No I don't know why. If I absolutely had to say I'd blame it on my gigantic knockers.
But I'm not a doctor.
So anyways, I've been going to acupuncture...
It was interesting and it hurt. The lady put a pin in a spot on the top of my foot that's supposedly directly connected to your liver... and a bunch of tequila came out.
Ok, not really, but it was the only one that hurt bad enough where I had to ask her to take it out after about two minutes. Does that mean something maybe?
Acupuncture was interesting but I have to say that I didn't see any immediate results, aside from an oddly heightened sense of smell that lasted a few days. If you know me at all you know that this won't do. I'm pretty much all about instant gratification. I don't have time for this waiting around crap... I'm going to die someday you know, and that day might be tomorrow. So let's get on with it.
That being said I made an appointment at the massage school that's three minutes from my apartment, and this is where I met *him*, Senor Magic Fingers. I have to admit that the only other massage I've ever gotten was from a girl probably about my age, so when he came up to me all late 30's to early 40's with a heavy Spanish accent I was a little thrown. It occurred to me that there was now going to be a penis inside my little curtain room with me... a foreign penis.
No, not foreign like "not American", but foreign like "not my boyfriend's". That's all I meant. Jeez! I'm not a racist or anything. I mean not really.... Except for a little bit on the inside. You know, where everyone is a little racist.
Senor Magic Fingers was extremely friendly and seemed to have a good grasp on what he was talking about during the consultation, and I'm not afraid of anything** so I said, "Okay foreign guy whose name I've already forgotten because I'm a terrible stupid racist, let's do this thing!"
Since I was getting my massage at a school I didn't get my own private room, I got a private cubicle with curtain walls and a nice view of the alley out back. Old Magic Fingers gave me the usual run down and then left our little soft walled cubicle of love to let me prepare. Before a massage they tell you to get as undressed as you feel comfortable with, so the word PREPARE for me in this scenario basically means that I stare suspiciously at the curtain that's about to be the only thing separating my naked yabbos from complete humiliation and then I undress as quickly as possible and jump under the sheet.
Now, if you don't have titanically large honkers, or if you're a boy, maybe you don't know about side-boob. Chances are you've heard of it and you've seen it on E! Entertainment Television... this is not the same kind of side-boob my friends. The side boob that I am talking about is me trying desperately to corral the twins so that they are located in as much of a central location underneath me as possible. The reason being that during a massage the masseuse will inevitably lift one of your arms to do some work on it. If you are not properly prepared for this to happen you risk one of two things: (1) having one of the girls come flying out and possibly slapping the unsuspecting masseuse across the face, or (2) your arm is lifted and your carelessly positioned teeter is flattened under your body weight and being squished out under your arm like some really sick version of the play dough spaghetti factory, and then that's all you can think about for the rest of the massage. Not so much relaxing... not so much.
So I rearranged the Olson twins and Senor Magic Fingers came back. I was lying on my stomach with my face in that little hemmorrhoid donut thing repeating over and over in my head, "Okay, now relax, but don't drool. Relax. Do not, under any circumstances, drool." Senor Magic Fingers pulled the sheet down so that I'm now naked from the waste up (boobage safely secured in an overhead compartment) and that's when I heard it. It was the sound of something being vigorously lubed. You know the sound... it's that wet, uncomfortable, sound that means something bad is about to happen, and it went on for so comically long that it sounded like ten different things were being vigorously lubed one at a time.
At this point, instead of thinking about not drooling through the hole in the center of the donut ass pillow that is currently cradling my face, I'm thinking, "Oh my god. Am I about to get the dick?"
|Don't worry Kev, we'll get through this together.|
Now we get to the part where it becomes clear why I've been calling my masseuse Senor Magic Fingers. Reason (1) I forgot his name and he was foreign, probably Spanish- and I'm a racist. Reason (2) OH....MY.....GOD.... the massage! It was a seriously magical experience where he did his very best to work out the mess that is my left shoulder, and in doing so won my heart.
Also, there was no penis involved.... foreign or otherwise.