I awoke slowly this morning, but upon noticing that it was roughly ten o’clock, suddenly sprung forth from bed. It was approaching 1:00pm on the east coast, and the first pitches of Opening Day were about to occur. I raced downstairs in the hopes that no one was awake and watching the television, and thankfully found an empty living room. I plopped down on the couch and tuned into ESPN. They were talking about a rain delay in New York. A short while later they shipped their viewers to the already in-progress Royals/Tigers game, which I watched for several innings. At noon, I raced home to my apartment to shower and dress. When I returned to the house, the first pitch of the Mets game was less than an hour away.

I used my computer to navigate to MLB.tv, and tried out their new “high-def” plugin, which froze up every twenty-six seconds. It was an inauspicious start. When they unlocked the Mets game, I tried to click through to the video broadcast and nothing happened. I tried in vain for ten minutes, continually facing denial-of-service errors from the website. I grew irate. I picked up my phone and stepped outside to call and complain, but I could not get through to an agent. There was a long hold time, and I didn’t want to miss the first pitch of the Mets 2008 season. I raced back inside and wondered if maybe MLB Extra Innings was offering a free preview this year. Luckily, they were. I tuned into the game, and all I missed was Jose Reyes’ opening at-bat. I watched the next seven innings with Nicci and was overjoyed by the team’s 7-2 win. So overjoyed was I that I decided to let Nicci pay for us to get Swedish massages in North Hollywood.

I’ve never gotten a massage before. Quite frankly, the whole thing seems pretty revolting. You take off all your clothes and lay down in a tiny room with a stranger who touches and rubs your entire body for an hour. The notion of being trapped in that tiny room trying to relax actually caused me some anxiety. By the time we arrived at the massage parlor (is that what it’s called?), I was ready to say, “I’m going to sit this one out.” Then I realized that it would probably be quite a humorous experience that could come in handy at some point in my future, and decided I would go through with the massage.

I undressed in my tiny, dark alcove. I sat patiently until a woman poked her head through the curtain. She said something I could not understand, and I asked her where the restroom was. I needed to piss really bad. When I was done I returned to my nook and sat waiting. Another woman poked her head inside and told me to lay down on my stomach with my head firmly against the padded, adjustable face holder. When she returned, I kept my head down. I refused to look at her, because I thought maybe I wasn’t supposed to see her face. It felt like an execution. I was waiting for a guillotine blade to fall. At first, she draped a wet towel over my feet and cleaned them off, which I thought was quite smart considering I’d just walked down the hall to the bathroom barefoot. Anyway, while I was waiting to be maimed, I heard what sounded like someone drawing soap from a container. Then I felt the hands on my back and shoulders. They were covered in some sort of massage oil. It had a somewhat minty smell to it. She continued to draw more oil from the container, until I was convinced my entire body was lubricated enough for me to easily squeeze into the clenched asshole of planet Earth. Then she asked if I had any tension. Never having received a professional massage before, I said, “I don’t know, a little?” then shut up for the next hour. I tried my best to predict how much time had elapsed. I watched her tiny feet and her delicately painted red toenails move in a semi-circle around the table as she massaged my back and shoulders. She pulled my shorts down far enough that the fat of my ass was the only thing keeping them from snapping back to their upright position. She massaged my back, shoulders and ass for what felt like thirty minutes. It was quite nice. Three funny moments: her obscenely oily hands on my grossly oiled left shoulder at one point created an air pocket that sounded like a fart. I had to stifle my laughter because I’m an immature asshole. A few minutes later, she sneezed all over my left calf. If it was anybody else, I would have screamed, “Ew, what the fuck!?” and made them wipe the wetness from my leg. But in this scenario I was unable to move and unable to speak. I simply let the wetness on my leg persist until she moved from my back to my lower-half. Lastly, while she was massaging my thighs and calves, I had the distinct feeling one of her greasy fingers was going to slip and enter my asshole. She had my boxers bunched up around my dick so she could work my groin muscles and I was completely certain the sheer amount of oil would cause her to lose her grip and wind up wrist-deep in my anus.

I began to notice the music that was playing, and the sounds of the surrounding rooms. There was an open top, so I could hear what sounded like regal wedding music (classical melodies with a tinge of eastern flare). I could have sworn that there were three CDs playing at once: the wedding music, a stream of water, and crickets. As I focused all of my attention on these sounds, I noticed a fourth sound: faint snoring. I pondered whether or not the staff piped in the sound of light snores to coax clients into sleeping through their massages, but then they started to grow louder, and I realized they were coming from the person in the room next to me. When the snores ceased, I heard a woman say, “Sleepy?” and an Asian, male voice said something brief followed by uncomfortable laughter.

At some point she finished lubricating my backside. She disappeared through the curtain and I wondered if she would be returning to clean me off, or if I was going to have to venture out into the world totally greasy and uncomfortable. I feared that perhaps the oil was colored blue or red, and if I walked outside my skin would be temporarily dyed. She returned with a basket filled with scalding hot towels, which she used to clean me. Being covered in hot towels caused me to suddenly feel sleepy. I regained my composure when she tapped me on the back and asked me to turn over. I refused to make eye contact with her as she worked on my shoulders, chest, thighs and calves. Even when she massaged my face and scalp I wouldn’t look her in the eye. In my mind, this massage room was comparable to a glory hole.

After she finished massaging my face, she asked me to sit up. With her knees against my back, she attempted to work the final knots out of my back. Then, she thanked me and left. Was I supposed to undress and put my clothes back on? Was she going to return and give me an analysis? I sat in silence for a minute. She didn’t return. No, “this house…is clear” summation of whatever tension I carry in my muscles. Nothing. Just…silence. I walked out to the waiting room and met Nicci. She waited until we were outside to ask how it was, and I told her flat out: it was really nice. I enjoyed it.

What am I, some fucking fag? I enjoyed getting a massage? Ugh. I hate myself.

Pictures are pending…I’ll upload them tomorrow.

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