The Things You Will Do

1. Remember how you spent forever and ever and ever going over the use of friction on edema last week and how your instructor said, in his thick Russian accent, "If you get this wrong on final, *YOU WILL DIE*?" You will get EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THOSE QUESTIONS WRONG.

2. In quiet desperation, you will begin hacking on a woman's butt after several attempts at trying to remember what part of the leg the "hamstring" is on.

3. The woman who massages you will somehow manage to yank out at least a couple of your pubic hairs.

Centripetal friction! Centripetal friction! Centripetal friction! Centripetal friction!

Motherfuck.

A Conversation with Myself, Or: The Elves, The Sleep, The Goodness

Did you know that 4/5 of the food we eat goes to the production of heat and only 1/5 goes towards work/energy?

Why, I did not in fact know that, L! That is shocking! One might say it is almost preposterous, one might say!

Yes it is. *Picking nose... Smelling own poop*

I think it is time for you to go home and get some sleep.

Sleep? What is this "sleep" of which you speak?

It is the sleep of goodness and elves and goodness.

It sounds ever so magical.

Um, yeah. Good luck on that final.

I think one of my biggest fears in massage class is letting out a big huge fart when someone's massaging me.

I mean, how would you ever get beyond that?

You would think this would stop me from eating massive quantities of beans right before class, yet somehow it hasn't.

It's Relaxing, O My Droogies

Last night's relaxation music:

The score to A Clockwork Orange with the discordant sound of chirping birds layered on top.

This is my 13th week of classes. Only two more to go after this.

This is also the first week that I'm really really feeling the weight of working full-time and being in school full-time. I've been tired out the ass prior, but nothing like this...

I had an Anatomy test on Monday, I have a Massage I test tonight (mother of god, there are way too many physiological and therapeutic benefits to massage--getting you to poop is only the tip of the iceburg), *AND* I have a debate to do in Ethics tomorrow (against assisted suicide) that I haven't even started writing yet.

Did I mention that I'm actually *FOR* assisted suicide? Um yeah. I think people should kill themselves all they want. In fact, I'm more than happy to help them out. I know quite a few people that could use a good offing. Call me Ms. Kevorkian.

Lack of sleep = bitterness.

Things

1. I *think* I got chastised by some anal retentive blow-hard yesterday for wearing a "civilian" top before class. Apparently, if you're under 40, you couldn't *possibly* be coming to class directly from work! And apparently I'm going to have to start changing into my scrubs in my car... because "I'm too sexy for my shirt... too sexy for my shirt... so sexy it hu-urts."

2. God bless my roly-poly Russian massage instructor yet again because he let us go sit outside on the picnic tables in the glorious sun for an hour and a half while he lectured about the physiological effects of massage. It is much too much fun listening to people try to decipher his thick Russian accent:
"So the second step in heat elimination is "reparations?" (*All the civil rights leaders say "heeeeeey"!*)
"No! Is evaporation!"
I stared intently at his cute little corn teeth for an hour and a half, as I'd never noticed them before. They are very cute and corn-like. Tee hee.

3. Apparently they filter the tension-building instrumental score to Nightmare on Elm Street into the massage room in the guise of "relaxation music"--I swear to you, the whole time I was massaging, I was nervously half-expecting Freddy Kreuger or Chucky to suddenly come lurching out from beneath a massage table, wielding a very large knife. Between *that* relaxation loop and the one that consists mainly of trickling, pee-inducing water, it is amazing to me that anyone is EVER able to reach a state of relaxation there.

I realize that I haven't blogged here in over a week. Shame on me! Shame on me! *Bending over for a spanking*

Truth be told, I haven't had much massage-related to blog about. Our Massage I instructor let us out 2 and 1/2 hours early last Wednesday, bless his big Russian heart, so I have no masso-erotic experiences to relay to you. Perhaps tonight will change that though. *Fingers crossed*

In my Monday Anatomy class, however, I did learn about an Australian desert rat that is so bad-ass that it receives its daily water-intake by sucking the blood of other animals, and instead of pissing, it expels kidney stones to get rid of its wastes.

My class schedule next semester:

Mondays:
Anatomy: 6-8pm
Physiology: 8-10pm

Wednesdays:
Clinical Rotation: 3:30-5:30pm
Massage II: 6-10pm

My friend D's encouraging words about said class schedule:

"sounds do-able, but it's still a lot
don't get mono or something"

Paroxysms of Unbridled Pleasure: Confessions of a Bonger

How to put this delicately... I think I like to hurt boys.

Lemme explain from the very beginning.

Last night was a strange night of massage therapy. It all started with the bongers.

