There's something in my energy that seems to be attracting needy men. Fortunately, or not, I'm not encountering these guys at the beach or in The Nui. These are paying men, Johns of a different skin trade. As a massage therapist and esthetician, I feel, see, and hear a lot. I look at the human body both more democratically, as 90% of them, share the same pains and disorganization. I also feel more frustration when people don't take care of themselves. The more you understand the body, I think the more you understand god manifests there. It's not a trash can. Don't put shit in it.
Today a client came in for a 90 minute sports massage and was freakin' ripped. Muscles a-blazing, he outlines his roster of injuries. I stepped out to let him change and get on the table, and I went to wash my hands. When I walked back in, he says, "You must have stepped away. I was yelling at you to you I was ready." Really? Really, we're starting like this? And so we begin. When I massage, I feel the skin and muscle as clay, and I concentrate on molding it to a new, healthier form. I work best in silence. He wouldn't shut up. I'm giving him three word answers. Still talking. Mostly bragging about his sports accomplishments. He finally gets me to open up when he mentioned the half marathon is his favorite distance. "Me too." Uh oh, here we go. Now he's talking like we're fitness warriors, fighting the obesity battle together. Then he asks if I massage my husband at night. Uh oh again. I hate it when male clients say shit like that. And if they're at all interested in me, they do. "Your husband is a lucky man!" Oh would you just think for one moment, because if I was married, the very last thing I do after a long day of offering sports massage is run home to rub on honey. Fuck no... Next he's talking about how fat his wife has gotten and he "keeps telling her but she won't listen." Dude, she's doing it because she hates you, and doesn't want you touching her.
I opened my macbook to write about another client though. A local guy I saw a couple days ago. These island guys are huge and all dense muscle. Tongan or Samoan. He was my last client of the day. I did everything I could. I was sweating, hands shaking, hair in my face, on my elbows, fists, forearms. Nothing was doing it for him. "More pressure, please!" So I used the last tool in my box. I braced myself, put one knee on the table, swung the other knee so it rested on the base of his glutes, then straddled the man. I had both fists along his erector spinae, and moved my knees to deep in his glutes. And I hung out there, working my knees down his hamstrings. I did a push-up or two. And then hopped down and finished up the session. In Colorado, that is completely illegal and not within the bounds of my license. It was separates me from a postitute basically. On Kauai, people love it, and I was gifted a $60 cash tip. The crazy thing is, having someone get on the table truly offers no deeper pressure. I can get much deeper with a smaller vector of my force; the tip of my elbow. It's the theatrics and bragging rights. And heck, it's worth a big tip and some relief to my poor hands.
Aye me though. How long am I going to do this?
Aloha.
No comments:
Post a Comment