The Pee-Pee and the Poo-Poo!

ANAL TRIANGLE!

PENIS SHAFT!

LEVATOR ANI!

VAGINA!

ANAL SPHINCTER!

That is what we learned about yesterday in anatomy.

Bow Chicka Bow Wow

Last Thursday I had my first p0rn0 massage experience. (Well, mostly just the part of the p0rn0 leading up to the point where the lady bends over the copier with her skirt hiked high up and says, "Mr. Copier-repairman, can you PLEASE fix my copier? It needs to be unjammed. And then jammed. And then unjammed. Over and over." Not so much the aftermath.) My second client was the hottest guy ever. Fireman. Cute little alternative-looking eyeglasses and snug little winter cap while dressed. Pierced nipples and coated in tattoos when undressed. And a foxy wife, though we'll slide on past that.

It all started when I returned to the room after having him strip down, and his boxers were covered only with a teeny-tiny towel (he had "misunderstood" my directions to climb under the top sheet and climbed under the top TOWEL instead). Then it continued on with the naked lady tattoo that kept staring at me and the pierced nipples which, for some reason, he decided not to pull his sheet up over. So needless to say, they drew my stare like a tractor beam. But it wasn't until he started making little appreciative moany noises whenever I did something particularly well that I had to stop and make sure that the relaxation music filtering in didn't have a bit of the old BOW CHICKA BOW WOW pumping through it. It didn't, and yet he continued to make charming little moany and breathy noises while I massaged him, to the point that I just wanted to hop on up there with him, rip off my scrubs, and shout, "Well, if that's the way you're gonna play this, then bring it on, bitch."

But I didn't.

That would've been unprofessional.

Fucking hot, but unprofessional.

So instead he fell asleep, not even the quietest of Bow Chicka Bow Wows echoing in the humid air of the massage room.

And then he awoke, disoriented and groggy, his nipple rings winking at me with a bit of sand in the corners of their eyes.

And then he was gone.

SexyBack

Nothing says "sexy" better (in that "I wanna go home and have someone go down on me RIGHT THE FUCK NOW" kinda way) than watching a clip of some dude yanking around a nice, thick cadaver's tongue with a metal hook to demonstrate all of the tongue's attachments.

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.

So. The full-body paraffin. Rocks out. Yes, it does.

I got to give and get one on Thursday, and it was quite the experience, let me tell you.

How it works is that you get lubed up with a massive amount of lotion and then MTs dip strips of what kind of look like birthday-streamer decorative paper into paraffin and plaster you with it. Then you get cocooned up in some plastic sheets for about 45 minutes while the hot paraffin begins to cool and solidify. Easy 'nuff.

But damn is it messy. When you set up, you have to cover the floor with plastic sheeting so that the carpet doesn't get caked. And you have to wear gloves in order to apply the paraffin so that it doesn't stick all over your hands. Consequently, as the paraffin begins to dry, it starts falling off the gloves onto the plastic sheeting on the floor. And consequently, the cute overly-hyperbolic gay man in your class will walk all through it and then track it all the way down the hallway so that you have to spend about 20 minutes trying to pick it all out.

The effects of it are quiet awesome though. As it's getting put on you, it actually feels like a burning-smack on certain more sensitive areas of your skin--your back and your stomach mostly. When I got it done on my stomach, it actually made me tickle as well, so I had to keep trying to smother my smiles and giggles.

And you get to wear towels all tucked into your what-whats and who-whos so as to keep you from being exposed--the end result is that you feel like a very large, very grotesque baby with a weird terry-cloth diaper on.