Bongers are these drumstick-esque beating tools you can use on your clients as "a balm for sore muscles," to "put oomph in sluggish blood," and (*getting the giggles again*) to "give your/your partner's body paroxysms of unbridled pleasure." It says that. On the actual sticks. Now I know I sometimes have the mentality of a 15-year old boy, but I couldn't help but giggle at that as I was beating Big Blond Stoner Boy (henceforth referred to as BBSB) with them last night.

No one else found this particularly funny of course.

Bongers feel as though someone is beating you with two dead fish. And if your therapist beats you too long in one place with them, it feels like someone with tiny but ferocious fists is giving you a good, mean pounding. Weirdly though, despite the fact that it's the roughest massage I've had thus far, it's kinda nice. My back sure as shit is loving it today.

So yeah. Bongers. Makes me think of bazongas, which makes me think of boobies, which makes me think of "paroxysms of unbridled pleasure." Tee hee. Ah, paroxysms.

Flash forward to BBSB practicing his massage routine on me last night. The boy has *very large hands*--like hands the size of small snow-shovels. I kid you not. (Later when I had to work at massaging his hands, I actually commented on this because *I COULD NOT REACH THE BOY'S MOTHERF-ING LOWER PALM FROM MY POSITION AT THE TOP OF HIS HAND*--them's big hands, folks.) And it is difficult to work two very large snow shovels around someone's relatively tiny clavicle and shoulder blades with any sort of dexterity, clearly, because most of the massage I received last night felt like someone was awkwardly poking and prodding at me with wooden spoons a la that one Friends episode. It took all my willpower not to get the giggles at points, because I kept thinking, "You are pretty, boy, but goddamn you better be f-ing *fantastic* in the sack because you sure as shit aren't gonna win points with your wo-man by massaging her." *BUT* despite his ineptness at lending a sense of relaxation to his relaxation massages, I must give the boy credit where credit is due--he sure as shit can find and work a knot out of someone's body. His large snow shovel mitts are good for *that* at least, seeing as my body feels like butter this morning.

Flash forward once more, and I am now therapist. This is notably the first time I've massaged a boy in class, so perhaps that will help you to understand my strange little epiphany: I think I like to hurt boys. Not as in set them on fire while slicing each nipple off slowly with a dull and dirty knife blade and then ripping out their eyeballs and pouring acid into the gaping sockets. Oh no. (That's reserved only for the *special* peeps in my life.) As most of you may know, I am a bit of a control freak, and last night I realized that I find it to be much more enjoyable to exert in a very self-assured kind of way that "you're in charge" of a massage when you can go all out and straddle that fine line between pleasant vigorous massage and OW THAT FUCKING HURTS; and it's more fun to massage someone when you feel like you're working the shit out of your *own* body and muscles in doing so. I guess what I'm saying is that I really enjoy working the shit outta the person in front of me until they're screaming for more. (Interpret that as you will.)

You can put an f-ing LOT more elbow-grease into massaging a boy than you can in massaging a woman. Let me rephrase--you can put an f-ing lot more elbow grease into massaging a very tall, lean, muscular boy than you can the slight, petite women that I've massaged in our class thus far.

With the women I've massaged, I always feel like if I put my full energy into the massage, I'd be snapping bones and tendons left and right until they dragged themselves off the table a limping mass of splintered human form akin to the blob.



They are tiny. I don't want to hurt them.

But when you have a big muscular fellow laid out in front of you, well, it's kind of a no-holds-barred situation because it'd take a real fucking lot to hurt them. So you can really lay into them with all the strength and energy your little body has to offer.

(This makes me suspect that somewhere down the road I will probably end up taking a Thai Massage seminar--I clearly enjoy the feeling of a more energizing and rigorous massage routine, and I think the idea of using the whole body to massage another person (and to stretch them and energize them) is awfully attractive as well.)

Anyways, I ripped that boy to shreds. And man alive, was it energizing. I was actually *sweaty* after I was done massaging him. As in damp and starting to smell a bit ripe (which the 75 temperature of the massage room unfortunately does a lot to help exacerbate--I've decided that I'm gonna be the massage therapist who does her massaging in a tank-top and panties, folks, because goddamn if I don't already have an abnormally high body-temp, so when you toss in the abnormally high temperature of a massage room as well, it's hard for me *not* to spring a big sweaty leak).

I massaged the shit out of him. My muscles and (hopefully) his muscles were screaming in joyous unison. And it was good.

I was a bit flushed and slightly embarassed afterwards, it was that invigorating.

Massage is an art. Just like playing guitar in front of a crowd of people is an art. Just like acting on a stage is an art. Just like fucking is an art. So it is logical that, when done well, it can be invigorating as shit.

