I just spent 90 minutes on a
massage assault therapist’s table. My friend told me he went deep. Here I was thinking we’d discuss philosophy. He asked what kind of pressure I liked and I replied medium-hard, which he mistook as aggressively sadistic.
You know how some masseurs can make your body sing? My new friend Jon made mine scream in some heretofore unknown Bantu dialect of clicks, pops, and cracks.
I don’t know if he was using his fingers, fist, elbows, or a tire iron, but I’m quite sure he took my quads off my femur, wrung them out, and then somehow pushed them back into the place he thought they should go.
He found trigger points in my hamstrings that I did not know existed. He had me on my stomach, knee bent so that my foot was in the air, and somehoew dug in which caused my leg to reflexively straighten in an upside-down knee-jerk reaction I didn’t know what possible. “I guess I need to get back on the foam roller,” I squeaked.
“Yeah, they’re so tight. What did you do, take a year or so off?”
He put me on my back and turned Thai massage techniques into making me a spread eagle circus porn act. In certain cultures, I believe we are married now.
I’m seeing him again in a few weeks.