Discount Massage

I have only had two massages in my life. Which puts me in a good place, I think: that's two more than a lot of people, but considerably less than others.

However, 1 of those massages was just plain traumatizing... Which defeats the purpose of a massage altogether.

A little over a year ago, I went to Kentucky to spend a long weekend with one of my best friends, Carrie, who followed her passion for All Things Equestrian to the land of races and ginormous hats.

Someone (I don't remember who, either she or I) suggested we venture out to the nearby massage school for discount massages. I, being uneducated in such things, was reassured by Carrie that only the "senior" students--those soon to graduate-- can take clients and the cost is considerably less, since the masseuses (masseie? Massees?) are not yet fully certified. She went on to assure me that she had always gotten good quality results from such experiences before, and that it would be a fun and relaxing girl's activity for us.

Recap. Relaxing massage + cheap + good quality = I'm in!

After arriving at the massage school and filling out the required paperwork, we were introduced to our masseuses. My guy was in his late twenties, maybe. Smaller stature. Long black pony tail. Facial hair. Creepy small hands-- That he rubbed together nervously (a lot).

But I trusted Carrie.

We began the massage experience awkwardly enough, when I, fairly naked under the sheet, was asked what kind of massage I would like, and if I had any special requests.

Blink blink. "Um, I've never had a massage before so I guess let's just do the basic, no frills. And special requests? Like, I guess my back and shoulders?"

"Well, for instance, some of my clients request special attention to their pecs..." he suggested.

"No. No thanks. Just back and shoulders." I answered quickly, making a mental note to go Chuck-Norris-meets-Kung-Fu-Panda on his ass should he continue to think my pecs needed his special touch.

The massage began. He instructed me to let him know if the pressure was too much or too little, and he'd adjust accordingly. For example, he started out WAY too gentle. My skin felt petted, rather than my muscles massaged. I told him so, so he apologized, "adjusted", and continued.

Except it was the same petting. No change in pressure.

I tried again a few more times to get him to adjust, and he always agreed to, but never changed. Awkward. I caught myself wondering if this guy was legit... Or if perhaps the back door to the school had unknowingly been left unlocked and he had snuck in for a day of fun-filled creepiness.

Let's review: an uncomfortable looking, ponytailed man with nervous twitches, small hands, and an inclination for my pecs had me locked in a small dark room with him for an hour of oily petting.

And he didn't even buy me dinner first.

After the hour was mercifully up, and Carrie and I got back into her car, she stretched out her arms with a relaxed sigh and said "Gah, that was awesome! Didn't I tell you? How was yours?"

"Just dandy."

...And that, folks, is the story of why Carrie is billed for Devyn's therapy.