But when it's all done, your skin feels ultra-sensitive, like a feather could brush by you and it'd have the force of a semi. All the way home, I was very aware of the way my clothes felt against my skin--apparently the paraffin shluffs off that top layer of flesh and makes you feel all WHAT WHAT! And at school, I kept wanting to walk around and say, Blow on me. Yeah, do it! just because your skin is THAT hyper-aware. Most definitely a nice luxurious shag would be a good follow-up to this procedure--but, no, we don't provide that option, so don't ask. ; )

* * * * * * * * *

Someone asked me a few months ago if there are ever weird situations in class where folks are taking advantage of all the exposed flesh and professional-fondling, and though I'm sure that does sometimes maliciously happen, for the most part, I think what sometimes feels like that is just a bizarre obliviousness that folks seem to develop as they get further along in these sorts of programs.

The rules we have with regard to personal space and touch in the real world don't seem to apply in the land of massage therapy school, where you're constantly working hands-on with people. So in massage school, there is often a gray area between the a) awkward and slightly-inappropriate and the b) oblivious touchy-feelie hands-on nature of the program, and it is often a difficult area to navigate.

I've found myself uncomfortable in class before, yes. I've had an instructor spontaneously rub my back for a few seconds while I was talking to someone. Last night I had my instructor wrap his arms around me from behind (in the kind of pose you take when you're trying to show someone how to take a golf-swing) in order to position me so that I could palpate the trapezius muscle in the woman I was working with. I've had a fellow-student check up on me and pack in my sheets around my hips way more than appeared to be necessary.

And though I'm fairly certain that every single one of these instances had an absolutely benign intent, nothing more than a caring hand or a helpful gesture, there's always that worm of doubt. That worm is one of suspicion and discomfort, and I hate feeling that way.

It's so very weird and sad that we've really done such a fantastic job of making touch all f-ed up and taboo and confusing in this society, especially if you're a woman. I joke and joke and joke about sex and touch on this blog, and sometimes it's for no other reason than that sex is good and sex is fun and sex is a silly silly thing (*thinking of Barbie and Ken bumping their plastic non-parts together*). But often it's also because the associations with regard to sex and massage (and the power dynamic in massage as well) sometimes make me a wee bit uncomfortable, and because if someone in any given situation is gonna be in charge of sexualizing that touch, I WANT IT TO BE ME. I want to own it.

I often think though that many of the folks going into this field are partially doing so because they are in some very basic ways starved for touch, and with massage they can satisfy this craving in a safe setting. It is sad that we often become this way. I think the reason I crave touch so much as well and fixate on it and ramble about it is because I so desperately want to be able to share that very human connection with other people without feeling a sense of threat or discomfort or suspicion. And, particularly for females, perhaps that is an impossibility. Which is really really sad and unfortunate.

And it's even more sad that it's this big self-propagating mess. You have people starved for touch innocently reaching out to others to feed this need but the others are confused and suspicious of it based on past experiences and react accordingly, just reinforcing the awkwardness and tabooness to both parties and continuing to make them leery of extending it or receiving it. And that's just really goddamn unfortunate.

This suspicion, this confusion of motives, this uncomfortability with what is presumably completely innocent touch also emphasizes to me that every (hu)man is in fact an island, and that we spend so much of our lives trying to form bridges across the waters separating us when perhaps it isn't possible at all. We may technically be a piece of the continent, but miles of water separate us from the next piece of land.

Damn am I inexplicably melancholic today.

*Donning my terry-cloth diaper and waddling around in the hopes of lifting my mood back up again*

Earthy, But Sexually Deviant

Thursday was crazy with madness and craziness in spa massage. I really dig having only a handful of people in our "class" as it forces us to very quickly bond and get comfortable with one another, seeing as you're practicing techniques on the same people over and over. And the folks in my class are a strange but lovely variety--there's M, a middle-aged woman whose mouth talks faster than her words and is always asking 1500 questions. There's S, a gal a bit younger than me who is the bubbliest but nicest person I've met there and who calls everyone "hon" all the time. There's W, a fellow who says cutely flaming stuff every two seconds (this week, he started fanning himself and squealing about how he thought he was having a heart attack) and who coughs a lot and instead of just letting it go (so as not to be any more disruptive than the coughing) always has to say really loudly "Oh, excuse me! Sorry 'bout that" every time it happens. And there's J, the salon-owning fellow with the thick southern-Ohio-esque drawl who is short but built like the thick trunk of a tree and has a tribal tattoo that starts on each forearm and crawls up both arms and apparently onto both his chest and his back.

