Anyone who has read my blog for the past four months knows that I'm a retard. That is to say, my hand is retarded, which is to say, it's not capable of learning at an appropriate level in comparison to other hands in similar situations. Point being: It's not working. It's still not working.
I have tried acupuncture, with no results. I have never found acupuncture to be painful, until needles were stuck into my face, deep into my traps, and painstakingly into my hands. I have been poked, prodded, mangled, and violated. Which would be awesome if my hand worked. It doesn't. I still can't move a few of my fingers laterally.
Last week, I went to the SD Fair, and while there and chomping upon deep-fried avocado and a BBQ turkey leg, I came upon a masseuse. For ten bucks or so, I was able to get a 12-minute massage. From a man. My first massage ever from a man. I sat in this inclined massaged chair, my face shoved into this hole for me to breathe through, and I was rubbed down by an Asian man with big, strong (and working) hands.
It felt good.
I decided the next day to get a real massage in hopes that this would help my hand to work again. I also decided to have a man do it. This was ultimately a mistake.
The second I saw David, the masseuse, he looked unkempt, but heterosexual. He is about 6'2", and weighs about 130 lbs. His rail-thin physique was adorned with tattered, "hippy-ish" clothing, and his beard was smooshed and disarrayed like a recently stepped on cockroach. He came to meet me in the waiting room to tell me he would be a few minutes late with our "session." We shook hands; he smiled. He had a very strong grip.
Eventually, David took me back into his massage parlor (uh-oh), and asked me a few personal (yet only medical) questions. I could tell, instantly, that although he was setting it up that he would change he massaging technique based on my answers, that he was the type of person that gave the same massage every day, all day, without exception. I know teachers like him. I wasn't easily fooled...but I continued to answer his questions so we both could pretend like he wasn't a jackass. It was harder for me than him.
After he finished his inquisition, the first thing that David said to me was I "should get undressed to a level that made me comfortable." Well, for me, that would have meant NOT getting undressed, but I played along, and only left my shorts and underwear on. I placed myself on the table and waited for David to re-enter his den of inequities.
Upon his return, he pulled the sheet completely over me and I felt a sense of relief. He started massaging me through the sheet and he wasn't actually going to touch me skin-on-skin. This was a weird thing to desire of a masseuse, but it made me more comfortable, and I literally hoped that this would continue and I wouldn't want to retch at any point within the next 60 minutes. My hopes were crushed by David.
He decided he would use a technique called Tui Na. It literally involved a lot of him rolling and shaking me. Not very relaxing. He rolled, and rolled, and rolled his hands and forearms around my entire body. And even though I would flinch at his touching of my ass and hamstrings, he continued to roll his way into disgusting the hell out of me.
This rolling of my lower extremities, even though I was there for my hand, continued for about 45 minutes. I remember thinking the experience wasn't all that bad at that point. I might even come back and see him again if I had any ass pain. He loved massaging my ass...and I guess on some level, I don't blame him. Ha!
With about 3/4 of our session done, he said his magical phrase, and things went downhill fast.
"Alright, Mark. When you're comfortable, I want you to roll over."
I instantly felt uneasy. He started massaging my chest, my head, and my neck...this time, without the sheet and with lots of massage oil. I kept praying to god not to get some random erection and make this guy think I liked what he was doing. Thankfully, nausea makes it almost impossible for me to get aroused.
He really started massaging my neck and shoulders, his pelvis placed firmly against the back of my head. I kept squirming. And I know I looked like a kid who just took cough syrup. But he kept going. And he started a mantra, of sorts:
"Give your neck to me, Mark."
That's what he said. Every time I squirmed away from his slimy, overpowering grip, he would sigh, deeply, and say:
"Give your neck to me, Mark."
Well, if that isn't rape, I don't know what is. "I aint giving shit to you," I thought. I felt tense, and my body was becoming more tightened than when I entered. When he was done having his way with me, he told me he would meet me outside while I got dressed. Like a typical male, he lied. He wasn't there. He had no "goodbyes" for me. No "thank yous." He used me. He got what he wanted, and he was gone.
I moped off into the distance. Hand still not working. I gave David my money, but not my neck. And I waited for another bright idea to pop into my head...
It was to try Yoga.
***to be continued***