An Anecdotal Life

You want to do WHAT?!

         Last Valentine's Day, my adorable and deeply loving boyfriend decided to get me a gift certificate to a local spa on the beach. I had never been to a spa in my life, and it was somewhat intimidating to think of--the strict Austrian masseuses (massusi?...masseusers?...massage people) pounding me until my ribs cracked, a gossipy blond woman in a frizzy ponytail chomping on a fist-sized wad of gum while she painted my toenails Ditzy Pink, the dozens of perfectly toned other women lounging about in their skivvies in the sauna while I tried in vain to make the two-inch-square towel stay wrapped around my pudgy body. But I was game, and it was such a sweet gesture that I couldn't turn it down.

         I put it off for quite a bit until finally, one summer day with nothing better to do and no work until the evening, I decided to close my eyes and jump.

         The spa was a luxurious place in the midst of an even more luxurious beach housing complex. As my beat up little Mazda puttered past the guard gate, I felt conspicuously like a fraud. Lexuses (Lexi?...for god's sake) and Mercedes and Jags abounded in the vast parking lot that led up to the buildings. I parked my vehicle next to a workman's van to try to keep from standing out too badly and hoped I got done before he finished his repair jobs.

         The inside of the spa building was cool and very Mediterranean, with large-tiled floors and glass walls. Potted plants obscured any views that might be less than sightly, like those of the light switches or the trash cans. A large woman in a tiny bikini flip-flopped past me, a towel slung over her shoulder and her nose in the air as she swung the door to the reception office open.

         "I'm ready for my treatment now," she announced haughtily. I bit my lip to keep from laughing, somewhat afraid that her valet might appear from behind a potted palm and rap me in the forehead with a silver spoon.

         Apparently, her "treatment" was a spray-on tan of some sort, for which she required a gentleman spa worker person to remove that teeny-tiny bikini and turn her every few seconds. Feeling quite sorry for the man, who took one look at the Bikini Queen and grimaced, I gave him a gentle smile and stepped up to the desk myself.

         "Er, I'm here for a massage," I said with somewhat less dignity and assurance than the previous customer. The receptionist smiled anyway and tapped at her computer until my name came up.

         "Of course. I see that you have a credit left on your gift certificate after the cost of the massage. Would you like to purchase something while you wait?" She eyed the amount of the credit. "A bottle of nail polish, perhaps?"

         I smothered a laugh. "No, thank you. I'll just use it as a tip, if you don't mind."

         "Oh, yes, that would be fine," she cooed, happy to not have to figure out if a single bottle of nail polish could be covered.

         I read a magazine blindly for a while, watching the ebb and flow of rather fantastic looking customers through the reception lobby. Every last one of them had used hair color at some point, and it looked like they were all in various stages of the Bikini Queen's tanning treatment. Most of them, I noticed, wore a great quantity of jewelry. I fingered the single silver chain that I always wore about my neck and ridiculously felt like running back home to adorn every last thing in my jewelry box. It still wouldn't be enough, I decided after a bit, and settled back to wait.

         A handsome young man named Derek came to get me after a moment. Apparently Derek was going to be the one to "attend to my needs." It was nearly enough to make me balk, but I put one foot in front of the other and mentally lashed myself for being afraid of a male masseuse. He was probably very nice, and this seemed like an exceptionally professional place. It would be fine.

         Derek took me to the door of the women's changing room and handed me a towel, a pair of white sandals, and a bathrobe.

         "You can change in here. Your room will the last one on the left down this hall." He smiled at me and waited for me to go and do his bidding.

         I blinked at him. "Change what?"

         "Your clothes," he said, blinking back. "Your robe is in there, don't worry."

         Don't worry, my ass, I thought, glaring at Derek's back as he headed down to the room. I turned on my heel and went into the dressing room, peeking around every corner for anyone hidden in the wings, waiting to fling open a door once I was fully disrobed.

