Up from the deep tissue...

I don't splurge on too many indulgences. Sure, I'll polish off a jar of peanuts without drawing a breath. Sometimes I'll add an extra sheet of fabric softener with the wash. If I'm feeling particularly brazen, I'll treat my Saturn to premium. I tend towards frugality.

After playing desk jockey for a while now, I've realized that massage, once regarded as frivolous luxury is now necessity. Massage Envy is a national chain of parlors, each offering memberships for fifty dollars a month, and I've spent that on far, far less. It's comforting, the chain status. Yes, I've seen the ads in the back of City Pages for 'clean, discreet service,' but I'd much rather my neck be burning than my penis.

I'm greeted at the front-desk by Karen, whom I've seen before. She's a short, wiry, elfin raven with a combustible stare. She asks me what I want. 'Well, I've got tension in my neck from slumping at my desk like a sad, pale computer beast.' I suddenly feel extremely close to this person, like I'm on the verge of spilling every private detail no other therapist could coax from me.

Immediately, I'm undressed to my skivvies, and lying prostrate on a small, elevated pad. The music overhead is Chinese, Enya stuff. I wonder if, after listening to it all day, the staff craves something like Judas Priest. Still, it's relaxing. My face is submerged in a hollowed-donut pillow, which allows for just enough space for my nose to protrude, and drip...drip...drip...

It's allergy season, and my sinuses are gaping. All the while I'm trying to breathe deeply through my congestion, and so wind up sounding like some pervert on a sex chat. 'You've got great hands,' I say, and hope that's a common enough comment. I always wonder how often they're hit on, or if any of them has ever been fired for reciprocating. None of them wear rings, so it's hard to tell if they're single, which adds to the allure.

Karen doesn't say anything for fifty minutes except 'flip over.' It's odd, really: I'll see this woman at least twelve times a year under circumstances that, were I with my girlfriend, would be considered quite intimate. Then, I'll pay her for her services, pull up my pants, and leave, reeking of lavender for the rest of the day. I'll never know anything else about her, and I wouldn't have it any other way.