Once upon a time there was a pissed off little princess who carried the weight of the world in her lower back and shoulders.
While she didn't have an evil stepmother, she DID have a momma who bore a striking resemblance to Linda Belcher from "Bob's Burgers", and one Christmas, this wonderfully shrill woman bestowed upon the princess a gift card for an hour of relaxation being rubbed down by a stranger at a nearby spa.
The princess gleefully accepted this present, with visions of sugar plums, essential oils, and unfamiliar hands dancing in her head.
Six long months later, the girl finally found some time to cash in her gift card, and set up an appointment at the massage parlor. She eagerly counted down the days until she could disrobe and let a trained professional work the crap out of her knots.
Finally, the day arrived. The princess could barely make it through her day at work, knowing that in just a few short hours, she would be relaxed and feeling fly.
When the time came, she checked in with the gals at the front desk, and was led to a waiting area where she sat in a white robe, surrounded by candles, pitchers of water, and a flat screen TV turned to Action News, where it serenely broadcast a story of a double murder in North Philly.
Shortly after, a woman entered and led the princess to her room, giving her a few minutes of privacy to disrobe and slip under the covers of a heated massage table.
Then shit got real.
"You here for hour massage, yes?" The masseuse asked in a thick Russian accent, as she reentered the room and began rubbing oil on her hands.
"Yep." I replied, sticking my face in the hole in the table that never seemed big enough to accommodate my own giant Russian head.
"You want extras?"
I lifted my head and turned to look at the woman.
"Extras?"
"Yes," she said, "the extra services."
I thought that maybe she meant a manicure or an eyebrow waxing- something along those lines.
"Oh, no," I answered. "Just the massage."
Olga (that was her name), nodded and told me to flip over, as she apparently liked to start with the front of the body. I complied and she got to work.
It wasn't until she was sticking her hand up in my business that I realized what she had meant by "extra services", and that apparently "no" meant "yes".
There were only two places in the area that I had heard stories of them giving happy endings. The one was in Jenkintown (just a couple blocks from where I was, actually), and the other place was in Southampton. It never occurred to me that the gift card MY OWN MOTHER gave me would basically be a free pass to tickling my ivories.
I managed to shift my position in such a way that made it clear to Olga that shop was closed. Instead she moved to my northern hemisphere and pulled the sheet down so far that I was about to have a Lindsay Lohan nip-slip. I reached down and tugged up the sheet, again signaling 'Do not pass Go, do not collect $200".
When she had me turn onto my stomach, she pretty much just went for it and grabbed my ass. A full-on, two handed, double cheeked squeeze. As I was laying there, weighing my options, for a split second I thought about going for it. Why the hell not? It would make a killer of a story, right? And it would be bound to piss off my boyfriend- not because he would be defensive or protective, but because he'd be jealous I got a happy ending and he didn't. The thought of his face if I told him filled me with competitive joy and satisfaction.
As Olga removed her hands from my butt and actually started massaging my legs and back in a normal fashion, I continued to consider the variables in case she started in on the real deal.
If it were a dude doing this, there was absolutely no way I would let him go through with it. But it was a girl, and the bi-curiosity that had followed me since high school kinda dug the idea. If she were Latin, it would have been a done deal. But she was Russian, like me, and I stopped sleeping with my own kind back in college. Nothing good can come out of letting someone- especially someone who is just as bitter and judgmental as I am- stick their Kremlin in my Red Square.
So that was that. I dismissed the idea of letting Olga round the bases, and instead let her finish up the massage as usual.
After the hour was up and I put my clothes back on, I walked back to the front desk to leave. Apparently Olga had done a quick change, because there she was, talking to the receptionist, completely decked out in a one-piece, skin tight, denim jumpsuit.
And why yes, she was wearing matching denim stiletto boots.
So there it is. The story of how I almost accidentally got a happy ending. The good news is, when I went home and told my boyfriend, he still got jealous. So, you know, overall not a bad day.
