copyright © 1999 by Christopher Okiishi

Rub-a-Dub-Dub

by Christopher Okiishi

Oct. 29, 1999

For my birthday last year, my significant other gave me a gift certificate for a free massage. I think he did it as a joke, as I tend to be very shy about nakedness—especially mine. There are parts of my body that haven't see daylight since the Nixon Administration—and I was born during the Nixon Administration. Still, it was a nice gesture. I'd been complaining about stress and muscle tightness for a while—sometimes when I wasn't trying to get him into bed even, so it wasn't a bad idea. Besides, I'd never done anything like that before, and he had already spent the money. So I vowed, I'd put my embarrassment aside and actually use the gift. I worked up my courage and a short 12 months later, just before the expiration date, actually made an appointment.

The masseuse or masseur or therapist, whatever, sounded pretty nice on the phone—no slick, phone sex voice, just a regular guy, with mild granola overtones. I pictured a pleasant coop shopper in his mid-forties, which was hardly threatening—in fact, I began to think that I could probably do this.

The next Saturday morning, I arrived, punctually, at his office—a converted apartment just north of downtown. I was surprised at my level of comfort with my body that morning, only having to shower twice. I'd layered on three different kinds of deodorant, so there was no chance of any offending stench. I'd even spritzed a little cologne. I mean, I knew this was a business transaction, but I did want to put in a little effort. Just after I knocked on his door, though, the panic set in. Oh, my god, I thought. I'm about to get naked in front of a stranger, and expect him to put his hands all over my skin. Maybe I should have brought flowers.

He opened the door, and I was struck by two things. One, he'd done a pretty good job turning what used to be a smallish kitchen into a front office, and two, this was a pretty devastatingly handsome man. Not able, of course, to comment on the latter, I gushed about the kitchen for a while, nervously rocking on my heels. I was suddenly aware of every joint, muscle and bulge in my body—my limbs and torso seemed disconnected somehow, like I was controlling them from afar with some overly complicated remote control. When he asked me in, and led me to the adjacent "massage room," I lurched after him as best I could, convinced at any second, I was going to stumble into something crystal and crush it with my monstrous girth.

I had half expected a smutty parlor, with curiously stained sheets, but instead I found myself in a respectable new age living room. I tried to sit non-chalantly in the only available chair—a wicker ensemble obviously engineered for anorexic models, and I ended up having to steady myself on the not-so-steady table, knocking over a glass of water and a small Zen garden. Not knowing what else to do, I giggled and made some comment about this reminding me more and more of the beach, while helping my host to clean up with a pair of hand-towels.

This little episode did nothing, of course, to calm my nerves, but my host seemed unconcerned. He assured me this happens all the time, which, if true, made me wonder why he still left full glasses of water on the table, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt, because he was so cute. He gave me a short form to fill out, detailing my medical history, what I expected of the experience today, and whether I'd had a massage before. I did my best, but my answers tended to mix medical jargon with what few massage terms I'd heard on TV, with a little eastern religion threw in when I could. "I think I'd like a deep tissue treatment of my superior supraspinatus, to release some chakra…schmutz," was one of my answers. This wasn't going well.

He came back into the room, having left to let me complete the form. Seeing the erase marks and palm-sweat stains, he kindly told me I didn't need to finish it, and we'd just talk a little bit instead. I relaxed a little bit. Yes. Talking, That'd be fine. But, as I had the only seat in the house, he chose to kneel in front of me instead, resting comfortably on his heels. I don't know about you, but I don't get a lot of handsome folk kneeling in front of me too often, and I was a little thrown. Thank god my mouth took over, and I managed to babble sufficiently, and soon we were ready to move on.

He explained that he would give me a few moments to get comfortable, which I took as a code word for "naked," and once I was positioned on the table, with the sheets, or "privacy drapes" in place, I could call for him, and he'd return. Once he'd left, I mechanically removed my clothes, pausing for a moment to appreciate the oddness of being naked in a man's living room, without buying him dinner first, then slipped myself gracelessly in between the drape. "Okay," I called out, voice cracking like a teenager on nitrous oxide.

He entered, and after nicely informing me that I'd pretty much failed to get the draping right, he positioned me on the table, belly down, face forward. He took a moment to light some candles and turn on some soft classic-esque music. Then, rubbing his hands with pungent but pleasant oils, we were off.

The minute his hands hit my skin, all my trepidation was gone. His warm palms alternated with cool breezes from the open window, as he dutifully traversed the expanse of my back, moving towards my legs and arm in smooth, even motion. Even muscles I didn't know I had relaxed under his tutored hands, drawing from me great sighs and an occasional tentative moan. "Let it out," whispered, the location of his voice forcing me to reconcile the proximity of his groin to my face, but in seconds this, and all other thought, vanished into a rhapsodic state of bliss previously only attained at the occasional all you can eat brunch buffet.

I awoke over an hour later, finding myself somehow on my back, and the room deserted. I could hear the water running in the other room, and I assumed we were done. I stood up, savored my nakedness for a moment until I caught sight of my reflection in a Feng-Shuay mirror. Then, dressed quickly, gathered my belongings, and prepared to go.

"You were great!" I gushed as I shook my host's hand. I wasn't sure if I should tip him, or kiss him goodbye, so I clumsily did neither. Instead, proving that though I may be gay, I'm still a guy, I took his number and promised to call. My body alive like it hadn't been in years, I ambled down the stairs and into my car, sure that everyone could see the glow of experience on my face. I was no longer a virgin.

I know I'm gonna see the masseur from time to time around town, occasionally catching his glance and smiling in recognition before realizing who he is. And I'm sure I'll turn away in embarrassment because I've been too busy to call. But for now, I feel good. I'm at home and centered in my own body, and though on the drive home, I can feel the weight of obligation, and the load of regret repositioning themselves into the groove they've worn in my shoulders, for a moment I was free, and that was the best gift you could have ever given me.

"Rub-a-Dub-Dub" IS COPYRIGHTED MATERIAL AND MAY NOT BE DOWNLOADED, TRANSMITTED, PRINTED OR PERFORMED WITHOUT THE EXPRESS PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR

"Rub-a-Dub-Dub" debuted October 29, 1999, performed by Chris Okiishi.

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