KEYSTONE, Colo. — In white robe and slippers, I walked into the candlelit room and stood motionless, unsure of how to proceed.
“I’m going to leave for a little bit,” the masseuse said. “Take off your robe and slide underneath the covers, face-down.”
I obliged, and minutes later, the door opened.
She placed a pillow under my feet and tucked me in tightly.
“Now just relax,” the voice said.
“Take it easy on me,” I said. “This is my first time.”
Her name was Peggy, but she had hands like a Helga. She brutishly kneaded her way up and down my back, arms and legs, stopping at points that needed extra attention.
“Tell me if this is too much pressure,” she said.
I was in my skivvies, but I might as well have been nude. Several times, she raised the sheet and ran her mitts past the demarcation zone. Trusting her expertise, I didn’t object.
Temples. Palms. Scalp. The tips of fingers, the bottoms of feet. She took pains to reach areas most neglected. Being manipulated never felt so good.
Afterward, I decompressed in the relaxation room, warmed by a fireplace and soothed by soft music. Nibbling on grapes and dehydrated bananas, I reflected on my new life experience.
Peggy will be in my thoughts. Everyone remembers his first time.