Clearly, it is difficult to talk about all this without sounding like a huge pervert (especially to folks who aren't actually studying massage and spending time reading all this stuff about the nature of touch and sex and massage and how they're all interwoven), but seriously--I now understand why it is we spend so much time talking about the ethics of sex and massage--not because I want to shag the fellow now that I massaged him or not because I wanted to then, but because there *is* a dimension in that kind of touch (especially when you're expending a ton of energy and force in massaging the person) that is akin to that expended in really good vigorous sex. *Rolling over and lighting up a cigarette* It works your whole body, it exhausts you, and there is a strange exchange of energy between the two people involved. And the way the mind works, I can understand how it conflates and confuses the two things--I can understand why we're constantly being warned that "it's not unusual to feel desire--aka wanna shag--your clients sometimes, simply because of the nature of the work," that it's ok *AS LONG AS YOU DON'T ACT ON IT.

We also spend a lot of time in class discussing the ethics of the power dynamic between client and therapist. This is a power dynamic that's akin to sex as well... In good sex, there's typically someone who's running the show or a bit more in charge at any given time (and perhaps this role is handed off back and forth typically, but there's a certain energy there where the "person in charge" is easily recognizable at any given moment). The same dynamic exists in massaging. You have this person laying there in front of you, naked or half-naked, and YOU COULD DO WHATEVER YOU WANT TO THEM REALLY. That's power. Think "tied down to the bedposts and make them beg for more while you tap the tip of your whip against your very large stilettoed boots" and you'll understand the bizarre power-dynamic of professional massage.

I guess what I'm saying, and what I realized last night, is that giving a good vigorous successful massage is empowering. Empowering in the same way that shagging the brains out of someone is as well. Empowering in the way that tying someone up to your bedposts and making them beg for more is too. You are giving them pleasure of some sort, and you are working the shit out of your own body while doing so. Ain't nothing but a good thing.

But rest assured, despite the fact that I've now horrified all of you to the point that you're curled up fetal in the corner, rocking back and forth with a bit of drool dangling from your lower lip, swearing up and down that you are *never* going to let me massage you *ever ever ever*--if you *do* come in for a massage, I promise not to take advantage of you.

Unless you want me to. ; )

Oh Yeah, Pound It, Baby!

Massage practical classes are a strange environment. Yesterday I had three different people punching my ass. How often do you get to say that about a class you're taking? Often during our practical classes, you are the recipient of various prodding and poking hands as our instructor attempts to show students where a certain area they need to work on is located or when he has to demonstrate a technique to the class. People will be standing around taking turns jamming their fingers into the base of your skull. Or our instructor will walk by and start energetically performing some random technique on your neck. It's a weird dynamic, but after the first few weeks, you don't even bat an eyelash when three people are pounding your ass at one time.

However, the class *does* bring out a couple very distinct insecurities in a person (myself in particular but I'm assuming that these are common insecurities as well):

1. I am a person who is not at all ashamed of her body and (despite having weird weight-fixations every once in a while) is not at all embarassed by having flesh exposed. I've nuded it up at Michfest. Last night I forgot my bathing suit top so I had to prance around in my bra. It don't bother me. I actually *like* my body for the most part. It is a good one, despite its occasional malfunctions.

I am also not very self-conscious (and/or even self-aware) when it comes to cleanliness/professionalism issues. I wear underwear with immense holes in them. My car looks like somebody's apartment exploded all over the interior--currently there are three pairs of shoes in my car along with a ridiculous amount of paperwork and garbage I haven't yet gotten around to disposing of. I don't clean my apartment on a regular basis, just when I start to get grossed out by what all the dust looks like in the daylight. I like to pile things up in little piles. I don't make my bed. Ever. My dishes usually sit in my sink for a few days before I get around to cleaning them. I shave but only occasionally. I don't shave my pits. If I am crashing at someone's place and forget a change of underwear, I just wear the underwear I have on inside-out until I have access to new ones. I do laundry like once every three weeks or so. And I pee with the door open. (Ok, the last one's not really related, but I was on a roll.)

But when you have people that you work with on a regular basis poking and prodding and rubbing and handling your half-clothed body, it is hard *not* to find yourself becoming wildly self-conscious at times, and it's hard not to suddenly realize that perhaps all these things you are so unkempt about are not so much charming as royally and filthily disgusting to folks.

Almost every single class, I get paranoid that I smell like absolute shit and am disgusting the person working on me (this is my biggest area of self-consciousness). I get weirded out that perhaps my flesh in all its nuances (pimples, scars, scabs, oiliness) is repulsing them and they can barely stomach touching my body. I worry that when they're massaging my scalp, dandruff is fluttering off like a blizzard. I get worked up about my sweatiness factor--when I'm nervous both my palms, my pits, and my feet sweat, and they're sometimes stuck working on these areas.

