I’m not sure if I just have horrible luck or perhaps am more in tune to noticing when strange things occur. (I can be quite observant!) Regardless, I have way more stories about massages than, I would guess, most people. Why, you may ask, do I continue to get them a few times a year? Ummmm … because they feel AWEsome. That’s why.
Also, as I’ve gotten older I’ve realized the only way to ensure human contact on my never-touched-by-strangers regions is to pay someone to touch them. Sigh.
My first massage experience was when I was 13. My best friend celebrated her birthday with me and our other two best friends at a nearby salon. Her mom let us pick any service we wanted!!! I was in quite the conundrum of what to choose. Unfortunately, I grew up in a house with one of the most unfrilly Moms around. My mom doesn’t like shopping, doesn’t wear makeup, doesn’t paint her nails and up until just recently had never stepped foot in a “spa.”
My one friend and I opted for massages. I was led to a dimly lit room with soft, soothing music piping out from invisible speakers. The room smelled of lavender. I felt like such a lady!
My molester … I mean, my massage specialist informed me I could disrobe “to my comfort level” and climb under the blanketed cot. I was 13 so naturally I left my underwear on. Hell, I may have even left on my bra. At that age I was awkward and not yet comfortable with my body. Not as comfortable as, say, a 31-year-old alcoholic may be.
I believe the last time I got a massage I informed the massage therapist that she didn’t have to leave the room when I changed and told her no sheet would be necessary. Then I spread my legs apart and showed her the strange rash developing on my labia minora.
Ok, again, being dramatic, but there is quite a difference in comfort levels at 13 and 31!
As she began to rub out the non-existent stress in my yet-to-have-any-actual-responsibility back, she started to work her way down to my lower back. I am being lulled to a state of relaxation.
As I am dreamily fantasizing about being asked out by the current 8th grade stud of the moment, “Perhaps to dinner at Applebee’s…hmmm, they have such a good Oreo shake…and fries…mmm,” when suddenly I am jarred from this fantasy as I feel my underwear being ripped down.
My butt cheeks clamped together like a nutcracker on a walnut. What the hell was going on? My rapist then started kneading my clenched butt checks like a baker taking out her frustration on pizza dough.
Having no idea what a real massage entailed I was thinking this was part of it? I wasn’t very comfortable, hadn’t found my real voice yet, so I just let my ass be pummeled like any good girl should.
I was relieved when she finally lost interest in my derriere, whipped my underwear back over my tired booty and told me to flip over.
As she was working on my left arm she began to ask me about my “accident.”
“What accident?” I responded cautiously.
“Well,” my molester haughtily retorted, “it’s clear you’ve fractured or seriously dislocated this arm before. What was it? A car accident? Bike accident? What?”
“I’ve never been in a car accident before,” I stammered, scared as she started to get more aggressive with my virgin epidermis.
“No. You’ve had an accident. I can tell!” she responded.
Seriously lady. There is about to be an accident in about 5 seconds. This accident will involve me urinating all over your stupid cot in your stupid lavender-smelling room with the stupid music that sounds like I just dropped into a cave of bumblebees and Native Americans.
When I rejoined my friends apparently my face was drained of color and I refused to talk about the massage. I think it was not until about an hour later over pie slices at Bakers’ Square that I came clean about my molester/massager pulling down my underwear and massaging my butt.
“Did your lady do that to you?” I asked my friend, my eyes filled with hope.
“No way! Ew!” she responded as she wrinkled her nose in disgust.
To this day my friend’s Mom still talks about the “incident” at the salon and feels terrible about my first molestation experience being under her watch and her dime.
If you are a massage therapist working on a 13-year-old girl who leaves her underwear on, do NOT rip them off. Do not even go close to her pubescent butt.
Do. Not. Go. There.
This will freak her out for several years.
I repeat: Pulling down the underwear of a 13-year-old girl will FREAK. HER. OUT.
I did not go for another massage until about 15 years later. And, of course, trouble ensued….
To Be Continued