Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Paying for Pain, Not Pleasure

There must be a reason I don't get massages that often. I have only had a few in my life, but the ones I have had were surprisingly pleasant....until this weekend in Las Vegas.

When I was asked at this beautiful spa overlooking an amazing hotel what type of massage would I prefer this lovely warm morning.

I was very honest and expressed the fact I'm not that familiar with categories of relaxation and anything to remove this little twinge in my back after my five hour flight to Las Vegas would be the most desirable.

DESIRABLE? After 45 minutes with this little lady with hands of steel, I can't even spell masssage anymore. Yes, the first 15 seconds were bliss with her teasing me with the delightful sounds, aromas and low lights.

Then for the rest of my conscious session, I felt as thought I was in a slow motion car wreck without air bags.

Little did I know until after I paid for this "massage", they chose a deep tissue, fusion therapy for me --which in Las Vegas, stands for


I truly haven't experienced that much pain since I had multiple root canals years ago and the dentists has a Polaroid of how I left my fingernails embedded in his chair for all the future patients to be forewarned.

As I grunted with each elbow jarring pressure point on my back and shoulders, I was praying for my time to end both in the room and on this earth. My masseuse, Max, which was short for Maxine or perhaps she couldn't afford to legally change her name after the OPERATION, tried to ensure me that all is well in the city that never sleeps, nor can they after spending time with her.

"Are you COMFORTABLE?" crackled her words through a five pack a day voice box. "SURE, I always like discovering new muscles and bones in my body that have been dormant since the 5th grade." Yes, I literally had Joe Pesci with breasts asking me, "I'm funny? I'm funny how? DO I AMUSE YOU?" as she snapped my body with each roll of her knuckle and I swear she hit my belly button....FROM my back.

I don't know which was worse, when she started to crush the left side of my body not knowing what part of me was going to break first--or anticipating the right side KNOWING what she was going to do with the only part of me not ready for traction.

A short pause for her to reload her hands (and for me to plan my escape) she continued this Spanish inquisition by pouring hot blistering oil on me from above like I was trying to raid her King's castle. I am here trying to enjoy my time in Las Vegas and I end up having my own personal MASSAGE NAZI screaming as she punished me to oblivion, "NO PLEASURE FOR YOU".

I'm only speaking for myself, but If I'm going to be laid out on a nice leather bed all vulnerable in the state of Nevada, I at least want to know why I'm being labeled as a "bad boy"...Y'know what I'm saying?

At the end of the the Jack Bauer (24) interrogation of my body and mind, she left me helpless in the room alone to pick up my robe, slippers and strength, but my innocence was left on that table for others to again be forewarned as my next therapy session will take place on a leather couch and prescription drugs.

They say what happens in Vegas stays there. But that shouldn't include my dignity, $175.00 and the ability to speak in full sentences just to cry Uncle repeatedly until they find me a new legal guardian to remove me from the premises.

1 comment:

Brad said...

Nice. Nothing like a little reality to the whole, "What happens in Vegas, gets blogged about and shared all over the Interwebz".