Every Wednesday, I feel like a big gross troll.

The problem is not so much getting massaged by someone--I've been massaged and I didn't feel uncomfortable. The problem is being massaged *by people you're going to be working with and seeing tri-weekly for the next two years*. I could care less about the random massage therapist being grossed out by my hairy pits. But when a fellow student is potentially gonna be repulsed by me and carry that repulsion with them for the next two years, it's hard not to be self-conscious.

2. The other area of insecurity is *also* one of self-consciousness: it's a question of "Am I fucking doing *ANY* of this right or does it feel like some crazy-assed chef is grating your back with a cheese grater, pouring salad dressing on top, and then jamming big wooden spoons into your flesh?" Every Wednesday, I feel like I'm back in high school gym class, battling with my body to try to actually be graceful and coordinated in its movements instead of clunking around and bloodying my own nose during gymnastics (yeah, I did that once). I feel completely and totally awkward about my movement, about the way my body is working on this other person, and about my complete lack of gracefulness. I feel inept. And I feel incompetent.

This is partially due to the fact that, 95% of the time, I have no clue whether or not the techniques I'm using on a person actually feel good or are causing them absolute and horrendous pain. It's our first class and everyone is too meek and mild-mannered to give any negative (or even fricking positive) feedback. I could be running a lawn-mower over the gluteal muscles of my partner, and they wouldn't even emit a squeak of dissension, and goddamn if that doesn't breed paranoia: Am I sucking and *that*'s why they're not telling me what a wonderful job I'm doing? Am I doing this too light or too hard? Does this make them tingle with delight or make them wanna scream? Does it feel like their bone is about to splinter in two when I do that? WHY WON'T THEY JUST TELL ME ALREADY?!?! *sobbing*

The nature of massage practical classes is a difficult one for that reason--a 95% on a test doesn't tell you that when you do digital massage of the spine, you're actually doing it well. It is difficult to be working with something hands-on and not receive feedback, and it is difficult to realize that feedback would only be so useful anyways.

So massage practical classes are a strange beast. I cannot think of any other experience (class or non-class-related) that would compare.

Perhaps the first time you have sex with someone. Yeah, the occasional weird awkward fumblings and giggles are pretty similar.

But then again, with massage, you don't have that glorious pay-off in the end.

Except when you've got three people pounding your ass at one time, of course.

Oh, and when you realize that--fucking bizarre-assly enough--your elbow actually might be an erogenous zone. You heard me.

Good Day to You, Sir

Last night was our double-midterm for Massage I. Three hours of hell-filled hellishness: a couple of hours for the actual massage practical exam followed by a sexy 100-question written midterm. Like finding out you won the lottery in the middle of experiencing the most powerful and amazing orgasm you've had in your life.

Yeah.

That's it.

The practical was actually weirdly intimidating. There were two rows of massage tables set up, separated by a large wall of dividers that were put up specifically for the test. Your partner laid down on the table. You draped them correctly. You then went and sat on the chair at the foot of the table. You had to stare straight ahead at the dividers the whole time until it was your turn. If you happened to look around, it was considered the equivalent of craning your neck to get answers off of your neighbor's written test. Tenseness of tensenesses.

They came around first to inspect us--they checked to make sure that we were dressed professionally and that our scrubs were clean. And then they checked to make sure that our nails were clean and cut down so no white was showing. If they had cupped my testicles in their hand and jiggled them around as a quality-check, I would not have been surprised. Thankfully I passed (and thankfully they didn't notice that the sheets I use for draping were covered in cat hair and shared the mildly pungent sweat-sock smell of my car (where they've been sitting between classes every week)). I am sanitary. Yes yes.

Once this was done, the actual test commenced. One instructor stood at the end of the dividers and loudly stated a massage technique. Then you had to wait your turn as one of the instructors went around their half of the room. When it was your turn, you stood up, walked over to your "client," performed the technique (or completely fucked it up, depending), and then returned to your seat.

We had to do about 10 techniques or so, and I was doing fine until we ran into two techniques that we'd NEVER FRICKING GONE OVER IN CLASS BEFORE. Like the doltiest of dolts, I tried guessing at them in completely awkward and weird ways that were absolutely incorrect. Thankfully our instructors were nice ladies, and out of 6 possible points, we only got docked 2 points for not knowing a technique (as long as we were in the right area and succeeded in all other aspects of the technique--they like to throw us curveballs when it comes to the areas we massage; in the land of anatomy, the term "arm" doesn't mean the portion from your wrist to your shoulder, it means the portion from your elbow to your shoulder--from your wrist to your elbow is the "forearm" (as made clear in the following diagram, which illustrates the frequent circumstances under which you might find yourself massaging amputees with legs for arms),

and "leg" refers to the area from your knee to your ankle, not that whole big dangly chunk of sausage that juts out o' your groin--people inevitably fuck this up). Unfortunately, having two techniques in a row that I had no clue about made me incredibly nervous and I literally spent the second half of the test with ears that felt like they were on fire and blood pounding through my temples.

