I KNOW, RIGHT? THREE POSTS THIS WEEK! I feel like I’ve earned something.
A Masseuse Should Not Massage Your Breasts. For Free, Anyway.
Gena has waited so patiently for this story, God love her. She has a special interest since she’s actually graduating with her massage therapy certification in a month! I’m so proud of her! And I totally plan on utilizing her mad skillz.
When I was pregnant, I had not one but TWO gift certificates for massages come my way. I had never ever had a massage before, and so I promised myself that I would splurge at 36 weeks and have my first one. I also hoped that the crazy massaging action would spurn labor. (HAHAHAHA. OH, THE IRONY OF THE WEEK-LATE BABY!)
When I made the appointment at the uber-fancy botanical spa, they asked if I preferred a man or a woman. Assuming that a woman would be more judgemental of my body, I suggested a man massage my bloated, swollen carcass. (That was brimming with life, blahblahblah.) I was set up for an appointment and advised to get there early for paperwork and water.
Yes, they said that. Cause, you know, I don’t have water AT HOME.
But anyway, so I got there, and they had me change into a plush spa robe (I want one of those thingies, seriously), and I waited. Finally, a gentleman whose name I cannot recall but we’ll call Chesty McTitty appeared and brought me back to the room.
Obviously, because I couldn’t lay on my stomach for the typical massage, he had me “drape” myself with sheets while laying on my side with several pillows supporting my fat haunches beautiful pregnant form. At first, all seemed well; he chatted on about his wife having her five kids or whatever, and how they were all eleventy pounds or some other crap, and I just tried to focus on the feeling good of the massage. But he talked so much, and about such personal things.. about his wife’s labor, the noises, etc.. that I felt.. um.. odd. Then he placed his hands on my hips (over the drape.. FOR NOW, OH YES) and announced that, BASED ON MY SIZE, he guesstimated I’d deliver on November 26th with a nine pound baby.
He finished with one side and asked me to flip over to my other side, and when I did, my “drape sheet” fell precariously off my boob. Like, full on boobage happening there. And while I normally wouldn’t care (cause I’ve shown those babies before, FOR CASH), the preceeding convo had me skeeved. So I tenderly tugged it back up, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
“Oh, I didn’t ask.. are you planning on breastfeeding?” he asked. Ah. He HAD noticed.
“Yep,” I said, trying to keep my answers as terse as possible in the hopes of shutting him up.
“I should work that area a bit then,” he offered. AND HE PROCEEDED TO MASSAGE MY BREASTS.
I left and felt very odd about the whole thing. I mean, sure, it was a massage, so I couldn’t complain there, but um, prenatal massages are sure WEIRD with the whole breast massage thing, right?
Almost a year later, some ladies and I were getting ready in a dressing room and I retold this story when Nina, one of my good friends even if her husband doesn’t agree that we are good friends, mentioned that she had just gotten a massage and she LOVED them. I told my story and all of the eyes in the room went WIDE.
“Sarah,” she said. “I think you got molested.”
AND I TIPPED HIM FOR IT. Bastard.
So How Much Do You Tip for a Happy Ending?
Alternate Title: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BRYAN!
I went on Tuesday for a post-race massage, and when I made my appointment, they asked if I would prefer a male or female masseuse. Guess what I said? “It doesn’t matter.” I SAID IT DOESN’T MATTER WHY WOULD I SAY THAT?! I felt like I would be judged as sexist or something if I said I only wanted a woman’s hands on me. I know. I know.
So, of course, they put me with a dude.
I fretted about it all day, and as luck would have it, my dude called in sick and I got a chick instead. I got pretty worried because I saw a very slovenly, obese brunette walk through several times in the spa’s uniform, and I thought, Eww, please no, not her not so much because she was obese but because I thought I knew her and wouldn’t THAT be weird? But a slight little thing with great hair and a fabulous piercing came and got me and took me back.
I opted for a hydrotherapy session before the massage, complete with coconut milk and lavender salts, and the bath had been drawn and waiting for me. I naturally just assumed that I would be bathing alone in the room, but she informed me that, no, she was going to hang out. “But I didn’t bring a top to wear,” I blushed.
“Honey, I have ’em too,” she said, smiling. “Seen it all before.”
And it was awesome that she stayed in the room, because she WASN’T chatty, and instead just applied a cold washcloth to my head and popped a straw of ice water in my mouth without me even having to ask. It was AWESOME. And, literally, the first bath I’ve taken in a year.
During the massage, I was laying face down on the table as she was working my calves (God LOVE that woman’s hands), and she worked my thighs HARD. Her hands were slippery and I started thinking, “Oh God, what if she misses and suddenly she loses a hand in my nu-nu?”, and then I was wondering, “What do I tip for a happy ending?”, and then I was thinking, “Bryan would FLIP OUT if he knew this was happening,” and I started giggling through the little face hole.
She wasn’t deaf, obvsly, so she asked, “Does this tickle?”
All I could do was whisper, “.. that’s what she said..”
Today’s lesbianesque story is brought to you courtesy of Bryan‘s birthday. I hope this works instead of a gift.