I just got a massage for the first time and I hated everything about it

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I’ve always hated the idea of massages. Strangers touching you, forced relaxation, calmness, these are all things I have no interest in. I have such disdain for massages I won’t even watch massage porn. If a hot chick getting anal’d doesn’t get me interested then your activity really stinks.

However, I’m on vacation with my family and the options today were spa day or canyoning. I don’t know what in the world canyoning is and I have zero desire to find out, so spa day got my vote.

The trip to the spa took an hour of hydrangea lined roads and culminated in a winding trip down the steepest mountain I’ve ever driven. The kind of mountain where the road is right on the edge and you’re terrified to look down. On the other side of the building is dangerous rocks and ocean upon them. I’m sure people find the seclusion tranquil and the crashing of waves serene, but I saw it as being trapped and in a prison where I was going to get massaged, and there was nothing I could do about it.

If the location of the spa gave off strong Bond villain lair vibes, the inside did nothing to change your mind. You immediately descend into a dark basement, mostly lit by candle, and are “greeted” with a stern look by a woman who could not be more annoyed by the sight of you. In front of her are candles carved in the shape of faces that represent “hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil.” A weird message for a spa, but what did I know, this was my first time. Perhaps they are all staffed by satanic cult worshippers who want to slit your throat.

With a huff she got up to lead me to the locker room, pointed at my robe and slippers, then walked away. I didn’t know what to do. I was already stressed and a person I didn’t know hadn’t even started touching me yet. Do I put that on? Do I get totally nude under it or do I keep my underwear on? I opted for underwear because if you’re gonna be wrong it’s better to not be naked while doing it. Do I just sit here now? Does she come back and get me or am I supposed to find her? Luckily she came back to find the confused, underwear clad gentleman she had abandoned and led me to a room and opened the door to reveal a smiling man standing by a massage table.

Sonnnnnnnn of a bitch, I thought to myself.

I was scared to get the massage from her but when it comes to hands rubbing my milky thighs I’d take the terrifying woman over a pleasant man every day of the week. It’s not even close, to be frank. I’m no homophobe but if someone has to rub me down and force me to relax I’d rather they have a vagina. But I’d rather be uncomfortable than appear rude so I smiled and walked in. He could’ve been filling a vat with acid while wearing a shirt that said “I’m going to kill you” and I would’ve done the same, I’m a pushover.

The gentleman handed me a pair of disposable underwear, the very fact that such a thing existed was a revelation to me, and said to put those on, lay on my back, and he’d return in two minutes. Fuck, I was supposed to be naked. I already screwed up. Now he knows I’m an amateur. I opened the package containing the disposable underwear and quickly realized I am not a disposable underwear guy. If you, like I was just hours ago, are blissfully unaware of disposable underwear think of a speedo that decided to dress like a slut. I don’t have the body to pull that off so I stuck with my boxer briefs, etiquette be damned.

When the massage finally started I immediately hated it. I don’t think I’d know I hated literal torture as instantly as I knew I hated massages. I could get a fingernail ripped off and I’d think “well let’s give this a chance, don’t be so quick to judge,” but the moment this dude touched my foot I was fucking out. He worked his way up my leg and I started to wonder what a massage even was. He was just kinda shaking me, like a small cousin trying to wake you up at Thanksgiving, while I laid there with my eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, hoping it would all end soon.

As the third song played, a little diddy that featured a rather demonic voice repeating “paradise” over a soft techno beat with random saxophone drops, Eric reached my stomach. I sucked in and flexed what little core muscle I have like your girlfriend does every time you drape your arm on her. What the fuck? Why did I just flex for this dude? Is that gay? I decided it’s not because I flex when my dog lays on my stomach. I don’t care if you’re man, woman, or beast my narcissism will not allow me to show you how fat I really am.

By the time Eric got to my arm I was officially in hell. I didn’t just hate massages, it had become clear I was also getting a very bad one. At one point I had to pop my head up and give him a look that said, “hey man, my index finger isn’t gonna cum no matter how many times you jerk it off. Move on.”

Mercifully I was asked to flip over, signifying we’d reached the halfway point of this whole ordeal and the end was closer than the beginning. He kept asking me “are you ok?” which will go down as one of the all time dumbest questions asked. Every muscle in my body has been flexed for 30 minutes, how do you think I am buddy?

Things got so bad towards the end, when I was getting my back karate chopped like you do when your girlfriend asks for a massage and you pretend you have a clue what you’re doing, that I started fantasizing about death. Me death, Eric’s death, anyone’s death. I thought maybe he’d slip on hot oil and smash his head open and luckily it would be over, perhaps he’d strangle me to death and thankfully the massage would stop, I didn’t care who died I just wanted one of us to.

When it finally stopped, after I had gotten my head by massaged and by massaged I mean haphazardly patted, like he was consoling me but didn’t really know me, I was told to take my time getting up. Yeah right, buddy, I’m getting the hell out of here. In a flash I was in the shower and through tears trying to scrub away the memories and oils of that awful experience, like Ace Ventura after he realized Einhorn is Finkle.

Fortunately they provided alcohol upstairs, I suppose I way of apologizing for the experience they just put you through, so I had three beers while writing this blog and waiting for my family members to get their rub downs. They’ve all come upstairs looking refreshed and happy as ever while I’m the most tense and stressed I’ve ever been. But at least it’s over and will never happen to me again.


PS – that headline is kind of a lie. I got a massage at Top Notch Resort in Stowe for my 8th birthday, or some useless age. I don’t know what kind of child wants a massage for his birthday but I guess I was one. I don’t really remember it, I guess I blocked it from my memory because I hated it so much, so it’s not a total lie of a headline.