Stormy Weather

No snark from me about mrpeenee readers who are riding out Hurricane Sandy.  Eeks.  It sounds astonishingly bad, even, as the youth of today would have it, srsly bad.  I had planned to make a public service announcement reminding everyone buying emergency supplies that when the power goes out, even the cheapest bourbon tastes better without ice than any gin, but events sort of overtook me, so here’s hoping the best for all you Mid-Atlantic types.

Bracing for the surge.

I supported our sisters in peril by going out for a massage at the spa this afternoon.  I snagged one of my favorite massage guys; he does this thing where he pinches your Achilles tendon HARD.  It is both excruciating and exquisite at the same time.  Fabulous.  I only hoped that help.

It’s a peenee Life

Darlings, I have had the most wonderful day.  I hope you all did too, because I am a giving and loving type.  It certainly didn’t start out as as a wonderful anything.  I woke up with a terrible neck and shoulder ache, the result, no doubt, of being too giving and loving.  Or probably from sleeping in a weird Z shape because of Saki.  Fucking cat.

Anyway, I decided to take some extra Vicodin, which I try not to do since I take so much regularly, it seems excessive.   Possibly because it IS excessive.  Still, desperate times call for desperate Vicodin dosages, so I knocked back a couple and climbed on top of my Cold Pack.  Do you know of the wonders of Cold Packs?  It’s a little pillow filed with antifreeze you keep in the freezer and when your back aches, you lie on it.  Heaven. It’s the best thing for bad backs since, I don’t know, ever.

And then as I was lying there I suddenly realized “Man, am I LOADED.”  Vicodin wins again.

But wait, it gets better.  “How can it get better?” you ask.  Impertinent dog.  It got itself better because after floating around in a drug and anti-freeze induced haze, I decided to go to the Kabuki Spa and have a massage.  One of my favorite masseurs, Gabriel, who is large and vigorous and does this foot thing that is the besty thing your feet will ever have, ever, was available, so I was set.

In the steam room there was this charming tiny Asian man with the most perfectly proportioned muscles.  Take your left hand and curve it as if you were describing the circumference of a coconut.  Now take your right hand and do the same thing.  Now put your thumbs together.  Amazing, you just made his ass!  Mmm baby.   Making it even more flagrant was the crisply drawn tan line of a eensy little Speedo. Where someone so small would find one is beyond me.  One assumes he either shops in the boys’ department or ladies wear, and I’m not sure which possibility is more alluring.  Luridly alluring.

Better than this.  Imagine.

Also, the Latino guy with hair like black silk cascading in a ponytail down to the small of his very muscular back.  Yes, it’s true.

So, to recap, drugs, ice packs, cute naked guys and a great massage.  It’s a wonderful life.

Thai Time

I’ve mentioned how I have never liked “happy endings” on my massages. They’re sort of like watching porn while you’re getting a pedicure. Mixed signals, you know? Here’s a perfect example: I got a couple of massages from Jay a few years ago. In real life he is even humpier than he looks here. And while I regard that as a dandy thing, and while being rubbed by him sounds like it would be even dandier, I was so distracted by his extreme humpiness, I couldn’t pay attention to the massage itself. And since there was no happy ending, the massage was all there was to pay attention to. So now he sends me emails reminding me I haven’t seen him in a while and I just stare at the message, conflicted.

Fortunately, I have found Pan.O my goodness, sweet, adorable, skin like satin and muscles like cantaloupes. Thai massage and a happy ending to end all happy endings. Yowzah, in fact, Yow. Zah. He is so fine, so fine, and his Thai massage involves things I blush to discuss in front of the Ladies.

Now of course there is a reckoning. Lie down with dogs, get up fleas, lie down with Thai rentboys, get up with a trip to the doctor for penicillin shots. Oh dear. I thought those days were all behind me. Looks like I was wrong.

Rub It In

What is truly one of the foods of the gods? Peanut butter sandwich with orange juice, of course, especially that rare alignment when all the components are at the freshest, most deliciousest.

