beads. A dress that could only be made of hemp, or possibly the beard hairs of a goat. You know, the kind of lady that only drinks from a Mason jar, doesn't own a car, makes her own soap, and works by the light of a natural beeswax candle.

In a sultry, dusky, Mary Jane influenced voice she coos, "Is this your first massage?"

"Yeah".

"Oh, that's wonderful. Would you like some music on?"

"Sure."

"What do you like?" At this point, I had just joined the college jazz band.

"Well, I like jazz"

"Okay, I'll put some on".

Apparently, we have miscommunicated at this point. To my horror, Kenny G begins floating ominously from the $25 boombox on the counter. I shiver slightly and decide its okay.

"How's that?" She asks. "Uh....great. Great. He's good" I sputter.

"Okay, I'm going to begin." Oooookay.

I begin to be rubbed and massaged and kneaded by Marge. Kenny G wafts seductivly through the air as Marge engages in oil-laden strokes of my legs. Kenny sings to us......Ba da da ba da ba da, ba da da doo....... It does feel nice. However, full body means....well a lot of the body. 90%. But you know, even if you don't drive to Houston, you can still feel a little country at the Texas border.

Suddenly, my body is confused by mixed messages and she rubs my thighs.

Mmmmmm....

Mmmmmm....

MmmmmmMARGE! SICK! No! Retreat!!

Ba da da ba do be da, ba doo bee dwoo da.......

You are not helping me here Ken!

And yet, it feels good. Thighs being rubbed....good......Marge touching me....bad.....Baseball, cold showers......

Fortunately, its time to flip on to my stomach. She's now massaging my back and its feels good. My face is in the little open donut thing facing down, but my eyes are closed. I'm oblivious for a moment to the word. Hence, I don't notice as she sits on a stool facing me, her legs under my face. I don't notice that her hemp-dress-concoction has a slit in it. I don't notice that the slit in her dress is really quite high, that perhaps her woven wonder has fallen to each side of her legs. I don't notice I'm the in the lap of.....luxury.

Until I open my eyes...

To a suprise....

Margie's thighs.

The Burning!! The pain! Why doth thy dress part in such high flight? My nose is in the holy of holies here, and I want out! Suddenly, "Danger Zone", the theme song from Top Gun is flying through my head and I'm wondering if its possible to get "the clap" in my nose.

But suddenly, praise my maker, the massage is over. Like an embarassed youngling I wait with the covers pulled tightly until she leaves the room. I get dressed. I'm given a water bottle. Apparently they notice the sweat on my brow. Should I be smoking or something now?

I'm ready to leave and before I can get through the door Marge fires out, "Hey, what are you doing right now?"

No way. This lady did not just ask me that......

"Uh, not much."

"Could I get a ride somewhere?"

You've got to be kidding me. I am finally free of a rather awkward hour, and its instigator needs a ride. But I'm a nice guy. "Sure."

I give Marge a ride to the mechanic about 10 blocks away, she thanks me, and reminds me to drink plenty of water or I'll be sore. Yeah but what about the psychological damage lady? As she gets out of the car, I feel like I should be asking,

"So....do I call you sometime?"


...I choose instead to say thank you, and pull away a bit faster than the speed limit.