It was not fun.

Thankfully I ended up getting a 96%, despite fucking up two techniques. Yip yip.

After plugging my way through 100 beastly questions the likes of "Which massage technique is most useful for dealing with edema and improving absorption?" or "Which of the following is NOT a contraindication for vibration?" I was done. I immediately bought myself the 440-calorie vegan double-chocolate cookie that I'd been eyeing for 8 weeks in the bookstore, took it home, and ate it while drinking an ice cold beer.

Today I have an Ethics test. One of the many topics it encompasses is "how to address an erection."

I typically address them as "Sir," but maybe that's just me.

Vulcan Death Grip

Okay. So I figured I'd take the time to write out the full story behind the "Death Grip" we learned in class yesterday as it seems worthy of its own sitcom episode.

But before I do so, I must introduce you to a fellow student in my class. She sits next to me nearly every time in Massage I, and she talks my ear off like I've never heard anyone talk. I know how all about her failed marriage. I know that she has a picture of her and that Simon guy from American Idol on her cell phone. I know that she visited an episode of Fear Factor when she was in whatever city it is they film it in. I know that she would never marry a doctor because she thinks they are jerks. I know that nude beaches freak her out. If there were an Oscar for talking, she'd be sweeping that category every year in a row. I mean, I think I could simultaneously take a shit, masturbate, eviscerate a small animal, jam a crucifix up my pooter and sing "Mary Had a Little Lamb" in front of her and she would pause no more than a second or two in her story before continuing on like a runaway train packed into an avalanche packed into a meteor heading straight towards the earth. *And* she is absolutely clueless, god bless her. She is a sweet woman, but ABSOLUTELY CLUELESS. Three times she asked me in class what page we were on, after I'd told her repeatedly that I did not have the same book as her. Three times. And after our instructor very slowly and carefully illustrated five different vibration techniques, she looked over to me and whispered, "So there's *two* different vibration techniques and that's it, right?"

Fast-forward to massage practical in which I get paired up with the very same woman. I am sitting, knees to chest, in a bikini, on a massage table as the other half of the class receives instruction on how to do the third set of steps in our massage routine. I am marveling at how much more clearly I can breath when my little tiny nosering is not in, and I'm vaguely listening to their discussion about massage techniques. And then suddenly my ears perk up when I hear our instructor warning the students near him to be careful on the neck area because (as stated earlier) if done incorrectly, it could conceivably result in death.* I swear to you I about wet myself, because bolting across the room directly towards me right then and there was the one woman who is probably obliviously skilled enough to massage me to my death.

I swear to you, as I lay there, I was actually picturing the end of it all. I was having perhaps the most hypochondriacal moment I've ever had in my life. I started feeling shortness of breath as she was giggling at me and working on that area. I felt like something was constricting my windpipe. I felt lightheaded. My neck felt completely tense and tight. I kept thinking over and over, "Oh my god, she is going to kill me... Oh my god, she is going to kill me... Oh my god, she is going to kill me..." and "My God, the last thing I'm gonna set eyes on is this stupid vcr/tv combination and the last thing I'm going to hear is Queen Talkine muttering "Digital kneading... Friction... Digital kneading... Friction" to herself."

I have not been quite so freaked out in a long time.

Needless to say, I made it out alive, but for the grace of god toot toot and all that. But on my way home, I had the worst tension headache and found myself neurotically thinking, "Maybe it's some weird delayed reaction and she did in fact stimulate my carotid sinus the wrong way, and I'm now going to drift off into unconsciousness and slam into the median only to be enveloped by a huge ball of flame."

I suspect that henceforth and forever, I'm going to have a freakishly irrational fear of people touching my neck.

God help me.

*Sobbing quietly*

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* Apparently, the mechanical irritation of the carotid sinus *can* result in death.

You Can Call Me God

Yesterday, we learned in massage class that there is an area that we spend time massaging on the neck during our massage routine that could literally kill our clients if done incorrectly. According to our instructor, 95% of the time, in a typical massage routine on the neck, you won't do any accidental damage to this specific area. My brain promptly started whirring and chucking, immediately translating that statistic into its more mindblowing counterpart--this also means that there's a 5% chance that you'll kill the person you're working on when working in this area.* That means, ladies and gents, if I massage you 20 times in the next few years or so, one of those times YOU WILL END UP DEAD.

