The Man-Boob Experience

Last Thursday night in spa massage, I had a male client ask me if I'd "massage his chest for him."

I should've known that the night was going to be a strange one, awash in unintentionally sexualized moments after J____ accidentally spooged lotion all over my backpack and hoodie when the pump-bottle's coagulated head spurted goop every which way in the office, leaving us looking at each other, him apologizing by saying that "it just sorta exploded everywhere" as we stared at the jismy mess and tried not to mutually reach the conclusion that it just looked too damn close to man-juice for comfort.

Let me stop right here though (so that you don't get all excited and then find yourself sorely disappointed at the end of this story) and warn you that, despite the harbingers and the strange request, a) nothing naughty happens, and b) there were no major indications that my man-boob client had been *hoping* that something naughty would happen.

Nonetheless, no matter what a male client's intentions are--the good, the bad, the ugly--it is hard not to feel at least a *wee* bit uncomfortable when someone you've never met before and who's stripped down half-nekkid on a table in front of you asks you to fondle their man-boobs for them... in a professional way of course. It's damn near impossible not to find yourself leerily questioning whether or not they're HOPING something will indeed happen.

It threw me for a loop.

Especially when the request came after I'd returned to the room to find him splayed out face up on the table, the sheets pulled down to his waist, his man nipples glinting at me like little anatomical flying saucers, sucking me into their tractor beam. It was, needless to say, a bit daunting.

We've always been taught to steer clear of the chest in massage classes, and this was a major part of the problem--I had no clue what to do, especially since the man had a nice plush, hairy chest. And after this episode on Thursday, I find myself realizing how silly this is. Guys exercise and use their arms to do things (as do women, for pete's sake). So is it really that surprising that they might just as easily pull a muscle in their man-boobs? I think not. And giving Man-Boob (as I henceforth will refer to him) the benefit of the doubt, he could've very well been tight in the chest. So why in the hell wouldn't you teach students how to massage a person's chest muscles?

However, given that we've never *learned* any massages to use on the chest, I was at a complete loss as to what to do. I found myself having a panicked Ross-from-Friends moment where I thought--"Grab the wooden spoons and maybe you can just fake him out that you know what you're doing." But when the time came and I'd finished up on his shoulders, I realized there was no faking it--I didn't wanna be wrapping my fingers around his chrome nipples and wiggling my fingers around in his bountiful chest hairs if I had *NO FRICKING IDEA WHAT I WAS DOING*. And that sincerely was the case.

So instead, I 'fessed up to my lack of knowledge, telling him that we'd never actually *learned* any massage techniques for the chest in our classes. But, I told him, I could hop, skip, and jump it out of the room for a sec and ask my massage instructor if he had any suggestions or tips, no problem. Apparently he was not keen on that idea though, immediately blurting, "Nah, that's ok. Don't worry about it."

Now, again, I have to assure you (and myself) that I suspect the man was completely harmless--afterwards, we accidentally found another patient folder of his (somehow he'd filled out two sets of forms) showing he'd been here over a dozen times or so, and if he was a major weirdo, I suspect someone would've complained at *SOME* point or another. But again--as the massage continued and he started making meager chit-chat that involved questions the likes of "So where do you live?" and "So what kind of things do you like to do in your spare time?" I found myself feeling uncomfortably like I was auditioning for some slot in a personals ad somewhere:

LIKES: Painting my nails, puppies, and pillow fights.

DISLIKES: Mean people, taxes, and dishonesty.

Needless to say, it was not my best moment as a massage therapist. Sincerely a bit uncomfortable about his intentions after both the man-boob request and his rather personal questions, I overcompensated horribly by being overzealously chatty to the point where my brain was actually shouting YOU MUST STOP TALKING--OH MY GOD YOU MUST STOP TALKING!

That and I found myself being anything but relaxing when it came to the actual massage. It's hard to deliver a light, relaxing touch (including gentle stroking from the trunk of a person to the tips of their fingers and toes, which is a typical part of the massage routine) when you feel like you're in a slightly-uncomfortable, potentially sexually-charged scenario. Light brushing fingertips are the kinda shit you throw at a person that you're trying to pick up at a bar or something, and god knows, you don't want the added confusion of *that* kinda communication thrown into an already potentially inflammatory situation. So I ended up being rather rough and brisque, not wanting to give him the wrong idea. There was not a moment of light relaxing touch in the whole damn massage. My head was also inserted way up my ass, into a land of magical fairies and fluffy mountains made of mashed potatoes, and when you're not in the moment, feeling it and connecting, it does not make for a good massage.

The only redeeming aspect of the whole massage experience was that, upside down, the man was the spitting image of an older version of the stone-cold foxy Peter Krause, so I was able to (at least for some of the time) get wrapped up in the fantasy that I was massaging the star of Six Feet Under--which was not too damn shabby.

I was not surprised when I did not get a tip afterwards (though when someone asks you to massage their man-boobs for you, they should be willing to shell out a nice juicy tip, if I may say so).

Thankfully, he left peacefully and with no major incidents.

After sharing the strange experience with one of the folks in my clinic, however, I also had to endure a bizarre confession that left me rather confused and dumbfounded and which went something like this: "Yeah, I don't know why, but with guys, I always feel the need to want to please them and make them as relaxed as humanly possible. I mean, not like I want to give them a happy ending or something. But you wanna get them like *close* to that. I mean, sorta. I mean, not a happy ending, per se. But you want to make them as relaxed as possible, you know? And, I mean, that *would* be the ultimate in relaxation. But I find myself wanting to relax them. Like as much as possible. Like to please them and make them enjoy the experience like no other."

Um, yes.

Ahem.

*Straightening necktie awkwardly*

The night finally ended with our instructor demonstrating some chest-massage techniques on J____ who shortly thereafter told me to stop referring to a man's chest as "man-boobs" as it was creeping him out.

Point being--fellas, if you're gonna ask a female massage therapist to massage your chest for you, no matter if it's because you're hoping to get Mr. Wiggles a bit excited or because you pulled a muscle doing some heavy-lifting, please please please heed this suggestion and make sure to tell her (regardless of your intentions) that you've been exercising a lot and your chest muscles are just really really sore. That way we can at least grasp onto the illusion that you're not just being a dirty dirty boy.

Even if you are.