         No such incident occured, so it was with a much lighter frame of mind that I tucked my sundress and undergarments into the locker, tightened the belt of the robe around my waist, and tiptoed down the hall to Derek. The wee white sandals they had given me were nice, but far too small for my size nines. I hoped he wouldn't notice that I was carrying them.

         Derek was fiddling with some sort of stereo system when I came in. He smiled encouragingly at me and nodded toward the bed in the middle of the room as he adjusted the volume and dimmed the lights.

         "Just go ahead and take off your robe, make yourself comfortable. I'll be right back." He stepped out and discreetly shut the door behind him, leaving me in semi-darkness, surrounded by lightly scented candles, an odd little rocky waterfall in one corner, and what sounded suspiciously like mood music pouring gently from the overhead speakers.

         It struck me then what Derek had said before disappearing on his mysterious mission. NAKED?! In a raring fine panic, I flung my robe onto the door hook, threw myself face down onto the bed, and yanked the sheet all the way to my ears (which is quite an awkward thing to do face-down). I had just managed to regulate my breathing again when Derek returned, a bottle of something-or-other in his hand.

         "Is this your first massage?" he asked pleasantly, clearly already aware of the answer. I peeked up at him through my hair, which had fallen over my face. I didn't dare move to clear my vision, however; something might pop out without my consent.

         "Um, yes." I tried a smile, but I doubt he could see it. I could see some general motion on his behalf, and then he was beside me, his hands on the sheet by my ears.

         "Oh! Well, then you're in for a treat. Just relax, let me do all the work, and enjoy yourself." And then he pulled the sheet back. I successfully refrained from punching him in the nose by gripping the bottom sheet tightly in my fists. I had formulated a plan in my mind just in case he thought he needed to pull that sheet all the way off: rise up and scream like a banshee, kick him in the head, grab the robe, and run for the car.

         He stopped, however, at the curve of my rear-end, leaving quite a bit more skin than I was absolutely comfortable with exposed for all the world to see. He disappeared for a moment, then returned and laid his hands on my shoulders.

         "This is a special oil that we formulate here..." While he droned on in his detail about how wonderful the spa was, I closed my eyes and tried desperately hard to relax. It never occurred to me that relaxing is all about not trying. Eventually, however, Derek's oil-slicked hands (apparently that's what he'd gone to get) and the terrible music from above soothed me enough to allow the massage to soak in. And it was actually quite lovely.

         "So, why'd you decide to get a massage now?" he asked after a while, having moved on to my legs. I had been a bit scandalized when he pulled the sheet all the way up and tucked it under my pelvis, but he was light and efficient, and I was thoroughly relaxed from the back massage anyway, so I let it slide. I'd remember to kick him in the head some other time.

         "My boyfriend gave it to me as a gift," I explained contently, purring as he rubbed the inside of my knee.

         "Oh. You have a boyfriend."

         I arched a brow into the little face donut that my head was resting on and hoped that admission wouldn't result in a massage of doom.

         "Yes, a very thoughtful one. He's going to school up north and couldn't be here, so he sent me a gift certificate."

         "Oh! He's up north." The rubbing continued and I went back to purring. Once both legs were satisfyingly noodle-like, I figured that the session would be over. I had only signed up for 45 minutes, after all.

         It was with not a little shock that I realized Derek's wonderful little hands were on my not-so-wonderful little tush. I stared at the floor through my face donut, feeling my blush starting in my posterior and heading straight for the back of my neck.

         Derek's demeanor remained nonchalant as he massaged that delicate location, nearly cheerful in the way he tucked the sheet out of the way and retucked it when he was done. To be honest...it kind of felt, well...good.

         "Enjoying yourself so far?" he asked brightly, moving somewhere away from me. I flapped my mouth a bit, like a fish out of water, and must have managed to make some affirmative noise in the meanwhile because he piped up again, "Oh, good."

         The towel was being replaced up around my shoulders and down to my toes, bolstering my comfort level a bit. That is, until he told me to roll over.

         "Onto my back?" I asked stupidly, lifting my head to peek at him through the wall of my hair.