I don't know if the nervousness I felt inside upon hearing this was born out of terror or the giddiness I now feel in the face of such power (*cackling maniacally and rubbing hands together*).



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* Imagine finding this out right before an inept fellow student (or your own inept self, for that matter) is about to start massaging that area. I kept feeling my windpipe close up for the next ten minutes and found myself thinking over and over about how the last thing I was ever gonna see was one of those shitty vcr/television units (with the obligatory limping wheel) that they wheel around from classroom from classroom. *Sniffle*
** I also suspect that TELLING people this information over and over is gonna be REALLY helpful in me building up a clientele.

Lube Me Up, Baby

Wednesday nights are my downfall. But only because of Thursday mornings. Wednesday nights are my 4-hour massage practical class which means getting home at 10:40 pm or so (having left the house at 6:20 am in the wee hours of the morn). Lately it also means arriving home at 10:40 pm completely wired and energized and pulsing with creative spirits, unable to sleep for hours--compounded even moreso by last night's top-of-the-lungs singing session to Jane's Addiction and Dinosaur Jr. from some old mixed tape I'd found on my car-ride home. All because of touch.

I find this fascinating.

As our massage practical instructor pointed out, touch is most certainly the first sense we develop after birth. Our sight is botchy and it takes us a while to work into using those eyes. Our hearing is indifferent--you can blast music around a newborn and they'll generally stay completely zen in its presence. They eat only to stay alive, so their sense of taste doesn't yet mean a thing--they just want boobie. And they could sit next to a flaming pile of shit for 3 hours and not bat an eyelash at the stench. But goddamn if they don't love that touch. Their little fingers will curl around your big fingers if you touch the palms of their hands. They cry often, and oftentimes all you need to do is pick them up and hold them to get them to stop.

Even as adults, we're suckers for touch. A hug. A handshake. A hand on your shoulder. A cuddle. A spooning. The touch exchanged in flirtation. A kiss. A fuck. The pleasure of all of these things is contingent upon touch.

So I love love love this part of the massage practical class. It feels so good to touch and be touched. Especially since I am a particularly tactile-loving person. I remember my teacher in high school psychology class telling us that certain people are more receptive to certain types of rewards for their good work--some are more receptive to an auditory congrats, some are more receptive to receiving a prize, etc. etc. and some are more receptive to touch--a pat on the shoulder in congratulations, for example. I am most definitely the latter.

I love to be touched; I love to extend the warmth of touch to other people. It don't rightfully matter who it is either--some people are squeamish when touched by a stranger, but I dig it (within reason, of course). I like the exchange of energies and the gap that is bridged with touch. I love hugs. I love the touch of flirtation.

So spending 2 hours once a week bridging that gap is so revitalizing to me. The actual massaging right now is inept and clumsy, lacking confidence and often incorrect (on my end and the end of whomever I'm partnered with), but I don't mind--it's nice to just lie there and jokingly banter back and forth with someone, making them smile, making them giggle, while they rest their hands on you and bridge that gap with their energy. And I like doing the same for them.

There is just some sort of essential connection that is made when you bridge that gap with skin. Maybe that's why sex is so overrated. It's strange because you open up to the other person like a flower, in a way that you wouldn't just through casual conversation. There's an intimacy and a sharing involved that is so lovely and essential to our well-being. Connections are forged in the time I've spent interacting with folks in this way, connections that wouldn't've been nurtured through any other means, i.e. conversation--it is inevitable, because touch DOES that.

So it's difficult winding down after those connections are made. It's difficult not to feel completely rejuvenated, even if the person did every massage technique absolutely incorrectly (and some of them really goddamn do--heh heh). It's difficult not to feel energy coursing through your veins.

This is why I'm here.

This is why I dig massage so.

The only bad thing that comes with this territory though is that since I'm such a very tactile person, hand-wise, I've always had a huge aversion to lotions and oils. I don't mind them on other parts of my body, but, in that sweet Helen-Keller-esque kinda way, the hands are so super-tactile that I can't bear to load them up with greasy shit which just masks their sense of touch.

And stupid me forgot about the fact that, duh, massage therapists use MASSAGE OIL. Gah. This is going to be my only downfall.

Loss-of-Rectum-Tone Erotica

Rectum too loose? Feel it flapping in the wind when it's even the slightest bit breezy outside? Bladder not quite tight enough to keep you happy these days?

