They register as follows:
Type 1
A person who goes for a massage and leaves their underwear on.
Type 2
A person who goes for a massage and wears no underwear.
Type 3
A person who goes for a massage and leaves their underwear on but is completely comfortable lying both face up and face down.
Type 4
A person, who goes for a massage, leaves their underwear on and refuses to lie face up. This person remains face down for the duration of the massage.
Now, you are probably thinking to yourself, isn't there a Type 5? What about the person that goes for a massage and wears no underwear but remains face down for the duration of the massage? Well, wise ass, I've done the fucking research, no? I'm assuming that if this person is comfortable enough to go commando into the session, than he or she will not have any reservations about turning "happy side" up.
Shall we proceed?
So I am NOT a massage person. Never have been. I just don't feel comfortable. Don't get me wrong. I like to be touched. I'm not a total wacko or a Haptephobe or anything like that. I actually love the occasional back rub from my wife. As a matter of fact, my six year old daughter is getting pretty good at the back rub herself. One would think I am the perfect candidate for a professional massage. I am in a high stress occupation. I have two small, annoying children and my body is in the chronological shape of an 87-year-old woman. I should be getting lubed up every week by a hairless, hard body, manly man named Sven and his sister Gretchen.
I don’t know what it is. During my first massage, I absolutely fell in love with the spa aura and subsequent attire. Most men would take no issue with a terrycloth robe that covers only one third of your nut sack. There is also nothing more comfortable than sporting matching terrycloth slippers that make you feel like you should be cooking oatmeal cookies and soaking your dentures, while watching The Rockford Files. Then there is the awesome assortment of herbal teas and medicinal aromatherapy, that makes me feel like I’ve checked into an insane asylum for Deadheads. What about that extremely awkward moment, when the girl upfront asks you to make a choice, that will basically label you, either a homophobic asshole or a guy who is a little too comfortable with his own sexuality. In Husband Land, we like to call this a “No Win” situation.
I will admit, that about ten years ago, I did have a pretty traumatizing experience during my first massage. It wasn’t the leprechaun-sized loincloth or even the dope, granny kicks. It was much more awkward than that. It could have been the culmination of two things. I did not wear any underwear and I had chosen to be worked on by a female. What I am about to reveal next, is very personal and should probably be filed under the “Don’t Blog About It” category but I am on a flight home from vacation. I’ve had two Bloody Marys in the airport and two Vodka Rockstars on the plane. If this baby goes down, I must secure my legacy. If my computer becomes the black box that Bloggers search for and analyze for decades, I want to do this right…
Waiting to meet your masseuse, for the first time, in your little man-tutu is nothing less than dehumanizing. It is like an arranged marriage of sorts. You really don’t get to pick and choose. Lot’s of things go through a man’s brain in that little, hippy purgatory of a waiting room. "What will she look like? Will she be hot? Will I get a boner? How do I not get a boner? What do I do if I get a boner? Is it normal to get a boner? Thank goodness I chose a female, just in case I get a boner. This tiny, dainty, munchkin robe might make my boner look huge. Cool. Oh crap, here she comes…"
She was stunning. Like a young Clair Huxtable from The Cosby Show, season one. She wore black spandex pants and a tight fitted tee. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Damn! Why didn’t I wear my underwear? She took me into my room and told me to remove my robe and lie face down. Face down is good. How is a guy supposed to relax when he’s naked on a table, about to be rubbed by Clair Huxtable, with only a sheet to separate his junk from the latter? This is about when I started to panic. I don’t remember a hell of a lot from that first part of the massage. She tried to engage in some small talk but I don’t recall any part of it. Then came the moment that made me start to sweat. “Why don’t you turn over and lie face up so I can work on your front?” “Oh shit. I’m totally screwed. I’m going to get a boner like a 14-year-old kid and she’s going to think I’m a total pervert. Damn you, Penis!”
I can imagine that all of the female readers are pretty disgusted right about now but it’s really friggin hard (no pun) to control the male libido. Not much changes for us, between the ages of 15 and 35. Men are certainly inferior creatures and we are aware of this.
So there I was, on my back, under the covers. My brain was working overtime, swimming upstream in a sea of thoughts. I was doing everything I could to fight the inevitable. C’mon man, think un-sexy thoughts. Lawrence Taylor, Ass Cancer, Grandma’s bunions, Mom in the shower, cafeteria ladies in hairnets, Dad in the shower, dog shit on a stick, the movie: The Day After with Jason Robards, Curry, spoiled lobster sitting in the sun, Sally Field. To make matters worse, she turned on an oscillating fan to cool the room a bit. This fan was placed two feet from the foot of the massage table. You sank my Battle Ship! This was the perfect storm.
Suffice it to say, you don’t need to be a rocket scientist to figure out the pathetic end to this story.
Since that day, I have been a genuine, no holds barred, Type 4. I do not trust my environment or myself. I do not leave anything to chance. Call me prudish. I don’t care.
But then…
I went for a massage on my vacation this past week. I did not expect to deviate from my Type 4 categorization. I sheepishly crept into the waiting room with my tighty whities, securely intact and my ego, fragile and brittle. Then like a bright light from heaven, appeared my angel. She was perfect. A dead ringer for the incredibly unattractive, Ruth Buzzi. The train to Bonerville was rolling out of the station and yours truly did not have a ticket.
I am proud to say that on this day, Ruth Buzzi converted me to a proud Type 3. I will never feel Out-Numbered at the Spa again.
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