Costanza stealing

Had a massage today.   Only the fourth one I ever experienced.  Which is odd because in the last 20 years of my professional life, I have always had benefits that provided these services at a very minimal cost to me.

I carry a lot of tension in my neck and shoulders.  To the point where turning to my left is easier if I turn my whole body instead of my neck.  Anyway, back to the massage.  When I originally booked it yesterday, John was available at 3:30pm, I agreed and then immediately made up some bullshit excuse as the idea of John touching me for an hour was not too appealing.  So I booked the following day with Sheila at 12:30pm.  Now if this sounds immature, it’s because it is.  Due to my lack of massage experience, or my general idiocy, I equate massages with something intimate and potentially sexual.  I have no history of either happening, but when someone is rubbing warm oil over 80 per cent of my body; my immediate thought is to go for the female.

I have no expectations of anything remotely sexual happening, I am with a RMT, not Suki who works the night shift at the Blue Water Spa on Yonge Street.  Needless to say, with lights low, dolphins playing harps on the Ipod in the background, the rooms does reek of something sensual.  Sue me, as mentioned earlier, I’m an idiot.

Now no offense to Sheila, she was a perfectly attractive massage therapist in her early to mid thirties, with an affable and engaging personality, generally interested in solving my neck and shoulder tension.  Thing is, she simply was not strong enough.  I asked her to be as aggressive as she wanted and I could gauge through her grunts and groans (and constantly sniffing, cokehead or cold, either way, grab a fucking Kleenex) that she was exhausting her strength trying to grind out the kinks and knots riddled up my neck, shoulders and spine.

Massage therapy for women is a tough gig.  You probably get a lot of pervs making jokes about happy endings and random boners pup tenting the sheets and blankets they provide. Shelia was thorough, professional, caring and just a nice woman.  But, in this case, I needed someone with very strong hands to knead my shoulders, thumb my neck, and while a perfectly pleasant experience (warm oil rubbed into your skin?  Please.) I still feel the tightness in the area and wish I didn’t.

Moral of the story for me?  Stick with John at 3:30.  So what if it moves.

ooooh an actual segue!

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During the work week, at around 3:30 in the afternoon, Tim starts to get tired.  It usually begins in his neck, thick muscles clenching as if he were balancing dictionaries on his head. He stretches his arms skyward and rubs hard with two fingers directly where the muscle in his neck becomes skull, triggering the yawns.  As if he swallowed a pride of lions, his mouth widens, teeth moisten, hot tongue hangs and dances.  His eyes water as his mouth closes and opens like a secret cave.   Back to back to back yawns as he tries to make sense of a corporate blurb he is writing.  Or at least trying to make the text sing as his boss would chirp.

He would say out of the side of his mouth. “I know we are bound by our corp speak, but let’s try and make this one sing ok pal?”

He slams the file shut, forgetting to save.  Save the three whole words he had written.

Why did he seek her out?  Of course he was a bit tired of the stale taste of eight years of marriage. Maybe it was just the offering of sharp language that was keeping his deviancy alive. He enjoyed solid writing and her instructive tone undercut by her own, much quieter longing was compelling. But he should back off. Tip toe away in place of a huffy stomp.  To make it seem like he was never there. Because, deep down, he knows he shouldn’t be.

His response came easier than he thought.

“Sarah, I don’t want to fuck you, I just wanted to fuck with you a little.”

The depressed mouse button felt hot against the tip of his finger.  It was as if his grin was doing the typing.

****