I’ve Never Been a Professional Hooker…

My husband got me a massage for Christmas. There, I said it. He actually paid for two massages, and the first one went so horrifically awkward that I still haven’t used the second one. It wasn’t an entire fiasco, but it was certainly not the most comfortable I’ve ever been.

Right off the bat, I remember driving to the appointment at this frou-frou medical spa, thinking to myself, “I’m about to take off all my clothes and let a stranger touch me without making eye contact. Kind of like the gynecologist.” And seriously, at the risk of sounding ungrateful about my present, that is kind of how much I was looking forward to it as evidenced by the fact that I got it for Christmas (because apparently my husband thinks the new spare tire I wanted for my camper “isn’t a gift”) and hadn’t used it by April. I’m not big on strangers touching me while I’m not wearing my delicates.

I checked in at the spa and realized I was the only person there–patron or employee–who hadn’t had anything freshly botoxed. These people were so polished and buffed they were shiny. The attendant showed me to the locker room where the towels and robes were stored, then pointed me to the shower.

Let’s get one thing straight: there are times when it’s appropriate to take off all your clothes and shower with strangers around. A) You’ve just finished a grueling CrossFit class and your muscles are screaming for cool water, B) you work in a nuclear power plant and you’ve just been exposed to dangerous levels of radiation, C) you’ve been hiking in the wilderness for four days and your body odor is scaring away bears, and D) no, there is no D. Those three reasons are all I can think of that justify standing in a communal shower with strangers.

I skipped the shower, since I’d read online before my appointment that showering is considered polite and I’d therefore just stepped out of my own (private) shower before getting dressed and getting in the car.

Then there’s the robes. I’m on the bigger end of the big girl scale, but even I can unabashedly say that I’m by far not the biggest girl on the block. I’m pretty sure I still field dress under 110lbs. But these robes were made for people who wrestle in the peewee weight class. After three attempts, I found one that actually met in the middle, let alone crossed over and belted. Since I wasn’t sure about all the rules here for hygiene (and since they were kind of hung up on the need for a shower), I threw all the ones I’d tried on in the laundry bin. It looked like I’d gone rampantly down the row of lockers and stolen all the robes, then hidden them inside my robe. Sadly, I couldn’t have hidden a box of Tic Tacs inside my robe.

The actual massage part wasn’t horrific because it turns out the licensed massage therapist has a niece on my kid’s cheer squad, so we’d at least seen each other before. We spent the hour dogging the other cheer moms. It was kind of funny in a shallow, bitchy way once I got over the desire to scream, “I need an adult!”

When I made it back to the locker room, THAT’S when I felt like a shower might be in order. I’d just spent an hour with a mostly-stranger’s hands on my body. I referred back to my rule about three acceptable times to shower with strangers and decided to shower back at home with only my children barging in to watch. I got dressed, dropped robe number six in the laundry bin, and went to check out.

Since this was all on a gift certificate (because I didn’t get that spare tire), all I had to do at the register was leave a tip for the massage therapist. I’d also been told to expect that, and yes, it was clearly printed on the gift certificate as well. I handed over my credit card since I don’t believe in cash (because I suck at math, not because of a conspiracy theory involving the pyramid and George Washington’s eye, or anything) and was shocked to discover that my 20% gratuity came to twenty bucks. Even I can do the math there…I just paid a stranger $100 for the privilege of taking my clothes off and letting her touch me for an hour.

Now, I’ve never been a professional hooker, but I think that just happened in reverse. They should have paid me for this. I didn’t even shower, but I did wear the outfit they left for me to put on and then strip when they told me to so someone could spend sixty minutes of my life groping me in a semi-dark room with music playing. I read 50 Shades of Grey, and I’m telling you, that scene is in there word for fucking word. Sadly, when I got home and my husband wanted to hear all about it, I was then stiffed the $19.99 a minute phone sex workers get paid for this. I’m starting to see why hookers need unions (and no, that’s not a pimp joke), because us freelancers are just left hanging.

Advertisements

8 thoughts on “I’ve Never Been a Professional Hooker…

  1. You’re braver than I am! However, I didn’t think this quite puts this into the hooker class, because it probably wasn’t good for the masseuse either……

    • Oh honey, people would line up to shell out big bucks to touch this body. (I just snorted coffee on my computer screen while typing that!)

  2. I think you are supposed to close your eyes and think of England….at least that’s what Queen Victoria told her daughters. Seriously, I get regular massages because I am disabled with severe arthritis and get trigger points in my back and neck due to my posture. Therapeutic massage decreases my pain level and helps me retain what flexibility I have. I know my therapist spends 8 hrs a day on her feet and gets sore hands from what she does. I hope she is well compensated because she deserves it.

    • Yeah…since I don’t have those issues, it was just horrifically unpleasant. Maybe if it was medically necessary I would feel differently, instead I just mildly violated and more than a little ripped off!

  3. You’re braver than I am! I would NEVER have let a stranger touch me. Period.

    I have never even had my nails done, much less a pedicure. I like to keep touching my body under my own control, thank you.

    Don’t know why I’m this way – my four younger sisters go to spas all the time, have their hair and nails done weekly, etc., etc.

    I shall have to investigate that thought: Why?

    The sad part? How little of your husband’s investment went to the person who had to spend an hour touching you (there’s two parts to every question). Like doctors, I’m sure they get used to it, but ‘massage therapist for money’ is on the lower part of the list of jobs I’d like to have, way below 10,000.

    You didn’t say: Did you feel relaxed and cherished when it was over?

    • I’m the SAME way! I’ve had ONE pedicure in my life and hated every second of it. You’d think my husband would have taken that into consideration. And no, I never really thought about the poor sucker who had to touch me then share her fee with this expensive spa place. Those robes don’t pay for themselves! (And no…I was anything but relaxed because I was planning out how to look grateful for this stupid massage!)

      • Some of us have VERY strong boundaries around us.

        I think that means we have a very strong sense of self, but it could just mean we’re weird.

        What do you think?

        I correlate it with my discomfort at being served – by people who I know make a whole lot less money than I do, even if I KNOW they need the job and the money.

        It comes from projecting how I would feel if I had to take their job for money. Ewww! Which then lock into how I insisted on getting the best education and job I could imagine (which would have worked fine except that I got sick, and have NO job).

        But it also explains why I work so hard at writing, the ONE thing someone like me can do to (possibly) earn money.

Surely you have something to say about this...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s