This past Friday I had a first; I went to a spa for a full body massage. I thought it would be a nice idea to treat myself. It had been a stressful first week after my promotion.
I show up to the day spa for my appointment, am led into a small room that just barely fit the table, and am instructed to take off my clothes and get under the towel.
So far this is pretty much what I expected. At least, from what I have seen in movies and TV.
Maria, the message therapist, comes in and introduces herself. Do I want soft, medium or hard? If the room gets too cold, let her know. Got it, good.
Candles burning, soft musak playing, she turns down the towel a bit, starts rubbing my back and..... my ass. Wait - am I being violated? No. But I am rather surprised with the amount of ass rubbing involved in massage. Ironically I am more uptight at first from the intimacy that Maria and I are sharing than when I came into the spa. Okay, breathe, get past the buttocks rubbing.
Relax, inhale, exhale. Okay, I'm cool, stress is going away.
Crap, I have to fart. Don't do it, it's a small room and this woman is bent over my ass. Must. Hold. It. In. Oh, and the clenching promotes more ass rubbing. Moment passes, I can relax.
Suddenly my often inhibited bowels are not feeling so inhibited. Great, as regular function sometimes I don't have to crap for days, and now the grumbling and cramping begins. Seems all the rubbing has stimulated my lazy colon.
Lord god is it almost over? Please please move on to my legs already! Whew, she moves to my legs.
The rest of the massage goes off without a hitch. She does my legs, I turn over, she does my legs more, my arms, my shoulders...and done. I thank Maria, tip her, pay and leave very rubbery and smelling of vanilla.
I don't think I am a spa kinda gal. I may have changed a lot, but I'll still take a Guinness over a massage.
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