Happy Endings

My hands glide up his back, across his freckled shoulders and down his flanks to just above his boxers.

Repeat a few times, getting in sync with Angelique Kidjo’s haunting version of Malaika. I’ve played this beautiful Tanzanian song so many times I have to stop myself singing along in Swahili. This is why I usually only play instrumental music. No-one, absolutely no-one wants to hear me singing to them in any language.

“Does anyone ever ask you for a special ending?” he asks. His voice is slightly muffled from the face hole in the table. But the words are as sharp as a blade into my psyche.

“Only guys,” I say, “when they ask if anyone ever asks for a special ending.”

I don’t think he gets it. Or he thinks I don’t get it. So, he tries another tack.

“You know, like a happy ending? Rub ‘n’ Tug? Like does anyone ever ask you for that?”

“I understand what you’re saying. The answer is no, no-one would ever ask me that.” I give a little laugh to show I’m not offended and to pretend I didn’t think that’s what he was asking me to do.

It’s only ever men who ask that particular question. I don’t see it as curiosity. They’re not curious about any other aspects of my life.

I decide against massaging his glutes with oil and instead leave the towel over his buttocks and sink my elbow into his piriformis muscle. Otherwise known as that spot that makes you squirm just a bit. Guys like this think No Pain No Gain. If he can’t get his happy ending then he wants it to at least hurt.

We’ve already had the Pain Threshold discussion.

“You can go harder if you want!”

“Yeah, I’m just warming up your muscles first. I’ll go deeper once they’re more relaxed. Otherwise I find the muscle fibres just want to tighten up more to protect themselves.”

I try to keep the explanation simple, not too much biology or physiology and not too much woo woo.

“Ok, well I’ll tell you I have a pretty high pain threshold.”

“Mmm, my aim isn’t really to cause pain. But I promise I’ll get right in there soon.”

Oiling up his legs now. I roll the towel so I can stick a great wad of it between his upper thighs, so there’s no chance of my hands getting anywhere near what he wants tugging.

“So, do you like doing massages?” He asks.

Not this question again! There’s really no correct answer for this question.

I obviously can’t come back with “no I don’t like it” can I? I mean how uncomfortable would they feel then.

I but I feel uncomfortable saying “Oh yes, I love it!” It just sounds creepy. Like I’m getting enjoyment from having my hands all over his body.

I’ll usually try to sidestep the question a bit by explaining that it’s really only a small part of what I do so it’s good to have some variety.

“Oh, so what else do you do?” OK, so observation isn’t this guy’s strong suit. The decor of my clinic room, qualifications on the wall and various strange looking implements have been overlooked.

“I’m a Doctor of Chinese Medicine.” I rarely use my formal title but people like this need to learn a bit of respect. I didn’t spend five years full time at University to be a hooker. I don’t get any though.

“Err what’s that mean? You don’t look Chinese.”

Sigh.

“Acupuncture, herbal medicine, lots of other things.” I really don’t like chatting much during a treatment. It’s a distraction from what I’m doing.

“Oooh, what… like sticking needles into people?”

“Yep.”

“Do you know the Death Point?”

Sigh again.

“Did you see that in some Kung Fu movie?” I ask. Of course he did.

I suggest that he stops talking, so he gets a better result from his massage.

I can now concentrate on what the body is telling me rather than answering questions. Once I start to really focus I make some discoveries about the cause of his discomfort and set about doing a proper therapeutic massage.

When the massage is over, he looks happy, regardless of not getting everything he wanted.

“Wow, that actually feels great!” he says with a bit too much surprise, his red face beaming.

“So, what do you think? Lots of knots there?”

I confirm that his muscles were tight and suggest that magnesium can really help to relax them.

“Nah, I hate taking pills and anyway I eat lots of bananas.”

“Yeah, that’s more of a potassium thing than magnesium, but it’s up to you.”

He says he’ll call me next time he needs a massage. He won’t. He’ll find someone with no formal qualifications that can give him a slap and tickle. Or what was it he said? A rub ‘n’ tug.

The final insult was asking me if I took cash? “I don’t need an invoice.”

My turn to play dumb again.

“Yes of course.” And then charge him the full amount.

So little respect. Would he ask a Physio or Chiropractor if they could do a “cashie?”

After he leaves I spend extra time washing my hands and arms and cleaning up.

I hear a car pull up and check my schedule. Oh good, it’s one of my lovely regulars. No awkward questions. Honest feedback about how things are going. They trust me to use a variety of tools and techniques to get a therapeutic result. I spend longer explaining how or why certain things work. What they can do to help between visits. I’m back on solid ground and the session feels symbiotic.

And I remember why I love my job so much. It is indeed a happy ending to my day.