I’ve had several massages before, but the massage therapists were always female. I didn’t specifically request females, they just always were. I guess I fell into the assumption that the profession is largely dominated by women. Women don’t mind being touched by other women, and men certainly don’t mind, so it just kind of works.
Yesterday, I had a massage scheduled at my salon, after my hair appointment. I was waiting, perusing the shampoos, when a young man came up to me and asked me if I was ready. I was a bit confused. I had never seen this man at the salon before. Was his only job to take me back to the massage area and introduce me to my massage therapist? It wasn’t until we got back to the massage area that I realized he WAS the massage therapist. Huh. I did not see that coming.
I’m not shy. I don’t get embarrassed easily. The idea of a male massage therapist threw me off my game briefly, but I could deal with it. It occurred to me, that a lot of people would not be able to take it in stride. My husband, for one. He’s gotten his fair share of professional massages and I know he would not be cool with another dude rubbing him down. I wouldn’t call him homophobic, but I think physical contact, outside of a friendly hug, with another dude is pushing it for him.
I also thought of all the women who would be freaked out by this. I have to admit that when I met Wesley (Mr. Massage Therapist) that a million thoughts ran through my head that I normally wouldn’t consider. Did I shave my legs? What will he think of my cellulite? Should I leave my underwear on? (I did. I normally do not. I wish I had been cool enough to go totally naked, but I just wasn’t.) Damn. Why didn’t I wear cuter underwear?
Of course, this wasn’t a date. It was an appointment. Wesley and I weren’t going to bed. He wasn’t even buying me dinner, for crying out loud. But still, as I stood alone in the massage room, removing my clothes, I felt a bit nervous. I wanted to be brave. I hung my bra from the clothing hook, in plain view. I didn’t attempt to hide it behind the dress hanging there. I’m a liberated woman. Damn. Why did I wear such a plain, generic bra?
Wesley, of course, was the consummate professional. We chatted a bit at first and I found out he started out in sports medicine. I stifled the urge to make any off-color comments about the situation, although that would generally be my preferred method of relieving my self-consciousness. It only took about five minutes to forget he was a guy and just enjoy my massage. Although, every time his hairy arm brushed my back, my mind screamed, “This man is touching you! He’s not your husband!” True, this is the only man in the last ten years, besides my husband, who has touched me so intimately. But like I said, it was professional. Again, I resisted the urge to jokingly ask him if I was getting a happy ending. I’m actually pretty proud of my self-control here.
All in all, it was a good massage. Not the best I’ve had, but it was decent. I don’t have any immediate plans to go back. I have to say, like most married women (I think), I’ve had thoughts over the years of what it would be like to be touched by a man other than my husband. It was fine, clinical, a little scandalous, but nothing compared to cuddling up with my real man at night.