Monthly Archives: February 2013


I was tortured by a Korean woman today.

A friend brought me to a Korean spa this afternoon but it was members only and we weren’t members.  But if you got a treatment or a massage, you could get in for $15.  We were already there so I signed up for a Shiatsu massage.

The spa was fine.  Lots of Korean women walking around naked.  My friend walking around naked.  Me walking around naked.  I was in the locker room happily Facebooking our location when a diminutive woman called my number.   83?  I followed her into the massage room.  And that’s where all hell broke loose.

First of all, I was massaged through a sheet the whole time, which was a little weird.  But okay, she’s a germaphobe.   I’m going to say she was from North Korea and had a major chip on her shoulder against Americans because oh sweet Jesus, once she started working my muscles… I wanted to die of pain.  Now, I’m no pussy, but there’s a limit.  And I’m too proud to complain.

Shoulders were fine, go deep, but then she started working my ass and hips.  Fuck me with a sledgehammer, it hurt like a bitch!!!  I mean, I had no idea that my muscles were so tight or that I even had muscles couched in all that hip flab.  I can confidently say, yes, there are muscles in the hip flab that shouldn’t be touched by anyone.

Then I looked behind me.  This woman was STANDING on me.  This whole massage was being done with her feet.  She was hanging from some bar like a sex kitten and walking all over me.  Now, the two husbands were kind of emotionally abusive, but I’ve never paid either of them to torture me for $60..

It hurt so much my nose was running and when I got back to the locker room, my contacts were fuzzy from the tears.  My body is throbbing and not in a good way.  I’m sure I’m going to be bruised tomorrow.   And finally, no one in the spa trimmed their bush.  Not that I was looking, I’m just saying.

Moral of the story, before going for a Korean massage, learn how to say jag-eun laiteo , jebal.  (a little lighter, please).

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Despite the fact that am now considered a lazy pig, I was a runner most of my life.   While running might be good for a high ass, it’s not conducive to having pretty feet.   And while I’m happy I’ve maintained the elusion of a runners body over the years, the ugly “runners feet” have also remained.   And it’s been a problem.  A manicurist once told me I had the worst feet she’d ever seen.  After that, I refused to wear anything but closed toe shoes and socks to bed, even in the summer.

But then, a few years ago, my mother dragged me to Q Nails in Thousand Oaks.   I told my mom what happened but she said I was full of shit and over dramatic.  She shoved me into a spa chair and waved, cute, petite Cindi over.   I slipped off my white Crocs and Cindi looked at my feet.  Miraculously she didn’t vomit, she only told me to pick a color.

Getting a mani/pedi with my mom has become our “thing”.  It’s fun and not only because most of the time she pays.  We gossip, look through magazines we’d never even think of admitting we read and get high on the smell of polish.   Sometimes a little too high.   I don’t shock very easily, but every once in a while, my mom throws me a curve ball.  A few weeks ago, she pitched a doozy.

“How do you have sex from behind?”

I don’t fancy myself as a sex instructor; if you can glean some tips from my escapades, more power to you but that is not the intention.   I just like to share.  But when I looked into my mom’s eyes, I knew she needed some clarification.  I tried to show her the move with my hands and fingers, but that was proving difficult.  So, as I explained how the woman is on her knees with her ass in the air and the guy is behind her, I demonstrated the move on my chair.

“What if he’s fat?  Does his belly get in the way?  Can you still do it?”

The specifics made me suspect.  Not only is my stepfather 83, he’s slightly infirm.  It was obvious my mom was having an affair and she wanted tips of the trade.  I confronted her and she adamantly denied it.  She just wanted to know, for her own edification.   But she didn’t use that word, she just said, forget it.  I can’t.  It was proof that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Moral of the story, I’m too tall and young to be a Dr. Ruth impersonator.

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