And so it was that all of us who were quickly beginning to bond learned on Thursday how to give an herbal wrap. And this is where all the crazy madness comes in.

I happened to have my bathing suit on under my scrubs (since he told us to make sure to bring it with us in case we got to the body paraffins), so I got volunteered to be the one he demonstrated on. Which is no big deal--it's always more fun to get a technique done on you by an instructor rather than a student since they already know what they're doing.

Despite me being the guineau pig, he insisted I follow them around to find out where everything's located before they "experimented" on me. The preparation for the herbal wrap is freakishly complicated and drawn out, requiring thick rubber gloves and lots of fricking patience. On the massage table, you lay out a sheet and then a towel and then another sheet and then a mylar sheet and then a plastic sheet. Then you lay out a wet blanket that's been soaking in herbs in a 180-degree herb bath and cocoon your patient up in that along with the overhang of most of your lower-layers of sheets and mylar. And then you wrap up 4-8 hot-packs (that have also been soaking in 180-degree water) in towels and place them at various areas on the person--ankles, hips, shoulders, etc. Hence the need for rubber gloves. And then you wrap them up the rest of the way in the cocoon and then lay a blanket over them. The idea is to get them to enjoyably sweat out any toxins and to relax all the muscles in their body.

After all that was explained to us, my instructor told me to go back in the room and take off my scrubs and put on a robe. (*bow chicka bow wow--and then the cable repair guy showed up and asked if I needed him to "fix my cable"--ah, but I kid*) Anyways, I did, and then a few of the female students reentered the room donning the infamous rubber gloves and the large herbal blanket that had steam billowing off of it. They stretched it out over the table, and then my instructor told me to remove my robe while they stepped out and lay down on it--they returned and proceeded to cocoon me up in the lovely warm layers of tea-smelling earthiness. We'd already been in class for about 3 hours, so everyone was reaching that slightly-cracked out giddy stage of night, so people were jokey and goofbally and grinning and giggling at me as they wrapped me up so tight that I could no longer move and my head was the only thing sticking out, making me look like a human burrito. And then they layered on about 4 hot packs, a couple by my ankles and two on my hips. And as they did so, I could feel a sudden and unexpected wave of panic and claustrophobia wash over me. My throat and chest tightened and I tried to calmly breathe and contain myself. The sensation passed quickly, thankfully, and the warm cuddliness of the blanket sunk in.

My instructor reminded everyone that you should always check back on your client after about 5 minutes or so and make sure that the hot-packs aren't burning them. He told me they'd be back in a few to do so and in the meantime, they went and set up another room for W (they were demonstrating on one woman and one man).

As I lay there quietly, the hot-packs on my hips slowly started to increase in intensity. I pondered this. A second later, S peeked in and asked, "How ya doin', hon?" I told her that my hips were starting to get a bit hot, but that I'd give it a little bit longer because maybe the heat would level off. "Ok, hon. We'll come check on you again in a few."

The heat didn't level off though. Very quickly my hips began to burn. Fuck, I thought. But then I reminded myself they'd be back shortly to check and I'd just ask them to adjust the hot packs then. Minutes passed. My hips continued to burn even more violently. I sucked in my gut to try to get the heat away from my skin. This worked for a few seconds, and then not so much. I tried to wiggle my hands down to that area to pull the heat pads up. No such luck. So I just lay there and sweated and burned. For minutes and minutes and more minutes. Apparently the other students were so wrapped up (no pun intended) in the other fellow's herbal wrap that I'd been forgotten. And then, thank jeebus, M walked back in again.

