That Time I Possibly, Accidentally, Went To A Happy Endings Massage Parlor… And Got Beat Up.

Not long ago, I found myself with a Groupon credit that was about to expire, and with it, I wanted to find an experience that I could treat Frisbee Boy’s Mom (aka my surrogate mom) to, since she does so much for me.

After ruling out pregnant skydiving and deciding against getting vajazzled (an idea that she did not immediately turn down), I came across a foot massage advertisement. Now typically, because of the loose joints that my genetic condition gives me, I don’t enjoy massages. I tried to explain to The Guy once when he talked me into getting a couple’s massage with him.

Ask him about it.

No seriously.

For some reason I agreed to go with him, and I found myself in a spa much fancier than is acceptable for my class of human. The Guy was lying on a massage table over on his side of the room, making relaxed, groany sex noises, and I was over on my side whimpering in pain.

My massage ended when the masseuse dislocated my rib and I burst into tears.

So when I saw via Groupon that getting just a foot only massage was an option, I figured I’d give it a whirl!

That is, until I really took a look at the wording of the advertisement; “where you come to have all your tensions, of every kind, released, as we hit just the right spot. No one leaves until they have been completely satisfied in every way.”

Hum. Now I’m not always the brightest crayon in the box, but even I began to question what goes on there…

But then I found another place that looked more legit, so I bought two sessions, and that is where this story really starts to get weird.

A couple weeks later, Frisbee Boy’s Mom and I showed up bright and early to have our feet massaged. I was immediately surprised and impressed at how authentically Asian the decor of the place was. From the detailed wall hangings to the ornate furniture, it felt like I had just walked in off the streets of China.

I was a little disappointed when I was told that being pregnant, they would not be able to massage the bottoms of my feet due to the risk of inducing labor, but I didn’t want to complain so I kept my mouth shut and pretended that I was totally fine booking a massage to have the tops of my feet rubbed.

Because that’s totally the type of foot rub people enjoy. The boney part.

After being led through silk curtains and into a dark room, Frisbee Boy’s Mom and I were instructed to lay down on a padded table, with our legs hanging off.

Walking over to me, a woman, who appeared to be in her late 60’s, picked up a remote control, and pushed a button. Like a hospital bed, my table began to sit up.

“You like it!” she said, startling me both with her gusto, and the sudden break in silence. It appeared to be more of a statement rather than a question, so I nodded, because it seemed impolite to act as if I didn’t like their services.

In response to my nod of approval, she excitedly proclaimed again, “you like it more!” and continued to assist the table in sitting me up.

I didn’t respond this time, because I was still trying to figure out if this was a question, or rather an instruction as to how I should feel about the table folding in half. Either way, I didn’t have a lot of time to ponder it before she said again — with an intensity level that rivaled most die-hard-fans at a sporting event — “YOU LIKE IT MORE!”

I’m not going to lie, having someone older than me, yell at me, felt a little bit scary. And when I didn’t immediately answer, she said it again, in a now near maniacal tone, “YOU LIKE IT MORE!!!!”

YES! YES! I nodded. I LIKE IT MORE!

I don’t know why the hell I did that or what the hell I was doing, I was just too scared to disagree, and folding in half seemed like the better option at the time.

*shrugs*

Soon I was sitting at a 90 degree angle, while my friend over there, was still laying flat on her back and looking totally comfortable.

With the table having no place else to go unless I wanted to be massage parlor roadkill, she stopped folding me in half, and then placed my feet in hot water. She wrapped my hands up in a heated blanket, laid a towel over my eyes, and then with me firmly secured, blind, and completely at her mercy, she slapped a huge blob of lotion on my forehead.

What the hell kind of foot massage place is this? Bitch doesn’t even know where my feet are!

Feet or face apparently didn’t matter to her, because she got right to work rubbing my forehead, and then running her hands up my face and back through my hair.

I’m sitting there wondering if I misread the sign outside that said “foot massage spa” and it actually said “foot massage spa and hairdo place,” because I’m pretty sure that at this point, I’m going to be leaving here with “Something About Mary” hair.

