The Ass Massage

Man. Is my ass permanently broken? I hurt it a couple months ago while snowboarding (see January entries), and while I'm able to walk, run, jump, sit, twist and shake (no, I can't make my booty clap yet), I felt like I was experiencing residual pain while watching March Madness on Sunday night, lying on my bed. Okay, maybe not pain, but strange ass (haha, I made a pun-ny) sensations -- slight cramping, warmth (not because of farting), etc. -- it just felt like my buttocks was not as lusciously rotund as it usual.

Things didn't seem right at the massage parlor. Why I decided to visit a massage parlor instead of a doctor or chiropractor, I don't know. But what really bothered me was how the place was set up.

The office resembled a bar. A long, 3' 6"-high dark brown bar table about 20 feet in length separated the reception area from the actual office space, and on top of this bar was a 3-inch thick black faux-leather pad with scratches. Behind the bar were receptionists and doctors, and behind them, about 10 feet back on the wall, a plethora of cool knick-knacks and awards, some of which I swear were bottles of alcohol. There was even a TV to my left in the upper corner of the room above the bar, airing the March Madness games. To the right, about three-fourths of the way along the bar, the back wall disappeared, revealing a larger area full of office furniture and yuppie-looking slack-offs that I instantly detested.

At the reception area -- where I was at -- there were picnic benches, brown and weatherworn. The floor was cement and the walls were the complete opposite of the stylish wall behind the bar -- it was undecorated and off-white with plaster cracks.

All the people in the building were a bit strange. The three receptionists had on white lab coats and were standing directly behind the bar, working tirelessly but smiling, taking pride in their work. The one helping me was a cute white girl, about 5'9", red-hair, thick rimmed glasses. Behind the receptionists were the yuppies. There were about six of them just kicking it, sitting on furniture, talking, flirting, carrying on. They weren't dressed in typical work clothes -- just business casual, if that, but no doubt they were getting paid, and paid well.

Meanwhile, the patients in the waiting area were like zombies. There was an old Mexican lady in her late 40s sitting on the bench, devoid of spirit, wearing swap meet clothes. She was separating two children that were with her, both of whom just sat there, swinging their legs in boredom. Other patients dotted the room, all bored, stagnant, and wearing cheap clothing.

I was conversing with the cute receptionist -- asking general questions about my purpose at the office, her job, life overall -- when above the din came a booming voice. "Are you ready for an ass massage?!!!" yelled a man, sort of like that "Are you ready for some football?!!!" yell on NFL broadcasts. The therapist stood 6 feet tall and had brown hair, glasses, a lab coat, and a maniacal smile. He was wide-eyed and power-walking towards me from the yuppie area.

In what I swear was a split-second later, the therapist was standing beside me at the bar. I could only see his torso and the bar's pleather top because someone was holding my head against the padding, forcing me to bend over. What the fuck? I thought. The therapist's hands were already groping my bare ass cheeks, squeezing them so hard that it felt like they were in a vice. Wait, when the hell did I lose my pants?!

"Who wants to see a re-enactment of the movie Heat?!!!" the therapist yelled excitedly. I glanced back at the waiting room as a brown man in his 50s casually walked up about 10 feet behind us and to my right to view the re-enactment. His arms were crossed and he stood there expressionless. Then, only mere seconds after coming to see the action, he turned and casually walked out of the building through the revolving door.

Heat? At what part during Heat does a dude get his ass violated?!!! The therapist spread my ass cheeks apart, forcing me to fart. The smell that came forth was not ripe, but old and decayed. No one seemed to mind or care that this disturbing debacle was unfolding in their presence. In fact, though there were at least 20 people around us, no one even acknowledged our presence. A picture of Robert DeNiro's laughing face flashed through my mind, and I wanted to ask him, "Is there a part of Heat that I missed?"

Instantly, things changed. No longer was the therapist massaging my ass -- I was now sitting on top of the bar, pants still off, but boxers on. The cute receptionist girl was massaging my dangling legs and feet with warm lotion. Dude, it feels soooo good, I thought. My messed-up feet felt like they could run 10 miles. Then she began massaging upwards towards my knees.

Out of nowhere I was once again bent over the bar and my boxers were wrapped around my ankles. The crazy therapist dude had taken over and he was already at my hamstrings. Oh no, I knew what was coming next. He started squirting lotion on his hands to prepare for the "internal ass massage." I began to panic and tried to push myself off the bar. Wait! Where are my hands? I can't feel my hands?!!! I couldn't figure out what was happening -- I'm totally freaking now and trying with all my might to move. While I couldn't feel my hands, I could still feel my forearms smashed against my chest as I lay bent over the bar. My cell phone started ringing. "I need to answer my phone," I pleaded. Three rings. I continued to struggle to free myself from the bar, but now my handcuffed hands are behind my back -- not that I could feel them anyways. Five rings. I could feel my cell phone vibrating in my jeans pocket, but I couldn't reach it. I could feel my cell phone in my jeans pocket, the jeans that I was WEARING?

I woke up as my phone stopped in mid-seventh ring. I was still in bed. I couldn't answer my phone if I wanted to -- my hands were still numb from falling asleep on them. I had no idea what March Madness game was on TV, but the clock read 20-30 minutes later than the last time I looked at it. Time to write down as many key details from this before I forget.


While I never really do this, a dream analysis should be fun:

1) The office behind the bar represents the wonder and joy I want to know more about from life.
2) The reception area represents how my life feels -- plain, empty, and without hope.
3) The bar table represents the barrier I must cross to attain happiness.
4) The three receptionists represent my ideal self and/or those whom I admire -- hard-working, happy, purpose-driven people.
5) The cute receptionist represents the woman of my dreams -- similar goals and ideals as myself. Ironically, she is, as my sister says, who I'm pre-destined to marry -- a nerdy white girl.
6) The yuppies represent those who have a better life than I but have not earned it.
7) The old Mexican lady and her kids represent my co-workers and friends who have simply accepted their life as is though they are clearly unhappy.
8) The therapist represents fate and circumstance.
9) The brown man represents those people who have the power to intervene and change my fate, but instead just watch apathetically.
10) My fart represents my soul. Fate forces me to reveal my soul to the world, which is not young and vibrant, but tired and spent.
11) The receptionist massaging my legs then the therapist preparing to violate me in an even worse fashion represents fate teasing me -- fate gives me just enough of a taste of my dreams to keep my hopes up while it prepares to fuck me harder.
12) The fact that I couldn't feel my hands, which were later handcuffed behind my back, represents my feeling of helplessness and lack of control.
13) The fact that I went there for help and instead end up practically being raped represents the feeling that whenever I seek to better my life, I instead get fucked in the ass.

I FUCKING HATE NIGHTMARES.