"I sure don't like the smell of the herbal stuff on these blankets," she mused. I tried not to shriek as I responded, uncharacteristically high-pitched, "Really? Yeah, I kind of like it myself. It's kind of earthy and nice-smelling." S entered. M said, "Yeah, you SEEM like an earthy kinda gal, so I could see that." (And so goes the dirty hippie stereotype again--even more mind-bogglingly so, seeing as they've never even seen how I dress outside of scrubs.) "Yeah, down-to-earthy," S shouted, grinning. "Um, yeah. Can you get these hot packs off of me, cuz they're burning my hips?!?" I finally blurted out. "Oh my god, yeah," both women said and scurried around as my instructor came in and asked what was going on and helped them replace the hot packs on my shoulders instead of my hips. Sweet motherf-ing relief.

But then our instructor started in on the claustrophobia stuff. "Another thing you want to be aware of is that some people can get really claustrophobic when they're getting this done, enough so that you'll come back after 5 minutes and they want out and that's the end of the session." My heart started a-thumpin' at the reminder that I was completely incapable of moving and/or freeing myself from the sweltering hot burrito I was cocooned in. I began to feel like something out of a really lame sitcom as my mannerisms began to coincide directly with his comments. I started to breathe heavily and tried to calm myself down by attempting to ignore his words. "If you come back into the room after five minutes, and the person's eyes are wide open and gaping..." S____ looked down at me curiously, my eyes bulging nervously... "...and they don't look like they're relaxed at all..." S___ glanced at me again; my muscles had started to tighten, and I was trying to talk myself out of hyperventilating--I know I'm claustrophobic when it comes to crowds, but it was news to me that I'm apparently not a big fan of enclosed spaces--"You may want to ask them if they're ok and/or feeling claustrophobic and whether they would like to be unwrapped." S____ peered at me again and then whispered hoarsely, "Are you feeling claustrophobic, hon?" I nodded my head vigorously (though sheepishly) and told her not to worry, that it should pass. Meanwhile, I was using the last of my willpower to quell the increasing urge to explode into a panic attack, complete with hyperventilation and struggling and screeching to "Get me out of here." My brain was no more than 30 seconds off from this when, thankfully, right then, they all scurried out of the room back to W____.

I talked myself back down and after a few minutes began to feel much better. Powerful, the power of suggestion, apparently.

Tattooed J peeked his head in my room a short while later and then snuck in, adjusting my hot packs as he chuckled at me. "How is it in there? Was starting to get you claustrophobic, huh?" I nodded my head as much as I could, given that I was wrapped up to my chin in blankets. "Yeah, I never realized it, but I guess I'm not very fond of being wrapped up so tightly that I can't move at all." He chuckled, "At least not at school," he murmured in response. My glasses were off, so I couldn't see him--but I could hear the big fat grin in his voice as he waited for his words to sink in. And then they did and I laughed out loud. "Yeah, exactly," I said, and he dipped back out of the room laughing to himself. Despite the blandness of the scrubs, apparently I wear the mark of a sexual deviant on me like a scarlet letter A.

A short while later, they returned to my room and (gloriously, joyously) unwrapped me and then rubbed me down with all sorts of lotions. (There is a thin line between massage school and p0rn; another thin line between massage school and harems.) And then finally I was done. And I was chilled (even after putting my scrubs back on). And I was damp (from the blankets, weirdos).

I threw on my hoodie, shivering, and shuffled around, helping folks clean up so we could leave. A couple minutes later, I suddenly felt particularly clammy and reached down to the ass of my scrubs only to find that my bathing suit trunks had soaked straight through and it looked like I'd majorly wet myself. I was peering at them as J rounded the corner, and he burst out laughing when he saw my ass. Ah, comraderie.

I grinned at him half-miserably, thinking of what a fun ride home it was gonna be, my burnt-hips throbbing (I had red welts all over them when I got home), my wet ass soaking into my car seat, a loaf of bread blooming in my pants from all the excess moisture. And of course, on my way out, ass sopping, I ran into my A&P crush of an instructor from my first semester. I looked so damn attractive, shivering, a bit high-strung as I came down from the claustrophobia panic-attack, hair askew, ass dripping, I'm not quite sure how he was able to control himself enough not to jump me.

