I pass by a massage school all the time and always wonder which of those gathered out front smoking are massage therapist wannabes. I applaud the effort it takes to go to school, and lots of things in my life have prompted me to smoke, but…. It baffles me. All the massages I have had always came from some fit, homeopathic, vegan, peace, hot rocks, cool tunes, aroma therapy candle types. All seemed full of Om.
Except for that one time in San Diego; she was a six foot tall, muscular, gorgeous, beach volleyball player with hands that could rip my head off. Part way through the massage I was in complete agony as every knot and muscle was being fed through a pasta maker. Naked except for my sheet, I was trying to relax and wonder if constant massages and volleyball and bench pressing daily could make me so strong. And there in her sterile room, no incense, no mood lighting, no mellow jazz, no deodorant, she wrung me out. She released tension in places that even a penis can't get to. Head to toe, painful muscles tightened by self-induced stress gave way to her unrelenting hands. I don’t think she smoked though.
I am glad that I just thought of her, I had dreams of flying to San Diego once or twice a month to have her work me over. I smile still, and my overly tight shoulders just shuddered.
Anyway, I have a good one tonight. This has been a long time coming. It stalled for a while. I tried to over-complicate it. But I managed to wait until it spoke to me. I wish you were here.
February 4: Acrylic paint, sharpie on Heavy Paper, 42"x40". It is really fun in person. I can't tell you how much you are missing here with this photo.
No comments:
Post a Comment