Monday, December 20, 2004

Toxins Deep In Your Tissues, Freed By The Loving Hand Of A Exotic Women From The Far East

I fucked up my ankle. I don't know how, and I don't think it was my nasty bike spill a few weeks back. I think it was a gradual process. The symptoms: feels a-okay right now, while I'm sitting in my chair. If I try to twist it more then, let's say, 3 o'clock, a shooting pain goes up my entire leg. Likewise with 9. If I bend it too much, the same thing. Too much weight on it, while it's positioned the wrong way? Torture. I've tried stretching it, wearing an ankle brace, elevation, but nothing took. I now have no medical insurance, and my experience with Doctors regarding this sort of thing is that they can usually do jack shit to help you, but they bill with ruthless efficiency. To prevent excess ankle discomfort, I've compensated by walking differently, which has made my entire body sore. Swinging my left leg around in in a subtle but different fashion that I am not at all used to has caused a dull encompassing pain in my back. Coupled with my sedentary lifestyle, having to park my constantly sweaty carcass in a cheap chair, getting up and having to bend over all day to retrieve documents or enter data in the copier... My back feels like shit. So on Sunday afternoon, after getting wistful while coincidentally listening to the Kink's song of the same name, I decided to splurge on myself and went to a massage parlor. I had heard scuttlebutt from the Office about deep tissue this, Japanese that, dozens of lungloads spent talking about different massages that the higher ups often purchase and fancy spas around town. One that supposedly releases toxins lodged in your tissue sounded appealing. I've been drinking too much lately. Nothing really dramatic has happened at a result, no horror stories of waking up next to a dead person, or getting shitcanned after guzzling a fifth before work. But waking up hungover every morning hasn't done anything for my mood, which is really delicate to begin with. Fresh start, get my shit back together, I get some massage that releases a decades' worth of drug and alcohol abuse detritus trapped in my fat, lay off the john barleycorn, start exercising; an entire massive Phil overhaul, from toenail to cortex. Problem is I don't belong to a country club, or a gym, or a health spa or any of those places and couldn't afford to spend too much for someone to rub my back with their fingers. So I figured I'd go to a Massage Parlor. I didn't know if the often heard guff regarding Massage Parlors was in fact, true, or an urban legend. I've seen a few on the outskirts of town, and they look legitimate enough, incongruously wedged in business parks, surrounded by donut joints and mechanics. I've heard unsavory types tell hyperbolic tales of giving the bone-job to well scrubbed bright eyed Thai teenagers fresh from toiling for rice in some far away field, but the far more likely scenario is some old gruff ugly hag with fake breasts angrily yanks on your scrotum a few times in a well practiced motion, while trying to pick your pocket, then accuses of you of orgasm and demands money, followed by her threatening to have a bouncer type with no neck and beady eyes beat the piss out of you in the alley behind the place while you tearfully plead for her to finish and reach for your wallet. So, while humming the bassline to 'In The Park', I drove to the closest parlor. Parking was ample. I was afraid that someone from work might be driving by the remote industrial park on a Sunday afternoon and would spot me walking in, aching from head to toe and ready for some hands on my body. I opened the door, which was attached to a bell gizmo, and the receptionist directed me to take a seat. She was softly playing the horrible local commercial rock station on her ancient stereo, but the reception was lousy and the signal would periodically lapse into bursts of ugly static. I was on edge. I tried not to make eye contact with the others in the room, mostly sad looking, trapped eyes laborer types, in army jackets and dirty tan boots. I tried to flip through the cheesecake modern bachelor mag, some knockoff of the already horrible Maxim, but it made me sick. So I twiddled my thumbs and listened to the commercials and horrible songs, wondering if I made a bad decision. Eventually a girl would come out, and whisper to the receptionist, and then she would point to someone waiting around, and they would eagerly get up and follow. I also saw people leaving, most of whom looked frightened, disgusted, or distant. I had to use the restroom. I asked the receptionist. She said I had to wait until I was getting my massage (they had toilets, showers, and hot tubs in the rooms), and I couldn't use the locked one in the hallway because 'too many people were jerking off in there'. That forced all manner of mental imagery I didn't want to deal with into my frontal lobe. Eventually I got called by the receptionist. 'You, the big guy'. I got buzzed through the door and shook the soft little hand of a slightly pudgy, disturbingly pale girl in black hotpants and some kind of tube top. She said her name was 'Destiny', which I thought was highly suspect. She had on oodles of makeup and was wearing ridiculously impractical high heeled footwear. 'Sixty for half an hour' she explained. I reached into my wallet and handed it over. She scuttled off to give it to the receptionist, leaving me in the hallway with no choice but to listen to far away moans, screams and creaking walls. She sauntered back and let me into her 'massage studio', which was a ugly room with a table (that looked too rickety to support my bulk), a shower fixture surrounded by a tiny lip on the bottom and flimsy looking curtain, a hottub that appeared to be unsanitary, a bare toilet, and a little cabinet. When I told her where I was from, she said 'Hawaii? I love Hawaii, I'm going there in a few months with my boyfriend", then she asked me to recommend somme sights. I patiently explained to her that I was the last person in the world she should ask about Hawaii, but neglected to explain why because, I only had so much time. She asked me to take off my clothes and take a shower. She dimmed the lights and turned around, I took of my clothes, and walked into the shower, terrified of athlete's foot. I rinsed myself off and she handed me a foul smelling towel, and directed me to lay down on the table. She started massaging my back and my legs, which actually felt great. She also saw fit to rub her naked torso on my ample backflesh, which was pleasant as well. She got really close to brushing her fingertips on my wiener. Then she whispered into my ear: 'do you want anything else?', 'how much?', 'what do you want?', 'I want to know how much'. She made a jerk off motion. 'Forty dollars'. I thought of all the money I could have accumulated had I gotten forty dollars every time I jerked off. I would have a big house, a luxury car, and investments desirable properties around the globe. But spending that much to have someone pull on my wiener is just ridiculous. I shook my head and asked her to just stick with the massage. She looked insulted, then proceeded to give me a half assed, lousy massage by just periodically picking a point in my back and squeezing the fat, like she was testing out the resiliency of an orange at the market. After about three or for minutes she kind of slapped my back and said 'time's up, fattass, get your clothes on and get out.' So I did. I left feeling worse then before and wishing I hadn't spent the money. I bought athlete's foot spray on the way home at the drug store, took a shower and applied it liberally. Now I'm at work at I feel like shit.

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