Then come on over here and let me stroke your inner thigh ever so gently. *Wink wink nudge nudge*

Oh no! I'm most certainly not coming onto you. I'm just using a bit of the ol' cremasteric reflex stroking. *Rubbing nipple slowly in circles*

That tickly tingle you're feeling? That's just your cremasteric reflex kicking into gear. *Tossing hair and licking lips*

What, you saucy fellow? Oh yes! That stroke also excites the genitals as well. Or so my instructor says in Lesson #3 on How to Not Accidentally Stimulate the Pee-Pee. Did I fail to mention that? *Ripping off scrubs and straddling you on massage table*

So ends Week 3.

Things I Learned in Week 2 (Part II)

My ethics instructor likes to cuddle with her best friend on the couch--they're really into cuddling. Cuddling cuddling cuddling. Cuddling!

The reason that you toss and turn throughout the night is because your body is keeping you from having pressure develop on the spots pressing against the bed, which is essentially keeping you from developing big gaping bed-sores.

Med students kill an *awful* lot of their patients and do so nonchalantly.

My ethics instructor and her family are really close--they end up in each others' beds throughout the night. Cuddling cuddling cuddling!

All ethical issues are a dilemma. *Except* for the following, which has a right answer: "What would you do if you found out your spouse had a terminal illness and would die within the month BUT there was a drug that existed out there which would cure him/her and which was worth $1,000; *however*, the only place that was selling the drug was charging 5 million dollars for it? Keep in mind that you are to strip any legal routes and any fundraising routes from your answer (i.e. you are not able to raise the money or take the pharmacy to court)." The right answer: you do whatever it takes to get that pill and save your spouse! Life is more important than other things! Oh, and cuddling cuddling cuddling!

My anatomy instructor does a really really poor imitation of Arnold Schwarzenegger.

There are so many bones in the body that it makes me wanna wet my pants and cry and slobber some.

You should not fuck your clients.

Things I Learned in Week 2 of Massage I

How to not accidentally touch the boobies and the pee-pees.

Upon being taught this, I immediately dropped out of the program, 'cause really, ain't that everyone's main reason for being here??

Other things I learned:

How to wash my hands correctly.

How to butcher the pronunciation of Greek philosophers' names.

That my hands and feet sweat like *mad* as soon as I get even remotely nervous about having to do something hands-on.

That you should *always* wear matching socks because you'll have to take your shoes off when you're least expecting it... (This has burned me more than once so you'd think I'd learn.)

Instructor will make you spit your gum out into his hand if you chew it during practicals. Girl who gave you gum will immediately swallow hers and then keep making you get the giggles by grinning madly every time you look at her.

I should be wearing either baggier or tighter underwear--I'm just not sure of which.

How to properly keep a 6-foot something stoner dude from falling as he rolls over on the table with just my little old thigh and some good foot-placement.

How to set-up sheets and fold them so that you can work on specific body-parts of the client without making them uncomfortable.

That men's "things" tend to get in the way of leg-massages, so you have to be careful not to, um, end up jabbing them when they're in your way.

To expect body fluids.

Fondling Lemons

Redemption!

My massage practical turns out to be the exact opposite of my physiology and anatomy hell-class. By the end of class I've heard the term "chi" batted around several times, and our instructor has rambled briefly about chakras, so I feel like I've time-warped back to Michfest. That, and we got to fondle lemons. But more about that later.

My instructor is a short, stout fellow with a Russian accent as thick as pizza dough. He is self-assured but not arrogant, he is thoughtful and it is evident he loves what he does. I know this is gonna be a good class when he spends the first 15 or so minutes raging about the medical industry and, basically, how they're whores to the pharmeceutical companies and how things such as massage therapy and herbal remedies shouldn't be the ones considered "alternative medicines" because pumping your body with pills is really the "alternative" and unnatural route to deal with things. A man of my own heart.

We find out that our four hour class is going to be split in two--the first half will be theory and lecture, the second half will be massage practice. Our textbook for the theory half is apparently the bible of massage, John Kellogg's book from the 1800's called "The Art of Massage," which I dig simply because the pictures look more like little disturbing slices of life from a mental institution than people enjoying relaxing massages:

For the massage practice half of the class, we are expected to wear (as he puts it in his broken English) "bathing suits" or "bathing suit tops" (translation to those of us who aren't cracked out enough to come prancing to class in bathing suits: "sports bras") and shorts. We will be pairing up each week and practicing on our partner, so we need to have as much flesh exposed as possible (tee hee). This weirds me out a bit as I'm gonna be flesh-fondling for two-hours once a week, but seeing as that's the point of me being here, I'm sure I'll get used to it. And the bonus is that I'm gonna come home every Wednesday night soothed from being massaged for an hour or so in class. How fricking excellent is that? And by the end of this semester, we are supposed to know enough about massage to be able to provide folks with relaxation massages (not therapeutic, but relaxation, and hell if that ain't the best kind of massage anyways).

