there’s the rub
(originally posted 9/30/2012)
The first thing that Frank noticed as he entered the room was the smell. Something was not quite right. It has the usual scented-oil smell of a massage room, but behind that lurked another smell that he couldn’t quite place. Whatever it was it made him think of urinal cakes and caused him a moment’s unease. His friend Tim had recommended the ‘massage therapist’ (“whatever happened to the term masseuse?” he wondered to himself) and told him to just relax and just enjoy it. Tim had said it with a small grin so Frank had assumed that whoever he was getting a massage from he could expect some sort of ‘happy ending’. Frank had been going to massage parlors, chiropractors and spas for decades and had tried numerous types of massage. Acupressure, Watsu, Nihon Kaifuku Anma, Lomilomi, Champissage, Ayurvedic Abhyanga… you name it and he’s probably tried it.
“This woman is a little different” is all his friend would say.
The obligatory calming music played lightly in the back ground as his masseuse entered. She was a striking woman no older than her mid-twenties, long blonde hair and the body of a runway model. He could see immediately why his friend has suggested her. He was told to strip down and get under a white sheet in a very business-like way and with that she departed. Soon he was lying on his stomach under the thin blanket and the stiffness in his back had a little company as his masseuse walked back in and shut the door behind her.
She introduced herself as her hands lightly slid up and down Frank’s back. Her name was Greta and she’d been a licensed massage therapist for six years. Originally she had started out learning Proprioceptive Neuromuscular Facilitation techniques, mostly having to do with skeletal alignment, but a trip down to Peru a couple of years back had changed everything. Her hands pressed firmly into his lower back and Frank could feel it loosening under her skilled touch. She then asked him to flip over onto his back and begin breathing deeply in and out as her hands moved across his midsection.
“It was in Peru that I learned a traditional Mayan abdominal massage” she said as her thumbs pushed into Frank’s sides just under his ribcage. “Is this too hard?” she asked as she began working her thumbs downward. “No. I’m ok” Frank said quietly. “Good. Now you may experience a little…” and with that Frank felt a little fart slip out.
He could only imagine how crimson his cheeks must have gotten because Greta immediately told him that it was perfectly fine and that they were no longer in a social setting. They were therapist-patient and that he should just relax and in no way feel embarrassed.
He couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes and look at whatever she was doing, he could only sense the motion and hear the slight rustling noise, but soon her hands returned and clutched his stomach with such force that he could swear she was holding his small intestine in her experienced grip.
“This type of massage dates back to the Norte Chico civilization, way back in the 30th century B.C.” He could hear her breathing now as she worked her hands on his abdomen with a vigor that had his head spinning slightly. “I’m not sure why” she continued, “it’s not more well-known.” A quick squeeze of what Frank could only guess was his colon sent a trumpet-like noise escaping from his ass. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed “I’m so sorry” but her only reply came by way of one of her elbows suddenly driving into his stomach and, before he could control it, a hot stream of fecal matter shooting out of his rectum. “Oh my god!” Frank stammered, his eyes snapping open as he felt the warm wetness grow between his splayed legs. Her hands never left his abdomen and the sight that met his eyes was beyond his ability at that time to process intelligently. Greta… lovely Greta.. standing in front of him wearing what could best be described as some sort of butchers smock and a plastic welders mask. Behind her he thought he could make out a shimmering sheet of Saran Wrap, but before his eyes could focus she pushed her fists together into the region of his large intestine and suddenly a long burst of shit fountained out of Frank and splattered across the front of his ‘masseuse’.
“What the fuck are you doing to me?!” Frank half whimpered, half screamed at her as a long strand of spit clung to his lower lip and stretched down to his naked chest. As if to reply Helga pressed her foot on some unseen device and suddenly Frank felt his lower half slowly rising up. “Please relax Frank. Give me a nice deep breath”.
Frank had no idea if he complied, only that a few seconds later a light tap by Helga on his sternum resulted in him releasing an eruption of crap that sprayed past her head and landed on the walls a good eight feet behind her. A long stream of nonsensical profanity issued from Frank’s lips as he finally felt her hands move away from his gut. Sweat stood out on his forehead as he watched as Helga nonchalantly took down the translucent drop-cloth, remove her smock and headgear and, in a manner which seem to indicate that she found this in no way unusual, deposit the entire bundle in a nearby hamper.
It was only then, as he laid there limply, that Frank realized that he was feeling pretty damned amazing. Part of him expected her to climb up on the table with him and announce “my turn cowboy” but instead she simply took a can of air freshener and quickly gave it a few blasts.
“Throw those towels in the hamper. You’ll find the shower second door on your right down the hall. If you need shower shoes you’ll find them under the table.” With that she left the room.
Now, given the nature of this story, I could easily say almost anything about how it went from there. I could tell you Frank soon traveled to the Supe Valley in Peru and changed his diet to include heaping amounts of guava and pacay… but he didn’t. Just as believable would be that he fell in love with Helga and spent the weeks after his massage pining for her until he finally worked up the courage to ask her out only to be rejected. That too didn’t happen. What did happen you ask? He paid his $150, threw in a $20 tip and never told a soul about what happened that afternoon. Tim, on the other hand, came back to visit Helga once a month until a few years later when he was transferred to another state by his company. A company, as it turns out, that in no way was connected to Peru.