Jacqueline knocked tentatively on the office door, only to have it fall open under her knuckles. Just inside there was a reception desk and she read a message in block letters asking clients to make themselves at home in the lobby, the massage therapist would be out soon.
The waiting room was small and cozy. It looked like a room from the show Trading Spaces. A mix of Pier 1 and garage sale furniture had been painted and distressed and accessorized to resemble a South American parlor. The walls were all soothing shades of brown set off by a big mosaic mirror over the cushioned waiting bench. Jacqueline walked over slowly, pausing to examine herself as she approached. She was tired. Could you see it on her face? Job, kids and freelance writing were taking up at least 18 hours of each day. How long before a six hour sleep regimen started to take a physical toll? She was exhausted and on the cusp of feeling burned out. Also, her hair was suffering. After the wet run through the parking lot her brown wavy locks were taking a shape that could only be referred to as "1980's camp counselor". The pale white of her skin, at least, was clear and healthy. As usual, she had forgotten lip stick, so she settled for some gloss from a tube in her purse. Not that it mattered, soon she would be buried face first on a table. Ah, but it was going to feel so good.
Jacqueline generally had about one massage in a year, and boy, was this the ideal time to have jumped on a Groupon and scheduled an appointment. She had been waiting all day at work, almost glad at each shoulder twinge, knowing that ninety minutes of paradise would follow this evening.
The door opened and a man emerged. Ah, yes, she'd forgotten she'd selected a man masseuse (man-sseus?) for her appointment. She'd only had women before. But so often they rubbed lightly and Jacqueline hated to give too much instruction to her massage therapist...after all, it was their art. They should know how to make work out knots and such. A man's hands would feel good though, stronger and bigger. And hey, that couldn't be bad!
"You must be Jacqueline. I'm Patrick," He was a nice looking man. Tall, without being towering. A neat, trimmed beard in dark brown. Square, black glasses. He looked kind of sporty and nerdy at the same time. She thought he was about her age, definitely no more than forty. He wore casual clothes, a long sleeve white T and black sweat pants.
He was kind of hot. Is that weird, she wondered? She'd kind of assumed he'd be a doughy gay guy.
"Did you fill out your intake forms?" he asked. She said no, that she hadn't been able to print them from the website. He went behind the counter and came back with a clipboard and a couple of forms. "Fill these out, I'll be back in a few minutes."
He left her alone with the form. It seemed ridiculously in-depth. She wondered if all this was really necessary for a little squeezing from a stranger. They probably didn't even read it. For fun she began to fill in the fields will all sorts of silly stuff. After filling out "being awesome" under occupation, she came to a section that asked "What do you want out of this massage?" and "What areas do you want your masseuse to pay extra attention to?"
Patrick was moving around in the office and heard her muffled laugh. "Do you need anything?" he asked.
"Yeah, an additional piece of paper, I'm just getting started on the answers to these essay questions."
He grinned at her. "Maybe you should just tell me and we'll get started."
"Welllll, I guess I just want the best massage you can give. I work at a desk, I write on my laptop in extremely un-ergonomic situations. I sling small children. I'm just vaguely sore all over and need a good, hard rubbing."
Whoa, that sounded kind of dirty. But before she could rephrase, Patrick set her at ease, opening the client door and ushering her into a lit room at the end of the hall. No other therapists appeared to be working this late.
Inside the small massage room was the requisite skinny table and iPod docking station releasing some pan flute into the incense scented air. Patrick must have noticed her pause because he asked, "Is this music okay with you?"
"It's okay," she assured him. "I just keep thinking David Carradine is about to burst in and start kicking some ass."
Patrick quickly crossed to the device and found a new soundtrack. Something Brazillian, to match the décor. She liked it a lot better and thanked him.
"Go ahead and undress, I'll be right back," he told her. "There's a bench right there you can put your clothes on. Lie down on the table on your stomach."
Jacqueline complied. He hadn't said to undress to her panties, but she figured that was pretty standard. Knowing someone was going to be seeing her naked body, she had done some grooming in the shower this morning. Legs were shaved, moisturized. She wore some utilitarian, but nice, black panties that tied in little bows on the side. Her iron maiden of a bra was thankfully cast off and hidden beneath her cobalt blue jersey top on the bench.
Sliding between the crisp white sheets, she sighed as she found them heated, and arranged a pillow under her shins. A moment later Patrick entered the room and turned the lights low. He didn't talk much, not the way women masseuses tended to. It was kind of a relief. Whenever she talked to a person Jacqueline felt compelled to entertain them and this was a nice break from trying to quick and witty. Patrick didn't ask about her tattoos as he folded the sheet back to reveal her full back. He didn't even seem to pause to examine the scene of frolicking fairies across her side and lower back.
Instead he set his big hands at the base of her spine and began to work his way up the long muscles to each side. Circles, hard. Pausing, probing. It was almost invasive but in a good way. Soon she let out an involuntary moan as he pulled his thumbs along each skein of muscle, smoothing and stretching. "Oh my god, that's so good," she praised him.
He didn't reply, but gave her a little squeeze of thanks. Soon he moved down and was driving what felt like an elbow into the center of her butt cheek. So good, so good, she chanted in her head. He lifted her leg and tucked the sheet under it artfully. He rubbed her calf and her feet and finally her thigh. She told herself it was silly to tense up a little when he got near junction of her legs, just beneath the sheet barrier. She was just a body. He was probably picturing her without skin, just mapping her muscles and tendons in a much repeated routine. He was not going to touch her muffin.
However, that type of thing did happen, right? At least with men. She had seen parlors that looked suspect many times. Red Dragon Relaxation, read a sign next to her favorite dive restaurant. The hours were 8 pm to 2 am. That was a place where men went for hand jobs, obviously. But the practice seemed more prevalent than that. She wondered how a man would initiate that with a masseuse. Wouldn't he run the risk of offending a young, earnest lady masseuse with his pervy suggestions? Were there a lot of non-verbal signals, perhaps? Was it a code word that went on the form?
"ooooh!" she squealed a little when he tucked the sheet under her to reach her left leg. His fingers had definitely grazed...not her vagina, exactly, but near enough. He patted the sheet a little, too, and it felt almost like a caress. But a moment later he was back to his deep tissue ministration, running the ball of his thumb firmly up the front of her shin bone. It felt really good.