As suddenly as she started, she stopped.

She took my feet out of the water, placed them on an ottoman in front of her, and after lowering herself down onto a stool, started massaging the tops of my boney feet, and my ankles.

I’m not going to lie, it was a little bit strange, but she redeemed herself because somehow, I was relaxing.

That is, until she got confused by feeling a surgical screw in the side of my ankle, and started vigorously attempting to massage out the “knot.” She didn’t seem to speak much English, and I couldn’t think of a way to accurately mime out “that is a surgical screw” without making it look like I wanted her to massage harder, so I just let her do her thing.

I’m pretty sure it was awkward for both of us.

Eventually she finished the foot massage, and wrapped both my feet in hot towels. By now, I’ve forgiven her for making me do table yoga and rearranging my hair, and what’s running through my mind sounds more like “Eden, you really nailed this one. I mean this right here, this is the good life. You should do this more often. You’ve been through a lot, girl you deserve this!!”

Just then, I notice that I can hear her shuffling around the room. I can’t see her with the towel over my face, and I can’t move it to peek since my hands are still wrapped up, so I’m using every ninja skill motherhood has given me, to not move at all, and yet still figure out exactly what she is doing.

I mean you never know when you might get slapped in the face with lotion, so you might want to be prepared.

Well, I didn’t have to wait long, because the next thing I know, I hear her move the ottoman, and come up between my legs, where she starts massaging my thighs.

This has just taken a very unexpected turn.

“OK, just relax,” I’m trying to tell myself. “Thighs are legs, legs are attached to feet, maybe this is some kind of grand finale.”

She massages my outer thighs rather vigorously, and when she moves to my inner thighs and her… eh hem… technique… becomes a bit more gentle, I feel like I can’t lie to myself anymore and must execute some kind of escape plan immediately.

But then, just like the hairdo massage, just as suddenly as she started, she stopped.

She walks over to where my legs are, places them both back on the ottoman, picks one back up, and then drops it.

Then she does the same to other.

She does this a few more times — the repeated picking up and dropping of my legs — and before I knew what hit me, she hit me.

Like literally, no joke, this woman is bitch slapping my legs with both the front and back of her hands, over and over again.

By now I’m also realizing that my self preservation safety skills are seriously lacking, because again, I do nothing. Actually, I sit there and try to hear if Frisbee Boy’s Mom is also getting beaten up, but even that is made more difficult when the dominatrix ‘masseuse’ begins to karate chop my legs.

Karate. Chop. My. Legs.

This chick is full out kung-fu ninja-ing me, a pregnant woman, in what appears to be something she probably just saw on TV and thought it looked fun to try.

If I had three words to describe this experience, they would be “What. The. Fuck,” only because I cannot think of three other words that more accurately nail what I was thinking.

Just when I am about to burst into tears, or break down into nervous laughter, she stops.

With my face still covered, she puts my shoes on. The towel comes off my eyes and the first thing that I see, is her face about five inches from mine.

“YOU LIKE IT!” she shrieks before handing me a glass of water.

What. The. Serious. Fuck.

I look over at Frisbee Boy’s Mom, who is still laying flat on her back, and has just gotten the towel removed from her face.

“You already have your shoes on?” she asks me.

“I don’t even know what just happened” I say to her. “Yea,” she laughs. “Before they started on me, I saw her rubbing lotion through your hair. They didn’t do that to me.”

“Did they slap you?” I asked her.

“No” she says, “but it explains what that noise was.”

“Did they rub your inner thighs?”

“Not for $28” she replies while placing some tip money on the ottoman. “But I may not be against it for that price” she chuckles.

We leave, me still not knowing what the heck happened, and a few hours later, here I am, writing this blog, that has no real ending, because seriously?

What. The. Fuck.

I mean I really don’t even know what to say about any of that. I booked myself a boney massage, where I was forced into an unnatural position, nearly had a sexual experience, was slapped, and then when the lights came on, a drink was thrust into my hands, I threw a few dollars at her, and then she kicked me out the door.

They make bad porn like that.

Or… apparently now… you can have the real life experience if you buy a coupon off of Groupon.