I'm a regular corporate job IT worker. I sit behind the computer half the day and in pointless meetings the other half. My boss thinks of himself as the good guy for handing out movie tickets as a bonus. At the same time, he forgets to tell me that my project has been canceled. I find out when I schedule the show and tell presentation, and nobody shows up. Our company creates protocols for network switches, which I guess most readers have no clue what they are.
So I live a pretty average frustrated life. Wednesdays, I take a longer lunch break to make it down to the Hampton strip mall for a massage. You know massage reduces anxiety and improves self-esteem. Those are things the modern male has to worry about. In between Benny's Tacos and Ever Clean Dry Cleaner, there is a little glass door to a low cost massage place. The waiting area with cheap office carpet is tiny. There are two blue plastic chairs and three people standing. They are scrawny middle aged moms who really need a massage. There is the odd potbellied, male city services blue collar worker who feels out of place but very open minded about trying it. We all try not to touch each other, not breathe too loudly, and find an unoccupied spot to stare at without actually seeming like we are staring. So, we need a secondary spot to switch back-and-forth between, so that it seems like we are totally comfortable.
It's $40 for an hour. I wouldn't waste money on a luxury of over $100 for an hour of feeling nice. So the place has to be super-efficient. The college girl behind the counter is talking on the phone and berating an older customer for not tipping enough at the same time. A skinny massage therapist, who is evidently new, looks scared to interrupt the receptionist to find out who her next client is. An older tall male therapist behind her pushed the skinny massage therapist aside to take the center of the waiting room to bark out: "Who's here for Lorenz?"
I try to stay out of the fray of massage therapists and clients pairing up on the hour. Having a very noble attitude, I never ask for a female therapist. I try to let chance pick the therapist and be non-discriminating. There is a constant turn-over because most freshly graduated massage therapists realize that the profession isn't for them. So I don't have to worry much about getting the same dud twice if the therapist turns out to be a dud. Despite all the knightly nobility, my heart always hopes for a cute girl, a warm hearted hippie girl that makes you feel like running barefoot through a field of wild flowers hand-in-hand with her.
That day was a good day. When only rubble was left in the waiting room and a mindless Styrofoam cup on the floor, a short, slim, young white girl called out my name. She wore a causal t-shirt with a big print and workout pants. We walked down the dimly lit hallway with many doors leading into therapy rooms. The therapy rooms were all the same. They were tiny. The massage table didn't even fit in straight. It was diagonally in the room. The door didn't open fully. I kind of had to squeeze myself past the padded foam to get into an open enough space. There was soft music playing from a cheap radio alarm clock. A candle was flickering in the corner. Ah, this was going to be my sanctuary for the next hour from the stress at work. I had survived the parking lot fight to get a spot and the waiting room. I would be able to zone out.
When Angie flicked her finger casually, actually with almost a lack of respect, for me to undress and lie down, I knew something was different with that new girl. Her hand flick felt like a South Central hood rat telling someone: "Yo, slam it down there!" It was very differently from the New Age caring -- "Oh my god, has your aura been bruised by the world?" attitude. There was no concerned question about any areas on my body that might bother me. I kind of liked it. I'm not at all a submissive person who yearns to be bossed around to clean the toilet. However, there was a freshness and direct connection in that. It felt like a wakeup call. Hey, someone is breaking the veneer of the soft elevator music of everyday veneer. She is going to interact with you in a way that's new and keeps you on your toes.
While I undressed with her outside the door, I wondered what kind of massage it would be. I suspected that she didn't have a lot of training and rather fell into it with minimal training. It probably wasn't going to be a high quality massage, but when one gets a massage, the body listens with 100% attention to every touch. The accidents or mistakes sometimes provide the most interesting sensations to feel.
I raised my head out of the face basket on the table to call out that I was ready and under the sheets. The paper towel for hygiene reasons on the face basket was already sticking to my forehead and making a mess. That's what you get for $40 massage. But once I'd close my eyes and feel her hands on my back, there wouldn't be any difference between a high end massage place and this. I was being smart with my money.
Angie walked in. She ripped the sheets of my back AND butt. I nearly jumped off the table for the panic of exposing my butt. I clutched hard to the table instead. A second thought of panic reminded me to keep my groin to the table to hide my penis. My heart was beating frantically. I felt oil being poured over my back, that cold wet sensation. She didn't warm up the oil between her hands. Her small hands pushed down my back. She acted like this was normal.
I remembered that different places have different draping methods. A couple years ago, at another place someone had once explained to me that the sheet down the butt wasn't a big deal because nothing was really visible. It's an old style that died out because obviously American society is rather prude. So, I started relaxing and focusing on my breathing. This was simply a rare thing. I think she hasn't done more than a weekend course in massage. That was probably the only thing they had taught her.
As I relaxed into the strokes, my mind turned gooey. There is that mental space where you think you pay attention to every stroke to soak up the deliciousness, but you are also so out of it that you don't realize when you fall asleep in between and wake up without realizing. I did like that sensation of my bare butt sticking out. It was daring. It was a little sexual under the radar. I was with a young and pretty cute girl in the same room and my butt was out. I tried to remember her look. Her hair was black. She had a trim belly and round boobs lifted by a bra. The workout pants weren't skin tight. They were a bit loose, just a little imagination of how easily she could slip in and out of them with what looked a pretty tight and round butt.
"Flip," she called out like a waitress calls an order into the kitchen.
Where was the gentle touch and soothing voice of "It's time to turn over" and the gentle lift of the sheet to give me room to wiggle my way onto my back?
My butt was sticking out naked! If I'd turn, my dick would be in plain sight. I thought she'd help me with the sheet. She didn't. I could sense her standing back and watching me. I panicked a little on what to do. Then I realized that it was all up to me. My hands struggled to reach low enough to get the edge of the sheet. Flailing hands behind my back like a person in handcuffs, barely mobile, I got the sheet up to my lower back.
"Oh," she called out like she had made a big mistake. There was such depth to her oh that it fully acknowledged the predicament of the situation. But no hands came to help me.
So I struggled like a beetle on its back to keep the sheet over me without throwing it to the side as I turned. I had to scooch down on the table at the same time. Being so out of it from the massage, I could have believed in being able to travel through time as well. On my back, I had pinned the sheet with a butt cheek. I was yanking on it to get it out. And she was watching me, not the slightest motion to help me.
