Three days ago I gave my first massage to a fully nude male, Big Mike. As we all know, I had some small problems with my draping and caught a very large glimpse of Big Mike junk.
Wednesday, Big Mike decided to return the favor by using me as the class massage dummy to demonstrate some deep tissue techniques.
Now, when I think of massage, I think of something that ends with me feeling like rainbows, kittens, and pure pixie stix sugar (just as a side note here, there used to be a family where Husband went to church whose mom wouldn’t let them have sugar so on Sundays, he would provide them with pixie stix. Just like their drug dealer. Hey, little boy. Can I interest you in a sweet, sweet sugar high?).
Dear Big Mike,
I know this is deep tissue but I don’t do pain. Please don’t hurt me.
Thank you, Erin
This brings up the one scripture in the Book of Mormon I don’t like – the one in 2 Nephi where Lehi says that there must be opposition in all things and that if you never know good you can never know bad.
Dear Lehi,
Really, dude? I’ve already had enough pain in life. I mean, I’ve had my tonsils out, had a nail through my foot, and had several paper cuts. Plus I never got an EZ Bake Oven when I was little even though I asked for it for at least twelve years and Amber Krenka got one and I didn’t. Don’t you think I’ve suffered enough? Please pass this along to the Suffering Committee up there in Heaven.
Kindly, Erin
Big Mike apparently doesn’t understand what I mean when I say that I don’t do pain because he went ahead and did what he calls, “pressure point release”. To me, it felt more like a slow and painful death accompanied by me squealing and Big Mike laughing maniacally while I passed in and out of consciousness.
It hurt so bad I literally came all the way up off the table. I flashed Big Mike with all the parts that have only been seen by my mama and Husband. And all the hundreds of Japanese ladies that were at the numerous Japanese onsens I visited even though I don't really like to count them.
I figure that pretty much makes Big Mike and me even. Show me yours and I'll show you mine. But totally not on purpose.
3 comments:
I never got an easy bake oven either. My mom thought they were too messy. We are both really deprived.
Once when we were in Vegas I did have a massage a guy named Walmer (think Ray Romano's brother & at least 6'7"). He may have caught a glimpse but, no jumping off the table.
I just bought Isabelle an easy bake at a garage sale because I didn't get one either! I'm obviously still scarred.
Diana, I don't know you, but we may have had the same massage guy (although mine was in Arizona) -- I swear he was like Andre the Giant and I felt the size of a hobbit. I think I asked him to lighten up on the massage, but it didn't help -- I was too scared to ask again. As the daughter of a chiropractor I know all about pressure point therapy -- which I totally love the end result but not so much the pain (good pain) involved to get the end result.
I'm very sorry about the easy bake oven trauma. I was one of the lucky ones to get one (avocado green no less -- this was the '70s after all). It would have been a great hardship to go without -- although I only have a memory of doing it a time or two...
Post a Comment