I am also pleased because there is a bit more camaraderie among the students in class today--everyone's a lot more chatty and pleasant than in Monday's class of unpleasantness. This is particularly good because these are the people I'm gonna be spending the next two years around (you tend to end up with about 75% of the same people in all your classes since you're all taking certain required classes each quarter). I of course immediately manage to attract the interest of the one stoner in class (a tall and shaggy blond surfer-esque dude) like a moth to a big burning pile of marijuana, and he spends the break grilling me about whether I know of any herbal remedies that will clean the pot out of his system and explaining to me how he's on probation because of possession and a DUI (heh heh--yup yup, I *always* attract the stoners from a mile away, I kid you not). By the end of class, he's begun following me around like a little puppy-dog. I suspect we will become friends by default, simply because the majority of other students in the class are middle-aged with families and not much in common with the likes of me. I also manage to get my ear talked off by the most *talkative* woman I've ever met. She literally talks so much and so indiscriminately that there are moments when she is talking a hundred miles a minute to NO one because everyone is chatting with everyone else. And yet she *still* continues to talk. I fear sitting next to her.

The rest of the class consists of a tour of the facilities which are pretty damn nice. There's typical stuff like a student cafeteria, auditorium, etc. But there are also about 10 massage rooms for our clinicals (and for clients who come into the school for massages) which are hooked up with filtered-in relaxation music, massage tables, dimmable lights, etc. We are also shown a room with our "spa-supplies" for when we learn to give spa massages, which include (yip yip) stone massages!! For those of you who've heard nothing about the school I'm going to (which will remain nameless here), the school is SOLELY dedicated to massotherapy and nothing else. I kinda dig that and that's why I picked it, despite the bit of a drive. And for those of you who are currently unaware of this fact, in a semester or two, you will be able to drive yourself up to my school to get free massages from me (and so that I can build up the hours in Massage Clinic Rotation so I can graduate). So when you're in town, plan on dragging your ass out there so I can relax you for an hour (and of course make fun of your pee-pee and naked boobies--I'm mature but not THAT mature).

After the tour, we return to the large massage practical room, complete with about 12 massage tables. Our instructor shows us how to break-down the tables and adjust them and all that. And then it's time for exercises. And so we reach the lemon-fondling fun.

Our instructor throws lemons at each one of us and tells us to put our names on them. He then tells us to fondle our lemons until we know their nooks and crannies and are able to recognize them as our own. We sit in circles, and he asks us to put all our lemons in the middle of our circle and close our eyes. We are supposed to pass around the lemons and try to identify our lemons through touch. I fail miserably, despite the fact that mine is the mushiest lemon in the bunch and should have been easily recognizable. But, as he explains, the class will help improve our sense of touch.

He then has us line up eight chairs in a row, just like in musical chairs. Half the class sits down and the other half stands behind the seated folks. He tells the seated folks to close their eyes, and then asks us to start massaging the shoulders of those seated. Each time he claps, we move on to the person to the left of us and continue to massage until we've made it back to the beginning. We all switch places and then do it again, this time with the previously-seated folks providing the massages. He explains to us at the end that the purpose was to demonstrate how everyone's touch is different and how everyone's body is different, and that as massage therapists, we are going to have to learn to deal with a variety of folks' body types. We are also going to have to learn not to be offended if someone doesn't want to have us as a massage therapist because everyone's touch is different and everyone's taste in what kind of touch they like is different.

He ends the class by talking briefly about chi and chakras and I am giddy because I love that shit and KNEW that this stuff must be lurking *somewhere* beneath the physiology/anatomy veneer. He closes by telling us to go around and hug each of our classmates, explaining how this will open up our heart chakras to one another, exchanging positive energies and all that, and allowing us to grow comfortable with those we will be working somewhat intimately with. It is a love-fest, a hug-train, and as nerdly and new-agey as it sounds, everyone (even the guys) are all smiles by the end, and the hugs are all warm and cuddly. I am pleased.

Positive chi abounds me, but then I return home to hyperactive cats and, as upon returning from a run out to my car to nab something I'd forgotten in it, I find myself unable to get back into my apartment. Try as I might, the fucking lock REFUSES to open. After 45 minutes of wrestling with it (at this point it's 11:45 and I still have to shower and get my ass up at 6 am), I *finally* manage to get the damn thing to open. Turns out that my heavy backpack (which I'd hung on the inside knob so as not to forget to take it with me today for classes) was somehow keeping the doorknob (and consequently, the lock) from turning correctly. The evening ends a bit grouchily, but at least class ended up being good.

And I can't help but smile as I take a shower, because... well... I have a lemon in my backpack with my name written on it and you don't. =)