Rub Down

As many of you know, L and I were in a car accident somewhat recently. The result of said accident, aside from the vehicular damage, was a case of whiplash. To care for this whiplash, my doctor sent me to a massage therapist (MT). Now, I've had massages before...from women. I had never been massaged by a man. Until now.

I've got no problems being massaged by a man, none at all. Hey, if any of you men want to massage me--be my guest. But apparently, professional massage therapists require a degree of nakedness that I found myself somewhat uncomfortable with.

Wait. What? I'm a prude? What the hell's going on?

When the MT asked me to disrobe, my first question was: "Can I keep my bra on?" I think I freaked the guy out. He told me I could keep it on as long as it was unclasped at the back. Is it weird that hearing the guy say the word "unclasp" with regard to my bra, made me want to laugh?

So that's what I did. I unclasped my bra and stretched out on the table, and then I realized how pointless it is to be face down on a table with my bra unclasped... it provides me with no support or protection. But, just then the MT came in.

So there I was: feeling stupid for not having just taken it off, when I realized that my arms were awkwardly akimbo. I spent quite a while worrying about my arm position, but then I became aware of the soft music in the background. It was new-agey, i.e. the sound of waves set to tinkling music. It sounded like new age porno music...pow-chica-pow-pow.

AND THEN... my friends, a strange little thought squeezed into my mind from the oiled-up, new-age ether: when was the last time a man, other than L, gave me a massage? I cannot remember. I CANNOT REMEMBER. I've been in this relationship sooo loooong that I literally can't remember who was the last man to lay hands on me before L!!!!

That might sound bad to some people, but I actually found it rather comforting. Anyone who knew me pre-L, knows that I had difficulty maintaining interest in any one guy long enough to find out his middle name. So this somewhat awkward, almost prudish anxiety stems from what can only be described as a miracle--a tall, news-loving, brilliance-having, hairspray-wielding man-miracle.