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So I live a pretty average disappointed life. Wednesdays, I take a longer lunch break to make it down to the Hampton shopping center for a massage. You know massage decreases stress and anxiety and enhances self-esteem. Those are things the contemporary male needs to worry about. In between Benny's Tacos and Ever Clean Dry Cleaner, there is a little glass door to a inexpensive massage location. The waiting area with a cheap office carpet is small. There are two blue plastic chairs and three people standing. They are scrawny middle-aged mothers who actually require a massage. There is the odd potbellied, male city services blue-collar worker who feels out of place but extremely open-minded about trying it. All of us try not to touch each other, not breathe too loudly and find an unoccupied area to stare at without really appearing like we are staring. We require a secondary spot to change back-and-forth in between, so that it seems like we are totally comfortable. It's $40 for an hour. I would not lose money on a luxury of over $100 for an hour of feeling nice. So the location has to be super-efficient. The college girl behind the counter is talking on the phone and scolding an older consumer for not tipping enough at the same time. A skinny massage therapist, who is evidently brand-new, looks scared to disrupt the receptionist to discover who her next client is. An older high male therapist behind her pressed the skinny massage therapist aside to take the centre of the waiting space to bark out: Who's here for Lorenz?

I try to stay out of the fray of massage therapists and customers pairing up on the hour. Having a extremely honorable mindset, I never ever ask for a female therapist. I try to let opportunity select the therapist and be non-discriminating. Since many freshly finished massage therapists understand that the occupation isn't for them, there is a constant turn-over. So I don't need to stress much about getting the very same loser twice if the therapist turns out to be a dud. In spite of all the knightly nobility, my heart constantly expects a cute woman, a warm-hearted hippie girl that makes you feel like running barefoot through a field of wildflowers together with her. That day was a good day. When just debris was left in the waiting room and a mindless Styrofoam cup on the floor, a brief, slim, young white woman called out my name. She wore a casual t-shirt with a huge print and workout pants. We strolled down the poorly lit hallway with lots of doors leading into treatment spaces. The treatment rooms were all the same. They were tiny. The massage table didn't even fit in straight. It was diagonally in the space. The door didn't open fully. I kind of needed to squeeze myself past the padded foam to enter an open sufficient space. There was soft music playing from a inexpensive radio alarm clock. A candle light was flickering in the corner. Ah, this was going to be my sanctuary for the next hour from the tension at work. I had survived the car park battle to get a spot and the waiting space. I would be able to zone out.

When Angie flicked her finger delicately, really with almost a disrespect, for me to undress and lie down, I understood something was different with that brand-new lady. Her hand flick seemed like a South Central hood rat informing somebody: Yo, knock it down there! It was very various from the New Age caring-- Oh my god, has your aura been bruised by the world? attitude. There was no worried concern about any locations on my body that may bother me. I sort of liked it. I'm not a submissive person who yearns to be bossed around to clean up the toilet. Nevertheless, there was a freshness and direct connection in that. It felt like a wake-up call. Hey, someone is breaking the veneer of the soft elevator music of daily veneer. She is going to communicate with you in a way that's new and keeps you on your toes. While I undressed with her outside the door, I wondered what sort of message it would be. I suspected that she didn't have a great deal of training and rather fell into it with very little training. It most likely wasn't going to be a top quality massage, but when one gets a massage, the body listens with 100% attention to every touch. The mistakes or mishaps in some cases supply the most interesting experiences to feel. That's what you get for a $40 massage. As soon as I 'd close my eyes and feel her hands on my back, there wouldn't be any difference between a high-end massage place and this.

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