Not quite theraputic.

Stress ravages my body each semester. The only variable is the form in which it appears. This semester the muscles in my ass and legs completely knotted up. I couldn't sit for longer than 5 minutes without losing the feeling in my toes. I stretched. I ran. I cried. I took long, hot baths. Nothing worked. So the night before my first exam, I ignored the barely-three-digit figure in my bank account, and scheduled a massage at Bumble Lane (a new upscale spa, located near Whole Foods. ain't that fancy?). The massage was great. As an ex-collegiate athlete, I've probably experienced more massages than any other non-billionaire 28 year old. And Dwayne, the massage therapist, was hands down the best masseur or masseuse I've encountered.

After a week of exams and incessant bitching about my damn legs, my parents offered to pay for another massage. I was delighted and immediately called to see if Dwayne was available. He was. So after handing in my last exam, I sauntered over to Bumble Lane, ready to relax and unwind.

The first 40 or so minutes of my massage were delightful. But then, I began to sense something was amiss. Because I'm not a modest person when it comes to my body, I was startled by my sudden uneasiness. This feeling was warranted, however, because less than 5 minutes later Dwayne subtly but surely began touching me in an off-limits location. I, of course recoiled, still not quite grasping what occurred. He asked if I was okay. I hoped I'd misinterpreted the situation. A million different thoughts were racing through my mind. I said I was fine. Then, he asked, "Do you want me to go further?". WTF? My response was a stern, "No thank you."

So there I was, face down on a massage table, trying to absorb what just happened and trying to figure out the appropriate response. I have a spontaneous spirit, and that spontaneity has placed me in precarious positions too many times. Not suprisingly, one of my many goals in therapy was/is to become less reactive to people and to situations. A minute or two passed. If my thoughts were read aloud, bystanders would've heard phrases like,

"What made him think I'd allow him to touch me?"

"I can't f'in believe that just happened?",

"How dare he?",

"Handle the massage; I'm quite apt at pleasuring myself",

"WTF?",

"WTF?",

"WTF?".

But, the card I'd received in the mail earlier that week, a handwritten note of thanks from Dwayne for my previous massage, also entered my stream of consciousness. The MF had my home address. Crap! Anyone who knows me, knows I'm a big ol' chicken. Worse yet, I'm a set-in-my-ways chicken who refuses to share my living space with a lover, much less a roommate. I felt trapped. If I turned him in, a good night's sleep would be out of the question. I would be in constant fear. I was enraged.

The massage ended. Dwayne apologized again, and I gave him the best piece of shit stare I could muster. I felt violated. I was.

After a phone call and brief chat with my therapist that night, I decided to wait a week or so to report the SOB. I hoped the delay would disguise my identity. I didn't want the skeevy nutjob knocking on my door.

A week passed, and I reported Dwayne today. But, in the interim my thoughts and feelings about the situation were in constant conflict. I was livid about what occurred. But, part of me didn't want to make the phone call, part of me didn't want to think about it anymore. Although I grew up in an environment where adults imbibed to outrageous excesses and where physical altercations were as consistent as the nightly news, I am blessed because sexual abuse was absent from my home. Too many of my friends have first-hand experience with that hell. I can't and won't attempt to draw any parallels here. I know my experience was only a taste of the poision unwillingly injected into others. But nonetheless, it sucks and it hurts.