I was in the mood for a little god snack (and please, without jelly tainting the peanut butter. Aren’t we all adults here?) after yet another fabulous massage at the Kabuki Springs Spa. I know combining my sluttish reputation and massage just leads to an inevitable oohlalala reaction, but, in fact, I don’t like sex with my massage, much like jelly with peanut butter. Too distracting, I think. I want to pay attention to having a thumb dig into my shoulder and not worry about if we’re both going to fit on that little bitty table. The only Happy Endings I’ve had have been neither good massage nor good booty. And twice, they came as a surprise. I was there for a massage and suddenly there was friskiness. Unfortunate friskiness.

So tonight’s round at Kabuki with the talented Eban was just what I wanted. NO misbehaving, just serious shiatsu. And then peanut butter. Heaven.

Auto Massage: It’s a New World

This is so not me

I have fairly bad scoliosis.  That is not a form of bad breath; it’s when your backbone is curved rather than the normal straight.  As an over-achiever, my backbone not only swerves in an S shape, it also spirals slightly.  That means two things: 1) the figure from classic literature I most closely resemble is not Heathcliff, but Quasimodo and 2) my neck and shoulder often hurt.  It’s why trips to the Kabuki spa for massages and my genius chiropractor Greg Gorman show up in this blog so much.

 

It’s also why our trips to Walgreens lately have included me being totally enthralled by a Shiatsu Massage Cushion they’ve been demonstrating.  I was initially skeptical, but once I shoved the old lady who was hogging it out of the way and tired it for myself, I was sold.

 It’s a cushion that sits in an office chair and has a pair of revolving roller balls that move up and down pummeling your back muscles into beautiful submission.  I announced several times to R Man “I’m going to buy this,” which meant he should buy it for me, but since he never fell for it, I finally sprang for it myself and got one yesterday.

I’m using it right now as I type this; truly, it has improved my life.  For the last half hour, I’ve been making moaning noises one normally doesn’t hear outside the backrooms of certain bars that don’t invite ladies.

The only drawback is that I’m so tall, the area the cushion considers my whole back misses by a couple of inches on each end, so I have to readjust myself occasionally to allow it to hit those spots it would otherwise miss.  It’s small price to pay for robotic ecstasy.  I may be in love.

I have none of these muscles.

Therapeutic Kindness

It turns out the yard work won after all. I woke up Monday morning feeling like I had been in a rough fight and had lost. Parts of my body that weren’t even supposed to move were creaking and the parts that should have been moving refused to. You need an imitation of Quasimodo in the old folk’s home? I got it ready for you.

Obviously, the only recourse was a night at the spa. Off to the glorious Kabuki Springs for a round of steam, hot baths and a shiatsu massage. It was truly heaven and I am a better man today for it.

Did I mention the steam room? Did I mention the gentleman therein who so strongly resembled a sleazy Santa Claus (do you know what Santa looks like naked? Do you want to know? No, I didn’t think you did.) and who was touching himself? Fiddling with the string section, so to speak. Maybe he had simply stumbled on a way to insure himself plenty of personal space; if so, it was working. Even in a crowded steam room he pretty much had a bench all to himself. I was reminded of the Hefty Hideaway’s Fatgirl Fashion Tips number one rule: do not draw attention to your flaws.

Much, much more appealing was the lithe beauty doing yoga in the hot tub. I’m a big fan of cute guys and graceful stretchy poses are one of my favorite was to appreciate them. So much better than nasty Saint Nick.

Being all warmed up and relaxed, I turned myself over to Armand, master of the Shiatsu, for a fabulous pummeling. Armand’s a very sweet-faced guy whom you would never suspect of packing Mighty Thumbs O’ Steel, but he does. A fabulous, fabulous massage.

And then, on the way home, I was longing for pizza at Escape From New York, but knew how impossible parking in the heart of the Castro late in the evening would be. And yet, lo, there right in front, a big ass spot calling to me, promising thin crusts and sun dried tomatoes with feta.

What could have been better? Well, as Muscato would point out, a naked John Abraham massaging me in the hot tub as I was eating pizza.

But you can’t have everything.