But he somehow managed.

Herbal wraps--awesomest ever.

My New Theory

So I have a new theory. It came to me as I was driving home from Massage II class last night:

The way a person massages = their personality in the sack.

Hear me out. This is either gonna sound far-fetched or, conversely, like I'm over-stating the obvious. I haven't quite decided which is more likely at this point though. So bear with.

As it bothers me a bit that I've started kinda sexualizing a specific individual's touch in my Mass. II class this semester, I was giving it more thought on my way home last night.

We're told bluntly and honestly from the very beginning that it is not abnormal nor is it unusual for a client to be sexually attracted to a therapist or vice versa. (I try to find a bit of solace in this fact.) Touch is so majorly a part of intimacy and sex that it only makes sense that being massaged by someone while you're laid out nekkid on a table might mistakenly become sexually charged.

But why is it that only the touch of certain folks has that electrical jolt to it?

Not once, in all my previous massage experiences, have a felt a goddamn thing sexually when it comes to getting a massage.

Now this semester, totally different story.

Why why why?

Herein lies my theory.

Perhaps the reason certain folks' touch becomes sexualized to us in the context of massage while others' do not is not because of any complicated sexual awakening of feelings towards them (which wouldn't make that much sense seeing as, in most cases, you know not a thing about the person, other than what they look like--and that fact doesn't necessarily match up with the charge you may feel) but because we perceive and link the way they move, the way they touch, their rhythms, etc., to the way they would be in the sack.

Oversimplified? Maybe. Far-fetched? Perhaps.

But it kinda makes sense as well. If touch and sex are so interwoven in so many ways, then why would we NOT (consciously or subconsciously) make this connection between how a person touches in massage and how they'd touch in the sack?

Case in point: my massage instructor from last semester. The man lays into you immediately and (almost unbearably) forcefully without any build-up. He is a Russian fellow, and he massages with all the brute force you'd expect from a burly Russian man. But there doesn't seem to be that much gentleness or careful consideration for the body as some people have. I'm sure it's there, but it's there in a not-so-obvious way. When he massages, it moreso feels like he's barging in on your body than working up to the force with which he is handling you.

I felt not the slightly twinge of eroticization (is that a word?) when I got massaged by him.

This semester: a completely different story:

_____'s hands are all, like, gentle sweet talk and sidelong glances with the occasional winked innuendo tossed in your muscle's direction, and then suddenly it's WAPPAMMMM and that muscle's pinned down and writhing, squirming gleefully underneath his hands, completely at his will, putting up an energetic, feisty, but only half-hearted fight to come out on top despite the fact that you know it's TOTALLY enjoying it and a minute or two from now will be more than happy to chill out, lay back, and let him do whatever he damn well pleases to it, and It. Will. Love. Every. Fricking. Minute. Of. It.

Yes.

And apparently I'm all about that.

Granted, a lot of your massage technique has to do with what you've learned and being able to do what you've learned accurately. But the other half of the massage is more artwork--each person is completely different. No two touches are the same. And you work your magic in such a way that your body sings it out. Your massage has its own personality, and that's something that you won't be able to change much about. And, just like with sex, not only the client but you as a massage therapist may find yourself excited and spent once it's all over with (my experience with Big Blond Stoner Boy being a perfect example).

I think about some of the other folks in the class too, and it gets me thinking about the general trend of touch in there: the guys are almost always more forceful and assertive (though some of them rather clumsily so) while the majority of women in there err on the side of being too gentle and not aggressive enough. Also intriguing, no? I'd suspect that almost every one of the way-too-light massage therapists in there probably are the more subservient types in the sack--they like (or dislike, but still choose) to just lie back and let the other person be in charge. They're not assertive, and they don't demand to be pleased the way they deserve to be.