         "Yep!" I saw him turn away to do something, probably lather up with some more of that damn oil, and decided that I'd rather do the turning while he wasn't looking. I flipped like a fish, barely rustling the sheet, then made sure I was securely tucked in before fixating my gaze firmly on the ceiling. Derek turned back, his smiling countenance appearing over my head.

         "Ready?" Without waiting for my answer, he headed back down for my legs and tucked the sheet back up under my rump. I was beginning to wonder if perhaps he had a booty-fetish, or perhaps just a top-of-the-thigh fetish...and then I began to imagine him doing his sneaky little rear end massage tactic on the front. I pointed my toes in preparation to kick the bastard in the teeth.

         "Just relax," he cooed, sliding his hands down to my feet to work on them a little more. I melted instantly and decided that perhaps I'd better think up another attack method, just in case, since he was disabling my lower half.

         The other leg got the same treatment, god bless him, and he replaced the sheet to my toes without going any higher. I smiled, feeling much more magnanimous toward the lad. Until he moved up top.

         You see, I have rather, er, large breasts. Double D's, to be exact, which tends to be a bit of an issue on a five-foot-five frame what with being top heavy and all. The Girls tend to like to...move about on their own when not restrained. One of their favorite times to do this is when I would least like them to, of course. Derek, quite innocently, stretched one of my arms up over my head to continue his work. This, however, was just the excuse Girl On The Right needed to leap free of her sheet-ensconsed enclosure.

         Perhaps "leap" is a bit strong of a term. More like sidled. She just eased on out from under that sheet, one wee centimeter at a time, until there she was, in all her worldly glory, and me utterly red from head to toe. Derek, however, had his eyes fixed firmly on my arm and did not seem to notice yet.

         "I'm sorry about the noise," he said as someone on a lawnmower passed the window for the third time in that hour. "They always have the worst timing."

         He glanced up at my face to smile at me, and surely must have seen my quandry, but he said nothing and continued to work obliviously. I closed my eyes so I could roll them without him seeing.

         "No, it's all right," I managed to squeak out, trying surreptitiously to scrunch further into the bed and down so that perhaps the sheet would work itself back up. Nothing doing; Derek used his hold on my arm to pull me back up.

         "Just relax," he repeated his favorite mantra, making me want very much to take a firm hold of his nose and twist.

         "Mm," I grunted, heaving a giant sigh when he finally let go of my arm. Instantly, I dropped it back to my side, using it as a cover to yank the sheet back up with the other hand.

         I began to obey Derek's relaxation order after I was sufficiently covered up and in no immediate danger of having a repeat performance. The instant I did, however, I began to notice a tingling pressure below my waist. I bloody well had to pee.

         The session was only supposed to be 45 to 50 minutes, and I only had about two minutes to go, so I figured I could wait it out and zip back to the ladies room after we were done. Derek, thorough little man that he was, continued for a good thirty more minutes. I was practically writhing in pain by the time he was done and barely gave him a second glance as I yanked the robe on, threw a quick thank you his way, and bolted for the changing room.

         Internal issues abated, I pulled my sundress back on and headed out to the reception area. Derek was standing at the desk, flirting outrageously with a ninety-year-old woman in a mumu. Since I was feeling much more gracious with all my bodily functions relieved, I smiled at him and gave him a more thorough thanks.

         I thanked the receptionist as well, gathered my things and left, the massage oil still slick on my legs. I hadn't thought to take a shower, nobody told me I should, but I only slipped twice on my sandals on the way to the car. And sliding about on any surface I chose to sit on wasn't all that bad, either. I'm a clumsy wee thing, I'm used to catching my balance in a pinch.

         Overall, I was very grateful to Mike for his gift. It was thoughtful and, to some degree, relaxing. But most of all, it made me realize that the massages I got at home--the clumsy, rough, giggly, not-quite-perfect ones--those were better than all the oil-slicked Dereks in all the land. And besides, if you accidently massage a delicate location or something pops out in those instances, you don't have to take violent measures toward your masseuse.

         Just in case, though, this year my man got me roses.