Yet another deal, yet another “spa,” yet another massage.
The spa I went to this time was close to my house. It actually was quite cute and, for all intents and purposes, professional. The receptionist even offered me cucumber-flavored water (yum!) while I patiently waited for my massage therapist.
Now, I have never seen Big Foot in person, but the man who exited the red velvet curtains separating the spa “suites” from the waiting area was probably about the closest thing I have yet to see resemble Mr. Foot. He was maybe 6’7” and weighed 300 pounds. He was a giant. He also had lots of curly, dark hair, which offset his inviting grin.
“Are you Leah?” he pleasantly inquired.
“Leigh,” I corrected.“Yes, that’s me.”
“Oops, sorry about that! My name is Stosh, I’ll be taking care of you today.”
As he shook my hand I felt my small bones being crushed in his bear paws.
This. Guy. Was. Enormous.
We then had a brief chat about what I was looking to get out of our “session.” (Dude, just make me feel good!) It quickly became apparent that we were not batting for the same team, so I became a bit more at ease thinking about his paws kneading my flesh.
He left the room and, once again, I disrobed to my birthday suit and jumped under the covers onto the cot.
It was your basic run-of-the-mill massage. Delightful!
UNTIL it was time to turn over onto my back. Need I remind you, I am totally naked under the sheet. As he massaged my leg, he then LIFTED UP my leg, put it on his shoulder and began stretching it back toward my face.
WHAT. THE. FUCK????
I instantly tightened up as I felt the breeze begin to tickle my vagina. What the hell was this guy doing????
“It’s ok, just relax,” he cooed as if to a sickly baby.
After he was done airing out my vagina, he decided my ass needed a good airing out as well. He bent my left leg and, while at a 90 degree angle, twisted it over my other straight leg so that my left hip was facing the other direction.
Although this was a stretch that felt good on my hip/lower back, it also was exposing my BARE ASS to him. Oh dear!
The remainder of our massage included not only rubbing and kneading, but him stretching me into positions that usually require underwear, or at the very least, dinner first. He also did some great arm stretching above my head (aka, jiggling that caused my sheet to fall dangerously close to a Girls Gone Wild audition tape).
At that point I figured I didn’t care if he saw my boobs. Tell your friends, guy!
As the massage was ending and I opened my eyes, I realized he was wearing a SWEAT BAND and somewhat panting.
Maybe he didn’t see much, right?
When I was getting dressed I realized there were two very large MIRRORS on each side of the cot. So, essentially, whereever he looked, he probably had a pretty good glimpse of my Mother Land.
If this doesn’t get me on the Internet, I don’t know what will.
Your massage therapist should not be intimately familiar with your bits.
Gynocologist? Probably able to sketch a picture.
Waxer? On the side, makes pottery vases resembling my vagina.
But my massage therapist???? That is NOT normal.
Apparently what I received was called a “Chiropractic Massage.” Um, a little warning would have been nice, people. I would have worn underwear.
Or would I…?