Then you've got me--I am bossy and forceful when it comes to massaging. At first I erred on the part of being too gentle in class, but lately, I've been feeling like I'm growing into my massage finally, now that I know that, even if I put all my force into it, chances are I'm not gonna hurt someone. I feel like I'm coming into my own, finding my technique, and I'm really starting to enjoy myself now. I've been told I have very strong hands on several occasions, and I chalk that up to a compliment, seeing as way too many women that have massaged me have featherweight touches. I'm very much assertive nowadays, and I like to feel like I'm in charge. I like and want your muscles to melt underneath my touch. Even when I don't know *what* the hell I'm doing sometimes, I do it self-assuredly in the hope that it'll at least convince the person I'm massaging that I know what's going on. (Not to mention that I like to find tender spots and make people scream as I work the shit out of them until they're singing in joyous ecstasy--a bit of the S&Mer in me, perhaps.)

And yeah, you can make the leap here, and (unless someone would like to argue, or unless someone would like to find out for themselves and *then* argue) it'd be a fairly accurate one.

Perhaps this connection is so obvious that it doesn't require me even remarking upon it. Perhaps it only just makes sense. And perhaps it's not so much the connection between massage and sex as it is massage and personality (which is then reflected in how a person is in the sack). But whatever which way, it's totally fascinating to me.

And needless to say, I am the BEST MASSAGE YOU'LL EVER HAVE.

No-Nipples Clause

This weekend, I had the opportunity to practice my massage techniques on folks at a friend's party.

Note to self: When you go professional, be sure to add a "No showing me your nipples after massage procedure has been completed" clause to your contract.

I'm starting to think there's something wrong with me and I have some weird subconscious teacher-student sexual fantasy lurking somewhere in the deep recesses of my skull, 'cause now I'm finding myself occasionally jonesing for a quick jump in the lap of yet ANOTHER instructor (or sometimes just to pet his head like a little puppy). Not *all* the time. But every once in a while. AND I HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO CLUE WHY.

First it was The Bane of My Existence, and now this. What in god's name is the matter with me?

The weird thing is I've never *ever* been one of those folks who gets fiendish crushes on their teachers--not in high school, not in college, not in grad school.

Perhaps I've just acquired a taste for the sexy bite of brilliantly intelligent, strong men? (I suppose this wouldn't be that much of a newly-acquired taste though, since those're the kinds of folks I've *always* been attracted to.)

Perhaps I'm weirdly attracted to the brisk, anal-retentive, cut and dry, authoritative nature of folks because it leaves me intrigued about the soft spots that must be lying somewhere underneath it all, especially when they occasionally give a brief glimpse of these soft spots through little glitches of insecurities and/or weaknesses? Perhaps this is attractive to me because I do the same kind of things, so I'd like to think that there is, in fact, a good and beautiful person underneath it all?

Perhaps I am attracted to them because they offer up a hard-headed challenge to me and there's something extremely erotic in the idea of making someone who appears so strong and powerful bow down submissively before me?

Either that or I'm suddenly just becoming masochistically attracted to people whose personalities run completely counter to my own and who I'm torn between hating and wanting to lick.

I'm starting to think the latter may be true. Which is bizarre and disturbing but actually explains a whole helluva lot.

Inappropriate!

I've been lax at posting here over the past week, mainly because I've been out of town, and when I have been in town, I've been busy studying my ass off for two quizzes this week. But I'm back. At least for a brief verbal jaunt.

Last Wednesday, we learned how to give chair massages in my Massage II class. Our instructor played a video and we followed along, using the techniques demonstrated to give our partner a massage.

Problem #1 with the video: the massage therapist in the video was *gross* as all get-out--I noticed this during the second run... He had immensely hairy arms, and he had like two or three disgustingly red open sores on his arms and the back of his hands. Exactly the kind of massage therapist I want fondling me!

Problem #2: Sometimes the MT would tell us to do a certain stroke *AND THEN WOULDN'T DO IT.* Other times, he breezed through stuff at super-human speeds, so it was difficult to keep up.

