"Hamlet is clearly crazy cause he wants to bang his mommy, but his mommy would rather suck off his uncle." The only time you can get away with nonsense like that is in a Shakespeare final exam, which is, coincidentally, my final final of the semester. Of course, I didn't put it quite as crudely as that, but the general idea was there, and I might have thrown in a few of Sheldon's 'coitus-es' for good measure. It was the final exam after all - the last two hours standing between my hard earned freedom and I - so who can really bring themselves to care about the utter bullshit that's pouring out onto my exam script. The girl humming behind me during the exam certainly wasn't in the mood to worry her pretty little head over it, and neither was I, with my pretty big head.
I walked out of Humanities 3650 a changed man. The refreshing icy wind on my face and the weight of the world lifted, I was free as a bird as bored out of my mind. I had spent so much time anticipating the end of the finals, that I didn't actually think of what I was going to do when the time came. A teeny bit deflated but still jolly and determined to enjoy the formal start of my winter break, I resolutely strutted back out of the building, Levi's duffel in hand, and promptly slipped on the gathering ice.
One thing I had to look forward to this evening was a full body Swedish massage. Last night, struck by a sudden inspiration and flash of insight - that I deserve something splendid after all that I've been through these months - I began pounding furiously onto Google Maps to search for the nearest Day Spas. I hadn't typed this excitedly into a search engine since that video of Miley sucking a big one surfaced. The first and biggest bubble that popped up on the map of Madison pointed to 'Rising Sun', on 117 West Main. Looks promising, I pondered, looking at the 4/5 star rating the Google-reviewers gave that place. The more I read up on the review, however, the more shady it sounded. Things like 'Specialties: 12 Female Attendants To Serve You', when put in the context of a massage, manages to sound even sluttier than Halloween with the Kardashians.
One apparently very satisfied reviewer: "I visited today for the first time. 70 for room and 70 for the service. Ryan welcome me and took to the room and the shower and back in room. Ryan an old girl that I want and is very cooperative and nice body. She did whatever I asked and gave a good service. Nice lady and nice body. I will visit again for the same girl. The end was happy and pleasure"
Needless to say I tried to back out of that browser page as quickly as possible, before my cursor catches some STD from poking around the wrong places. To my surprise, I discovered that the Kaivalya Yoga in my very building has massage services, so I went ahead and booked an hour's slot for today.
That classic dilemma of whether to keep your underwear on while on the massage table is one that plagued me relentlessly. If I took everything off for the first time, would she think I was an uninhibited looney foreigner with no basic regard for propriety? If I kept my boxers (delightfully snug, I might add. Makes me feel very sexy indeed) on, would I be seen as an uptight snob that needs to loosen the hell up? Worst of all - what if the massage got a little too comfortable, especially on the inner thigh areas... Seems like what started out to be a relaxing massage ends up stressing me out even more. I was more afraid of how the massage therapist might judge me than anything. "Look at this skinny little slut, lying here naked on my massage table as if he's a freaking gift to God's green Earth."
I ultimately decided to wear my loveliest pair of boxers with the most subtly sexy light-blue hue. She may judge me for not being brave enough to go all the way (story of my life), but she can't deny this prude's got some cute underwear. The massage itself was phenomenal. (At 65 dollars per hour, it had better be.) The interesting part, however, was all the 'Friends' flashbacks that kept popping into my head. Face-down on the face-brace, I could see the masseur's feet, just like how Rachel saw through Phoebe's fake Swedish masseur act through the many anklets she was wearing. I resisted the urge to start moaning, and was reminded of Monica moaning and scaring Phoebe away. It started to get incredibly ticklish around my waist section, partly my fault cause I asked for the firmest pressure to get my money's worth, and I was squirming a little. Not unlike some occurrences in the past, but stories of the bedroom should remain as such.
An hour passes with astonishing speed in the massage parlor. At the end of the session, I was in such a daze and heady confusion that I really had to take a minute before I could sit up and orient myself again. A lot of water was recommended, so my body can begin flushing out all the toxins it had been accumulating. For a wild moment, in my disoriented state, I thought I heard her asking me to drink more alcohol, and thought for once I had found my true spiritual leader. But nah, as usual they're all asking us to drink less of it, or the sore effects of the massage would hit you harder. Pfft, you find your way to nirvana, I find mine.
I walk out of Kaivalya feeling utterly relaxed - so relaxed I'm not even sure if I'm still alive. And in my state of total relaxation, the one truly important question of life floated constantly through my mind:
... Did she like my blue boxers?
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