I was like, the Lilliputians must have at least been tempted to jump on his gross scurvy back and wrench his limbs into a weird crucified phoenix position, while they had him tied up and submissive, Rite? Maybe? His vitamin-C deprived derma was probably sloughing off like hot lava. Maybe that was why, if not. He would have felt like this, I bet.
Having paid the fee, I was now being ushered into a dark space rendered into a room by a series of carefully hung blanket-walls, ordered with minimal use of speech to disrobe and step into these terribly spacious Thai Fisherman pants. No top? A’ight. She doesn’t care what my breasts look like, probably sees thousands of droopy white boobs every day. Still, I carefully tucked them under my ribcage when I laid down, which was of course mildly painful.
That one part of the form I filled out where I had to specify if I had breast implants or not is suddenly tap-dancing around en neon in my brain. So gross to have to massage fake boobs. Are you even supposed to? Tupperware cereal bowls rolling around on top of a ribcage. Whoa.
OK. I settled into what I assumed was The Position, face down, with my arms and legs splayed into what I thought was an useful system. My feet were sticking out under the “door”, which was initially embarrassing, then comforting as I remembered a similar quandary in preschool during my first naptime, when my feet hung off the cot and I felt primarily embarrassed, then sort of conceived clearly for the first time in a public context that I Was a Giant in This World.
She stepped in and started making these funny admonishing noises as she adjusted me, lifting my giant limbs with both of her arms, grunting slightly with exertion, shoving them into a more appropriate strata for her purpose. I couldn’t see her, didn’t once see her, but felt her tiny muscular limbs lifting my hilarious insect ones with sturdy dutifulness. I kept trying to help her and she would bat me away and say Sh sh sh sh. I was like Oh Sorry and laughing like an idiot, but quietly, as the dude next door was also getting his body Werked. He was groaning in a totally sexual and obviously contrived way, which was one of those cliche massage house moments where you’re like OH THAT GUY.
It was this surreal hour of her climbing on my back, lifting, pulling, shushing, pushing, punching, and I’m thinking about how laughable it is to think about breathing deep when a person is punching you in the kidneys, being simultaneously humbled by her deft skillz.
“BE HERE NOW”
I kept wondering if she thought I was ridiculous, looking like a giant albina Praying Mantis all folded up and dumb under her grip.
There was this one moment where I heard a CLASH CLANG sound that sounded like an elderly person’s medical walker being placed directly over my head, and I opened my eyes and realized that my head was totally caged in by an elderly person’s medical walker. I close my eyes and try to suppress my general uneasiness re:Medical Objects thru beach visualization and before I can do that successfully, she grabs the handles and walks onto my bony back, steps on with both feet. Kind of just hopped on like I was The Bus. I thought it would hurt but it was total Xcstacy. Tiny feet, slipping in between my crooked vertebrae with totally chill choreography.
She jumped off and said “OK” pretty loud and left and it was over and I’m just lying there face down in my drool, Fisherman pants somehow around my neck, full-body tingle, brining in Tiger Balm. Got up in a Daze and put my clothes back on, bra inside-out, Obvi., and hustled back thru the dark hallway by myself, accompanied by a varietal salad of weird air-expelling sounds Made By Dudes.
There were a few ladies sitting behind the desk when I left, and I was feeling intensely shy about looking into their faces to figure out which one of them had done that to me. Just another creepy dude post-session, slinking out the door, thinking about fake boobs.