So when T____ (my partner) was practicing on me, at one point she found herself falling significantly behind the pacing of the video--she was still working on my hands and he was already back up to the shoulders. "Oh crap," she muttered. "He's going way too fast. I'm just gonna have to give you a quickie."

The last sentence, like all inappropriate sentences, managed to be blurted loudly into a black-hole of quiet that of course had suddenly filled the room. I popped my head out of the face-rest to stare at her, and T____ looked at me with an expression of shocked horror, and then we of course both started giggling with that slap-happy mania that comes with sitting through 6 hours of class on a workday, the 10pm hour quickly slipping up on your tired and cracked-out brain. We laughed uncontrollably for like five minutes--thankfully the Massage Nazi had stepped out of the room, otherwise we would've been up shit creek.

As we left, I was tempted to shout down the hallway at her, "Thanks for the quickie, T____!" But I suspect she would have been mortified. And plus, she never did follow through on her proposition...

*SIGH*

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.

Touch-a Touch-a Touch-a Touch Me

In an attempt to redeem my rants and raves about my Ethics class (and my constant need to poke fun at my instructor so as to not stab myself in the eye instead), I offer you up the following tidbit that I've learned in my reading for the class:

There is a reason that guys seem like such 24-7 hornballs when it comes to sex. And it makes sense.

Some of you may read this and find yourselves thinking, Duh--you didn't already think of that? But this is something to which, I guess, I've never given much thought.

In our weird, sexually-frustrated, ultra-conservative culture, parents have been "programmed" to stop being physically affectionate and/or touchy feely with their young boys once they hit a certain age. This happens with girls as well, but not in the same way--when girls reach a certain age, the touchy-feeliness between father and daughter stops out of fear, but it is not typically shut off between mother and daughter. And it is most definitely not shut off between female friends--girls continue to do each other's hair, sleep in bed with each other, hold hands, etc. Girls hug one another. Girls kiss. Girls are freer with their touch. With girls, the taboo of touch is nowhere near as powerful as with boys. Boys, however, hit a certain age and both parents stop offering up the intimacy of touch to them. For fathers, it's "taboo" for touch between two males. For mothers, it's considered a little bit weird (except on the rare occasion) to be touchy-feely with your boy. And god forbid a boy hug another boy, kiss another boy, hold hands, etc. As all of us know, you do anything of these things as a male, and your sexuality is immediately called into question.

So boys sort of get the shit-end of the stick. Once they hit a certain age, touch becomes associated with the "taboo." You shouldn't be touchy-feely with your dad because, well, it's just not very manly, and in fact, it's kinda... well... gay. Shh. And you sure as shit shouldn't be touchy feely with your guy friends, because that's WAY more unmanly and faggoty. Good god.

So where does that leave boys? Without the intimacy of touch.

And where does the intimacy of touch start to reenter their lives again? With sex. With masturbation. With fooling around.

So when you wonder why it is you can't hug your boyfriend without him getting a big hard-on over you, when you roll your eyes at how the careless touch of a hand on someone's shoulder at the bar opens the gateway to them hitting on you, when you become shocked to find out that the guy friend you are touchy-feely with in the same way you are with your girl friends wants to tap your ass, remember that fact: boys have inadvertently been programmed to associate touch with fucking because, after a certain age, that is the only arena in which touch enters their lives.

Guys and their fucked-up ideas about sex are as much an inadvertent (and oftentimes unfortunate) product of our fucked up culture as, say, women's body image issues.

This doesn't excuse their actions. It doesn't justify all the fucked up ways they let their sex-drive rule the world.

But it does explain things.

My Power Animal

Recently, whenever my Anatomy instructor starts rambling about breaking some poor animal's legs in the name of scientific demonstration or some such thing, I've started retreating to my "zen place" by picturing myself in knee-high, pleather, spike-heeled boots and him licking these boots and groveling at my feet while begging me to beat him with my foot-long dominatrix whip and grind my heel into his spine.*

S&M is clearly my power animal.







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*If you only knew what he looked like, then you'd probably find this wildly amusing as well.

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.