With a brand new PR job at a leading investor relations firm in downtown Manhattan, a series of unfinished writing projects screaming for attention, and a year full of great expectations from all around me, I thought a massage a way to go. Glad I did.
“There! Right There! Keep Going…”
I felt the palms rubbing my inner thighs, the fingers repeatedly grazing my skin. The sensation was driving me crazy—I was tempted to give in, but willed myself to get through it, concentrating on taking deep, steady breaths. But I suddenly started writhing—I just couldn’t take it anymore.
“You okay?” the male masseur asked, slightly alarmed.
“Um, nope,” I replied, somewhat embarrassed.
If there was any part about massages that I could do without, it would be the unintentional tickling. I can take the vigorous kneading, the merciless pounding, the excruciating muscle-molding; in fact, I even like it. I’m a bit of masochist that way. Haha. I’m OK with pain. I am just not OK with the tickles. Pain is fine; tickles, torture.
And it wasn’t any different during this massage. I was at a spa in the West Village. I had a GC that was about to expire, and it was the only night that I was free to go in six bloody months. (Hmm, that can’t be right…) My muscles still ached from two straight days of working out, plus a challenging evening at a salsa class. My body was crying out for some magic hands to revive it.
The masseur’s name was Jeff, and I must say, he made sweet music with his hands! He wasn’t the best I ever had, but this massage was memorable because I appreciated that it saved the best for last. Most spas (and I’ve been to over a dozen different spas over the years) would have you lie on your stomach first, then they would work their way from toes to head before asking you to turn over. So my favorite parts (feet and back), sadly, would come at the start. At this last massage, Jeff had me lie on my back first, then he started with my left side, working from toe to shoulder, before getting to work on my right side. Then I turned over. Ahhh. My shoulders appreciated the attention.
A gay man on a mission, Jeff seemed dead set on getting the knots out of me. Amidst the delicious pain, my mind wandered off and started thinking about massages past. There were those non-spa massages. At work someone once gave me a one-minute rubdown while I was busy working. It. Was. Divine. That guy has talent! He cringes as he feels these grainy bits in my muscle—what we can only guess as solidified stress—but I love how a sense of relief washes over me after each agonizing press.
Jeff nished by giving me some heavy, barbero-like chops on my shoulders. As he left, I lay on the futon and sighed contentedly. After catching my breath, I stood up and got dressed. A number of people have told me that they don’t like going to spas because the last thing they want to do after a massage is get out of bed. But I like it. I like how a spa is an escape, a sanctuary that lets me check all my worries at the door. I like lying still for a few minutes when it’s done, invigorated. Reborn. I like the ritual of getting up, putting my clothes on, ready to go back to reality. And I like stepping outside and feeling that, somehow—after the one hour when deadlines and stress are erased from my body—the world suddenly looks like a better place.
Queergam fans --- go get a massage now. It is good for the soul, good for the body, good for the people around you.
“There! Right There! Keep Going…”
I felt the palms rubbing my inner thighs, the fingers repeatedly grazing my skin. The sensation was driving me crazy—I was tempted to give in, but willed myself to get through it, concentrating on taking deep, steady breaths. But I suddenly started writhing—I just couldn’t take it anymore.
“You okay?” the male masseur asked, slightly alarmed.
“Um, nope,” I replied, somewhat embarrassed.
If there was any part about massages that I could do without, it would be the unintentional tickling. I can take the vigorous kneading, the merciless pounding, the excruciating muscle-molding; in fact, I even like it. I’m a bit of masochist that way. Haha. I’m OK with pain. I am just not OK with the tickles. Pain is fine; tickles, torture.
And it wasn’t any different during this massage. I was at a spa in the West Village. I had a GC that was about to expire, and it was the only night that I was free to go in six bloody months. (Hmm, that can’t be right…) My muscles still ached from two straight days of working out, plus a challenging evening at a salsa class. My body was crying out for some magic hands to revive it.
The masseur’s name was Jeff, and I must say, he made sweet music with his hands! He wasn’t the best I ever had, but this massage was memorable because I appreciated that it saved the best for last. Most spas (and I’ve been to over a dozen different spas over the years) would have you lie on your stomach first, then they would work their way from toes to head before asking you to turn over. So my favorite parts (feet and back), sadly, would come at the start. At this last massage, Jeff had me lie on my back first, then he started with my left side, working from toe to shoulder, before getting to work on my right side. Then I turned over. Ahhh. My shoulders appreciated the attention.
A gay man on a mission, Jeff seemed dead set on getting the knots out of me. Amidst the delicious pain, my mind wandered off and started thinking about massages past. There were those non-spa massages. At work someone once gave me a one-minute rubdown while I was busy working. It. Was. Divine. That guy has talent! He cringes as he feels these grainy bits in my muscle—what we can only guess as solidified stress—but I love how a sense of relief washes over me after each agonizing press.
Jeff nished by giving me some heavy, barbero-like chops on my shoulders. As he left, I lay on the futon and sighed contentedly. After catching my breath, I stood up and got dressed. A number of people have told me that they don’t like going to spas because the last thing they want to do after a massage is get out of bed. But I like it. I like how a spa is an escape, a sanctuary that lets me check all my worries at the door. I like lying still for a few minutes when it’s done, invigorated. Reborn. I like the ritual of getting up, putting my clothes on, ready to go back to reality. And I like stepping outside and feeling that, somehow—after the one hour when deadlines and stress are erased from my body—the world suddenly looks like a better place.
Queergam fans --- go get a massage now. It is good for the soul, good for the body, good for the people around you.
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