My First Ever Pro Massage

**Note: This post is old.  I wrote it back in September, and totally forgot to publish it!

A little fact about myself you probably didn’t know: the idea of getting a massage gives me the heebie-jeebies.  (Scientific term.)

I think this feeling is largely due to my long private Christian school upbringing, in which a massage was more or less the equivalent (in my mind) of getting laid.  Okay, maybe not quite that, but it was certainly an over utilized tool in the game of tween seduction.  When a boy walked up behind you and gave you a neck massage, he was totally wishing he could tap that.  If a girl did the same to a guy, she was hustling for a homecoming date invitation.

So basically unless I am really attracted to the person, my first instinct when someone reaches for my shoulders is "Don't TOUCH meh."  (I had to really stifle this feeling when girlfriends did this to be sweet and I didn't want to hurt their feelings.  Awwwwwwwkward.)

After our long outrigger race in Oxnard I felt okay, but that night my back began to clench like an iron fist.  By Sunday morning, it took a long time for me to roll out of bed, and even walking around the house was a tedious and delicate task.  I armed myself with a heating pad, an ice pack, and watched an entire season of The Sons of Anarchy.  I felt better Monday, but “better” is a very relative term.  Sitting at my desk was a little torturous unless I kept perfect posture.  I needed something else, and a sports massage seemed to make the most logical sense.

I have thought about getting a massage before several times, and I have always chickened out of actually making an appointment.  Several friends have invited me along and volunteered to “show me the ropes” when it comes to massages, but I could never commit.  This time, however, it felt necessary, and I was willing to try anything – the pain was just too much.

To the internets I went, hunting down a massage therapist I would have the courage to see.  There are dozens of spas near my office, but visiting their websites gave me that gross feeling of being sent to an orgy farm.  Strangers touching me … girly smells … mindless salon style chatter… eeeeeeh … no thank you.  I needed to find a male, and I needed to not feel uber creeped out.

At long last I found a fellow with soaring praises from professional athletes who worked close to my office.  His site seemed very professional and serene.  I didn’t get that horrible creepy vibe and there wasn’t a statue of a fat bellied Buddha anywhere.  So, I dialed his number, and when he answered the phone I promptly hung up on him.  Oh, yes.  Full on, high school stalker style, hung up on the guy because I couldn’t muster up the courage to actually say anything.  Ridiculous.

It took me two more tries in the span of an hour to make a freaking appointment, and that only happened because my office chair was aggravating my back muscles so much.  Every time I picked up a file, I cringed and thought about how silly I am.

So, call I did.  I talked to the guy and made my appointment.  I penciled it into my calendar, I Googled his address.  Little did I know I was going to the guys personal residence.  Of course, of course I have to go to some stanger’s house without a bodyguard.

I had a mantra as I opened the gate.  “It won’t be creepy.  It won’t be creepy.  It won’t be creepy.”

As I opened the gate, a lush garden welcomed me, as well as an adorable curly haired doggy.  I relaxed a little.  The man came out to greet me.  He was short but muscled, dressed like a surfer beach bum.  There was pleasant music playing in the house as he lead me to the back where a separate shed sat.  It was like a little shrine with an oddly shaped bed.

The guy instructed me to undress, and he would be back in a few minutes.  Shutting the door behind him, feelings of panic returned.  How much do I take off? I wondered.  I had not thought to research that … do I get buck nekked?? If that’s not what you’re supposed to do, would he think I was a looney? If that is what you’re supposed to do and I keep my undies on, will he think I’m an utter prude?  I fretted over it for a long time but finally settled with panties on, bra off.  I tucked myself gingerly beneath the covers and let the serene silence take over.

I wasn't sure how to say This is my first time without it sounding ridiculous, so I decided he could do all the talking.

He came back and proceeded to grease me up, talking pleasantly about the weather, what sports I do, why I was there, and what my body was telling me.  Turns out several of his clients were outrigger paddlers, so he was familiar with the sport as well as the upcoming Catalina race.  His hands were disturbingly strong, I had to clench my teeth several times to keep screams of pain inside my throat.  It was also a little alarming to think, If I had to fight this guy for some reason in an attempt to escape, I bet I'd be pretty beat up in the process.

It took a while, and there were lots of "whooooa there..." moments, but I made it through.  He gave me some of his cards and told me to come back after the Catalina race.  I don't think I will ... but I'll keep him in mind.

TIP: No one told me you had to plan a shower after these encounters.  Back to work I went, greasy and gross.  Thankfully no clients showed up, and I did feel more relaxed.

Mission accomplished.