body

In Jennie Livingston's 1989 documentary Paris Is Burning, there's a shot of one of the subjects at a ball, descending the stage, completely naked. "Body!" shouts one of the MCs into a mic from the floor as the crowd goes wild, "Body! Body! Body!"

It is with this in mind that I began the day. An imaginary voice-over followed me from the bedroom to the kitchen and bath, exclaiming the word over and over. My knee has healed, and I took the last dose of nausea-inducing antibodies, but I am dragging stress around with me like a giant bag of rocks. The muscles of my upper-back, neck, and right shoulder are twisted up, stiff and painful, and there's a big red zit next to my right nostril. I'm scruffy. "Body!" I hear echoing in my head, "Body! Body! Body!"

And so what to do? I made an appointment with a place in the neighborhood that advertises for massage. I described the place to a friend, who queried, "THAI massage? Isn't that the kind that finishes with a happy ending?" No, no, I assured her, this place is legit. I looked up the website and it should be fine.

But I wasn't so sure once I got in and I met my massage therapist, Pauline, who was wearing a lot of make-up and, of all things, a short skirt. That seemed unusual. Where were her Birkenstocks? Nose-ring? She led me to a little room and I disrobed, leaving my boxers on for good luck.

"First time here?" she asked. Yes. I laid down on this futon-like mattress and the massage began. A lot of warm oil poured over my back. But she seemed awfully close -- practically sitting right on top of me. Shouldn't I be up on some sort of table?, I wondered, and shouldn't she be walking around this table?

She bent over my shoulder and whispered into my ear, Did I want a simple massage or deep tissue? Deep, I replied, I twisted a muscle in my neck. I could feel her breathing on my neck and she murmured very slowly, "Ahhh . . . IIII liiiike youuurrrr tattoooooo." She pulled one of my arms back and laid my hand so that my fingertips touched right above her knees. A bit hesitantly, I pulled them away. She picked them up and rubbed them, and put them back pretty close to where they were originally.

I decided right then and there that I could very easily say "Stop it" or "That's not why I'm here" if anything more unusual started happening -- No problem. But I was super-disappointed about the whole thing because, really, that's NOT why I was there, and I was afraid that the $80 I spent was not going to do a damn thing for the knots in my back and neck. Okay, I thought, why don't I just take a deep breath, relax into the massage, and see what happens.

A few minutes later, Pauline got up from beside me and, much to my alarm, she removed her skirt. The lights, mind you, were very, very dim, and it wasn't like she was completely naked, but she certainly was no longer wearing the skirt that she came in with. She climbed on top of my back and started, how to describe it? kneeing? yes, kneeing the oil into my shoulders. Kneeing it, if you can picture that, with her thighs sliding back and forth along my sides. It all happened very quickly. When I finally got around to responding, I uttered, a little louder than I wanted to, "Um!?!" She stopped. "Does it hurt?" "No," I said. "Okaaayyy, let me knooooow if it doooeesssss," she soothed. And I thought, But! I can feel! Your crotch muscles! Tightening! Against my spine!

Is this normal? Maybe this is what is meant by "deep tissue."

The knees in the upper-back, though, was super-intense, and they did the trick of pushing the knots in my back flat for about ten minutes. She used her elbows, too, then climbed down off my back and did my legs, head, and neck. The next thing I knew, the massage was over, and I was beginning to wonder if maybe the back-climbing part of things was just the way this woman liked to work. As soon as that part was over, she reattached her skirt and kept on working. So maybe it's all in my head?

Recently a friend of mine, let's call her Wendy, went to visit a massage therapist and had an orgasmic release. Wendy didn't go to the therapist for a happy ending, it just happened that way, and from what I remember of her description, the therapist was very cool about the whole thing. While a different experience from my own, I thought about Wendy's massage as I was walking home, and thought about how work on the body might always verge on the sexual depending on how we think of it.

And so this is how I spent the morning of H/town's Pride Celebration, with a nearly-naked woman sliding around on my back. I have to say, hours later, that something really worked. The knots are still there, but the severity of the stiffness is nowhere near as bad as it was. The massage was actually quite good, although I don't think I'll be going back. It was too oily.

But H. and I will be heading out to the parade this evening, rain or shine. Our street already has little places marked off for the floats. It's one of the good things about living so close to Westheimer -- we can walk to the parade and meander down the street, pop into a bar and have a couple of beers. I know I'll be keeping my eyes peeled for Cyndi Lauper and Margaret Cho, both of whom are in town for a live performance tomorrow, and both of whom are rumored to make an appearance in Montrose tonight. I'll bring the camera.