Muscle Maestro

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.


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