How's the Pressure?

I made an appointment for a massage at my usual place and had been looking forward to it for weeks. I hurt my shoulder a few years ago playing rugby (so I can actually say it’s on old football injury) and find that it really helps to get one every month or so. Especially now that I am in job that seems to have permanently shortened my neck due to stress.

The massage started off well enough, a respectable combination of new age feel goodery, Chakra points, and hurts- so- good pressure. That was the first three minutes. Things began to go south when I felt my masseuse braiding my shoulder length hair. She then stepped away from the table and pulled on my hair as though it were rope. That went on for about seven tugs, until she began to physically move south. Now, I have had many massages in my day, but I have never had a masseuse get as close to my lady parts as this woman did. As her hands moved vigorously in and out between my thighs, my eyes open saucer wide and my thoughts vacillate between simply slapping her hands away or, to really make a statement, clamping my thighs together so as to break a couple of her digits.

“My you are so tense,” she says to me, as she continues the absolute torturous rubdown. Funny how being fondled can make one tense up, I think to myself. She continues moving down to my feet and then back up to my shoulders, where she slapped me around till I bruised. “How is the pressure?” she asks, as she digs the pointy tip of her elbow into my sensitive fleshy back. “Oh fine,” I squeak, not wanting to seem wimpy and weak. However, just as I begin to think that the CIA could really use this woman down in Gitmo, she stops. Our time is up. Tears of joy wet my eyes. Or maybe they were just tears from having had the shit beat out of me while being mildly molested. And then paying for it.

I left with a stiff neck and sore shoulders and though I was able to wash off the massage oil and the shame, this was definitely not a happy ending.