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Dirty Martini Massage by Susan Gibbons April 4, 2007 The receptionist hesitated when I asked to arrange a massage. I worried that I had made a mistake. Perhaps they no longer offered massages; the advertisement from their brochure outdated. Finally, she said slowly, "It's upstairs and you'll be meeting with Dru." I realized later that her hesitancy stemmed from her lack of comfort with the word massage. It inferred touching and oils. The fact that one might actually derive pleasure from a massage being incomprehensible. Taboo. Something left to lowly prostitutes and greedy businessmen. I felt her shame, but I went upstairs anyway. I walked into a large, temperate room with soft acoustical guitar music playing. The blinds were partially drawn. An ergonomically correct chair and a massage table that strongly resembled a twin bed looked lonesome in the expansive room. It came complete with a full set of pastel sheets and a star patterned quilt. I wondered if it would smell like my grandma, too. Dru was waiting patiently for me. Sitting up straight, pretending to relax to the soothing music. Like the name, I could not immediately discern if it was a male or female. Finally, she stood up and I concluded those were probably a woman's breasts, but now it was I who hesitated. She announced that she would use olive oil. I liked this idea, olive oil being edible. I would focus on a fantasy and suddenly craved a dirty martini. The bedding was pulled around my neck as my hour began. Dru pulled at my forehead and neck, then moved to my ears. I never considered that my ears might be tense, but now they were smothered in olive oil and I was certain there was a little give to the cartilage. They felt soft and supple in her skilled hands. I wondered what would happen if my ears became so relaxed that they flopped out to the side of my head, only to rest on the clean sheets. She moved down my arm, carefully tucking the sheet around my shoulder and under my armpit, leaving only a small portion of my arm exposed to the elements. Her touch was firm and steady, much like her approach to life, I guessed. I tried to relax, but the sheet was constricting around my upper arm. It felt like I was wearing a shirt made for tiny arms with no body fat. I relaxed my arm, but my shoulder cried out for a size 10. Dru would never see anything more than the limbs that might peek out from beneath a turtle's protective shell. When she was finished working on my arm, she tucked it gently beneath the sheet and quilt. Then began the task of exposing my leg without instantaneously exposing my hip. Dru pulled and tucked at the sheet and quilt, careful not to touch my body. I struggled, managing to have my leg come out from beneath the covers without baring any skin. My focus shifted to the serious business of keeping Dru comfortable. She pumped at the olive oil safely secured on her wide, leather belt. I never once questioned her intent. When turning onto my stomach, it was by sheer luck that Dru's arm span was as wide as the massage table was long. She was able to secure the sheet and quilt at either end, while leaning against the center of the table with her torso so that I could turn over without an inch of flesh being visible. She began pressing on my upper back and I knew the end was near. My lower back would remain untouched, chaste. My hour was over. The hour that was all about me. Decadent. Selfish. I felt none of these things. I was able to jump off the table, completely nude, just before Dru exited the room. She didn't look back.. A true professional. I smiled and left her a tip. It seemed like a dirty act, throwing cash on the bed. But Dru was no whore. She was as clean as those sheets. The massage lingers in my mind; the most lasting spa experience I have ever had. I should have left a bigger tip. About the author: I graduated from the University of Iowa, 1978. Authored: "I Can Sign My ABC's", Gallaudet Press, "Praegers Handbook of Learning and the Brain" Animal Studies chapter. "Dodge Dart Haiku" on Car Talk, PB. I'm currently pursuing my EdD, Hamline University and decided to take a physics class to ward off alzheimers. I grew up in Des Moines, Iowa and now live in Stillwater, Minnesota. More imporantly, I love yoga, reading novels and watching, "The Office". I've been a volunteer for 30 years and trying to get tickets to "Oprah" for 12 months to celebrate turning 50. I love politics and hope Al Franken lets me be a part of his campaign in some capacity. | | | |
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