The Palm Springs Story

It all started with a girl’s weekend in Palm Springs. The regular crew (Karen, Melinda, Danell, Therese and me) were looking forward to a long weekend in the desert. The thought of sunshine, heat and pool time is very seductive to Seattleites any time between October and May. It’s a thing.

We stayed at this cute little remodeled roadside motel. It was mid-century modern with just the right amount of kitsch and current. The motel offered an airport pick up service…in a limo (my first time in one). The driver even ran us to the grocery store for our foray into the snack and adult beverage aisles. It was pretty hilarious to pile Safeway bags full of Tecate, Doritos and rum into the trunk of a limo.

A quick aside; at check in, the motel owners showed us the bikes they kept for their guests. A couple days later, Melinda and I grabbed the tandem bike to make a run to the corner store. We needed wine for the Sangria! Melinda hopped on the front, and I hopped on the back. In my case when I say hopped, that’s really what I mean. I tried to adjust the seat (down) before we took off, but it wasn’t going anywhere. When I hopped on the seat, I couldn’t reach the peddles at their lowest points, but off we went anyway. After trying to time it just right so I could catch the peddles as they came up and push them down for the quarter turn that I could reach (and completely failing at that), I put my feet on the frame and enjoyed the ride. Thanks Melinda!

All good girls weekend end up at a spa sooner or later. This was no exception. We got a recommendation for a spa downtown from the owner of the motel. Melina and Therese went with the mani/pedi, eyebrow something or other and were lead off towards the comfy chairs. Danell, Karen and I opted for the massage and were lead out of a side door and into a different part of the business where there were no comfy chairs. Shoulda been a neon red flag. There were just cubicle type massage rooms with no ceilings. Comforting. Relaxing. Slightly reminiscent of an Ashley Judd / Morgan Freeman movie about a psycho killer who imprisons women.

Karen went into the first room, I went into the second and DJ went into the third. Now, I NEVER get naked for a massage. I always leave my underoos on. I have NO IDEA what possessed me to go naked this time. Haven’t since. Anyway, the massage starts normally. Except for I only had a gym towel, not a sheet. I did my best to cover myself with it since I’m starting face down and at a little disadvantage, leverage wise.

My massage lady comes in, uncovers my right leg and begins. She had a technique with which I was unfamiliar. It involved slapping/smacking. (This is where I draw your attention back to the tidbit about there not being roofs on these little massage rooms.) About ¾ through my right leg, I notice that I can hear Karen get smacked right before I get smacked and then I hear DJ get smacked right after that. Once I figure this out, I can brace for the smack that I know is coming. Thanks Karen!

When she’s done with my right leg, well…you know how, usually, when they finish with one part of you, they cover that part up before moving on to the next part? Not this time! Instead, she left my right leg uncovered and then uncovered my left one. My ass is officially hanging out! She finishes up the left leg and moves down to my feet. Ass still hanging out. When she finishes my feet she punches me in my left heel! Only my left heel. Who punches someone in the heel?!? Even if you were really mad at someone and they were laying down on a table at a height that made it possible for you to punch them in the heel and they had no shoes on and you had other places you could punch – like anywhere between the heels and the head!! – would you punch that someone in the heel?!?  I didn’t think so.

Anyway. When she moved to my back, I figured that she would cover up my legs. NOPE!! Instead, the whole towel came off in a quick jerk. Naked! Naked on a table! If my eyes could have popped out of my head they certainly would have. My eyebrows shot up so fast and so hard that I did strain a face muscle.

She went to work on my upper back. The sounds of the three of us getting smack, smack, smacked bounced off the walls. I wasn’t what you would call relaxed. My ass being out and all. That didn’t get any better when I felt a knee next to my head. “That’s weird,” I thought. Then I felt another knee on the other side of my head. She was on the massage table straddling the back of my head. Yes, that’s right. I was straddled by my massage therapist while naked on a table.

It was finally time for me to flip over and, thank goodness, she gave me my towel back. The smack, smack, smacking continued but, hallelujah, I wasn’t mounted.

When everything was over, we all three walked out of our little massage rooms and went to the front to pay. We were completely silent. No one made eye contact. When we were all settled up, we walked outside in single file and up to the corner. No one said a word. We stood at the corner for a few minutes, not making eye contact with each other, looking down or staring blankly. I don’t remember who said what first, but we all rapidly agreed that we collectively had the worst and weirdest massage experience ever. We caught up with Melinda and Therese shortly after that. I think that was the day we drank a lot of margaritas and mojitos. The conversation was kind of like this: “So that was you getting smacked?” “Did you get mounted?” “Did your guy breathe weird?” “Did you get punched in the foot? Just one foot?” “You were covered with a towel the whole time?!?”

We went back to the motel shortly after the drinking. The motel owner later turned out to hate Air Supply and all things fun, but that’s a separate story.

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