Added: Elysa Vanarsdale - Date: 26.04.2022 16:26 - Views: 20069 - Clicks: 2428
As a straight male, I somehow assumed-or maybe just hoped-that the receptionist would give me a female masseuse. My sexual preference, it turns out, was a moot point: My gym only offers male masseurs. I discovered this as I walked into the small, dimly lit massage room, where I met Hans, a tall, well-built fortysomething who looked as if he owned a pair of leather chaps for weekend use.
No problem, I thought, trying to keep positive. Hans seemed nice enough, and when he lit the candles and started the Enya CD does the massage guild require all members to use the same music?Healing Hands: Massage Therapy
Massage therapy, once an indulgence of the country-club set, has become the Starbucks of the bodywork world. Hans, however, was unnaturally talkative for a man whose livelihood involved rubbing naked flesh. I did my best to ignore him, but the questions kept coming.
I was put more at ease when he moved to my shoulders, safely away from the more vulnerable territories to the south. Eventually he asked me to turn over. The flip-over is always tricky, particularly when all that separates you from full exposure is a rag the size of a postcard. But through a mix of dexterity and towel origami, I was able to make the turn relatively smoothly. Now Hans was working on my front side, so he was able to speak directly to me.
I was vulnerable, and Hans seemed to sense this. And so it was that I learned an important rule of massage: Never discuss your recent layoff, unless you actually want career advice from a man rubbing warm Juniper oil into your midsection. After a mumbled response from Hans and a moment of uncomfortable silence, things seemed back on track, and he moved down to my qu. He then announced that he would move on to my head and neck. Fine, I thought, closing my eyes.Should massage therapy hurt? - Ohio State Medical Center
The next question knocked me off-balance again. What is that? But even so, I was not prepared to move to this level. But my mind was racing. Had I done something to inspire this offer, or was it simply part of the normal package given to all male clients like some perverse form of free underbody rust-coating?
Had he broken the law? And was I now obligated to give him a bigger tip? I was confused, and suddenly not at all relaxed. The massage went on for another 10 minutes. When it was over, I walked out quickly, thanking Hans under my breath.
I took a long shower and considered my options. I could complain to the management, demand my money back and, possibly, score some gym-based perks as payment for my trauma free Cliff Bars for life? But then Hans might be fired or disgraced professionally.
That seemed too harsh. I chose not to say anything. Hans, it seemed, was working off the books. A bit of unwanted male attention is the price we pay for being just gay enough. I still belong to the gym, and I still see Hans, hovering in the doorway of the massage room. We get it: you like to have control of your own internet experience.
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No ‘Release,’ Please! Frisky Masseur Hans Is All Hands