While viewing a Ted McCagg cartoon, Jeffrey Pillow remembers an incident when he was 17 involving a bottle of massage oil, a 58-year-old masseuse, and his penis.
“We have a surprise I really think you’ll like,” my mom and sister said.
It was the eve of my high school graduation and I was about to party like it was 1999.
Because it was 1999.
“There’s only one catch. You have to be there at a certain time this coming Saturday.”
Finally, my mom had caved. She was going to sign for me to get that tattoo I had been talking about for so long. I had even drawn out the design: a skull with an old man’s hat with a safety pin sticking out the brim and a pair of dice rolled off to the side. The skull would be smoking a cigarette.
Only that wasn’t it. I would learn as much twenty-four hours after receiving my diploma.
“A professional massage,” my mom said. “I figured with all the stress leading up to final exams, you could use one.”
Fuck, I thought. I’m never getting that tattoo.
I got there early, arriving at 9:45 AM. My appointment was at 10:00.
“I hope this bitch is hot,” I said to myself, walking up the brick steps. I popped a stick of Teaberry gum in my mouth so that my breath would be fresh.
“Just go in the room right there and slip off your shorts,” the lady said. I assumed she was the receptionist.
She was approximately 58-years-old with a soft face and gray/white hair, cut short like women cut it once they hit 46 and give up on looking like women. She wore light green polyester slacks. She had a fupa. I would later learn this terminology from my well-mannered wife.
“Fupa?” I asked.
“Yeah, Fat Upper Pussy Area,” my wife said.
It was the first time I had heard my wife say the p-word.
“Say it again,” I said.
“No, the p-word.”
From Urban Dictionary [dot] com:
Fat Upper Pussy Area (aka. Gunt) -You’ve all seen them, most commonly associated with obese burnt out High School Teachers (Good God man, I’ve seen FUPAS swallow an entire desk whole!) and the Wolf Pack (You know who you are).
Causes: Fupatitis P.
Only known cure: Fupandectomy
Used in a sentence:
Biiiaatch, get your god damn FUPA off my desk!!
Mrs. Addis, I mean Da’aaaam! (nuff said)
Look at dem fupers over der eh. (Canadian Fupa sighting)
Bertha’s pouch above her vagina is bigger than the rest of her body. She’s bigger than the Fupapottomaus, she is a FupaSaurus Rex.
I entered the room to change and first took off my shirt and socks. I swished around the Teaberry juice in my mouth to get the flavors all across my palette. I didn’t want to have bad breath. You know, just in case. I’d read many a Penthouse Forum letter about massage clinics. I knew what sometimes went on in these establishments –- and I was 17. A man can dream when he’s 17, even if he can’t dream at any other time in his life. The possibility existed that this adventure might end in ecstasy, and if that possibility existed, by George I would be ready.
As I was taking off my shorts, the 58-year-old woman with a fupa opened the door.
“What’s taking you so long?” she asked peeking over at me. She had two small white towels in her hand.
Jesus, give me a second, I thought. I’ve only been in here two seconds.
“Well, let me know when you’re ready. I’ll be waiting in the lobby when you’re done.”
She’d be waiting? Shouldn’t she be at the front desk answering the phone?
I was lying face down on my stomach when she entered, my face peering through a hole cut out in the bed. I saw her clean white shoes as she entered and those green polyester pants. A towel was over my bottom. The 58-year-old woman was not the receptionist. She was my masseuse for the morning. She squirted some massage oil in her hands and began by rubbing my shoulders and neck then worked her way down my spine. Such soft, delicate hands, I thought, yet so strong.
Oh God, this feels so good. Why have I never had a professional massage before? Knead the bread, I thought as she took the muscles of my back into her hands. Just knead the bread.
Who cares if she’s not a stunning 18-year-old brunette?
“Any areas of special interest you’d like me to work on?” she asked.
“All over,” I said. “But if you could do my calf muscles and legs for a little bit that would be great. I play basketball religiously.”
She squirted some more massage oil in her hands and worked on my calves first then my feet. Then she made her way up my hammies. They were so tender. Man, I really underestimated how good this could feel.
Holy shit, she’s getting close to my thighs.
Oh my God, I’m getting a semi.
Fat women. Fat women.
Fat women in purple leotards. Fat women in purple leotards.
Fat women in purple leotards riding unicycles.
Oh my God, she just graced my perineum.
I’m sure it was an accident. Definitely an accident.
She went down my hamstrings again and to my calves.
Then she came back up.
Oh my God, it wasn’t an accident.
She just touched my perineum again. And my balls.
Oh my God, she touched my balls. Oh my God, my penis is getting swollen. Oh my God, she’s going to hit my penis with her hand. It’s facing my knees. It’s facing my knees.
I should have worn boxer briefs. Boxers was a bad idea.
“What is wrong with you Jeff?” my internal narrator Jason said to me. “She’s 58 for crying out loud!”
I’m very well aware of this, asshole.
Like what? Excuse me, you just touched my balls and now I have an erection?
“She knows what she’s doing,” Jason said. “What are you going to do when she tells you to flip over?”
Oh no, I hadn’t thought of that.
I had to figure out a way to position my penis so it was lying flat on my belly.
There was no way to be subtle though I tried. I lifted my crotch from the table and positioned my penis flat against my belly.
This is humiliating.
“Just go with it,” my penis said.
Hey, fuck you buddy. She’s gotta at least be 58. She’s wearing green polyester pants.
“Grass on the field, play ball.”
“Penis,” Jason said. “SHUT . . . THE FUCK . . . UP! This woman’s vagina is up to her belly button.”
“Mmm,” penis said. “Vagina.”
“Alright,” the masseuse said. “Flip over so we can get your front.”
Then she began working on the front of my shoulders and arms.
She’s gotta know, I thought.
Then she began massaging my chest and ribs.
Oh my God, the towel just moved.
“Reporting for duty, sir,” penis said.
Flaccid. Become flaccid. Oh please become flaccid.
She must have seen that. There’s no way she didn’t see that.
This is the worst day of my life. Someone’s grandma is getting me hard.
Fifteen minutes later, the massage was over. She left the room and I stood up, erect as a newly placed statue in the town square. I put my t-shirt on and pulled my shorts up, positioning my swollen, aching penis under my waistband. I walked to the front desk with my gift card.
“Thank you,” I said to the 58-year-old woman with a fupa.
“Thank you. Come again,” she said with a smile.
That bitch is mocking me, I thought as I walked out the door and down the brick steps.
“How was it?” my mom asked as I entered my home.
“It felt really good,” I responded. Then I went upstairs to my bedroom and locked the door.
[Insert happy ending here]