February 15, 2005

Lots to Say, Part II: Peek A Boo

I've had many a massage in my life (and No, none of them with a happy ending. Perverts.) Yesterday I decided to rack another one up, if not solely because I refuse to let Valentine's Day pass without a man touching my naked body. Yeah, I'm a hopeless romantic.
I went to my
usual spa , owned and operated by a guy I used to date. My masseur was an unfeasibly attractive Russian by the name of Max. It was, quite possibly, one of the best massages I have ever had in my life. Max, bless his heart, moved with a lover's touch and a revenge fuck's strength and dedication to the cause. By the time he was finished, I could barely move.
Now, as I said, I have had many a massage in my lifetime, all of them in the nude. I am perfectly comfortable being naked in the presence of a professional, and never have I had any Costanza-esque "It Moved" issues.
Until Max, while I was lying on my stomach, decided that I could stand to lose the customary towel covering my arse and spent a good 10 minutes "working my gluts". Not that I was not enjoying it, but there are really very few things in this world more awkward than having a complete stranger rubbing your bare ass.
I rolled over, now staring directly at said hot Russian while he started massaging my abs. And rolled the towel back just far enough so that certain ends of certain appendages were exposed to the air and his ever southward-bound hands.
I have never been that tense during a massage in my life. It was a full minute before I realized that I had my eyes squeezed shut and was actually whispering to myself "Grandma. Dead Kittens. Janet Reno. James Gandolfini Pole Dancing."
And no, he wasn't heading downtown. Apparently Max is much more comfortable with my nude body than I am.


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