Màssage à trois

[Note to the Reader: This blog entry contains both Julie's and Zane's voices. Zane's writings are in the Georgia Font, while Julie's are in Courier]

Tuesday August 21^st, 2009. Three Days before the first anniversary of Julie and I sharing our lives together, and I had yet to schedule any great plans. Now before you go off saying I’m some horribly abusive boyfriend who didn’t plan anything because I don’t know how to love, just know that I did have some something planned back when we were going to be in MA (and for the record she hit me first!).

However, before those plans could come to fruition, I signed on for a short stint of employment at a place I used to freelance for in New York. This meant I was going to have to start from scratch as we relocated to my parents’ house the Sunday before our big day.

Anticipation and nervousness filled the atmosphere last Friday night, you may have felt the electricity in the air. Hurricane Bill you ask? No no, an evening out with Zane. Planning had been underway for what felt like weeks, months, but in fact was mere days. Handed the challenge of planning the entire anniversary evening on his own and surprising me, Zane was up for the task.

When planning this New York celebration I wanted to stick with the original idea of a couple’s massage. Julie had expressed an interest in it, and having gone in the past, she knew it was something that would be enjoyable as well as a little adventurous. I entrusted in the friendly neighborhood Google to find me some great “couples massage packages”. What it discovered sounded positively delightful: “Treat your honey right”. The idea was that you and your “honey” are given short massages, then are instructed on how to massage each other. This sounded right up our alley; I have always enjoyed treating J to back massages and she has always wanted me to actually learn how to give a massage, apparently someone doesn’t appreciate my “diving knee” massage technique.

Leading up to the big night, I asked for clues to keep me entertained. Zane should be used to this by now after surviving not only Christmas, but also birthday season with me. His clues were just helpful enough but cryptic, each night I couldn’t wait for him to come home to give me my daily dose. Like my crack, these hints sustained my need to fantasize just how I was going to be proposed to.

I informed Julie that I was about to become the best boyfriend she has ever had, and she was eager for me to give away my super secret plans through hints. I was very careful in misleading her. I didn’t want it to be obvious that I was BSing (or “baby sitting” to those who don’t approve of potty language) her. Since normally I am accused of being too vague, she feels right at home with pestering me for more information. I carefully constructed a few suggestions, that while to-the-point and indirect, were all factual. With the way I put it, our plans could have been for just about anything.

Oh, did I mention I was sure he was going to pop the question?

So my hints were as follows…

-Meet him in the city (ok, so it’s something in Manhattan)

-Reservation at 7 (ok, dinner)

-It’s not dinner, so come fed (…ooookay show?)

-You can wear flip flops (woo hoo! But are you sure the people at the theater are okay with that)

-If you look it up on Google streetview, it’s blocked by a Mack truck (After Googling all of Manhattan I am shocked at the number of Mack trucks!)

-Wear your hair in a bun (BALLET! It’s the ballet!)

-It’s not the ballet.

With that last clue my hopes of being proposed to on the steps of Lincoln Center as the setting sun reflects gently off the trees in nearby Central Park before enjoying an evening of magical floating dancers. I mean, I hadn’t really thought about it much, but ya know, I was up for anything.

If it weren’t for Z’s mom excitedly telling me “If any good news happens that can’t wait until the end of the night to share, call me!!!” I would have set aside any thoughts of eternal happiness with this shmuck who wasn’t bringing me to the ballet. Alas, that’s how I found myself on a train into the city with more butterflies in my tummy than the first date Z and I went on over a year ago where I hoped I’d still recognize which guy I was meeting in the middle of Union Square. Actually, this guy I live with could be a complete stranger who just went along with me when I asked if he was that Zane fellow. Oh well, he’s cute so I’ll keep him.

I pulled out a camera and told Z I was prepared to capture this magical evening and in response was given my most puzzling clue yet. “Ummm, I don’t think they allow cameras there.” ….okay? We took two snapshots, the retake was because I looked naked. Little did I know…

So here I am with my odder half, waiting out the last fifteen minutes before 7pm. We decided to walk around the block. I tell Julie the address so that she can have the fun of searching for it herself. The numbers descended slowly, still no sign of the spa anywhere. When we reached the location we stood puzzled.

“We’re going to get checks cashed? Or have palm readings?” Julie tried her best to feign excitement and I fret over more pressing concerns. Had I been swindled by some place that didn’t exist anymore, despite still having an operating website that was more than eager to take my credit card info? Then again, if this is legit, what kind of shady situation have I set up for us? There were no large signs. No canvas awnings displaying it’s name in fancy cursive; just a paper tab. Half stained and located next to the buzzer. When the sign revealed the true destination Julie politely burst in excitement to appease my hard efforts to pull some special evening together.

With a little time to spare we decided to walk off our nerves around the corner on J’s favorite street in the world: The Diamond District. Unfortunately for someone, the stores seemed to all be closing up for the evening, what a shame, what a shame. At least I got off the hook in being talked into an impromptu purchasing of any jewelry that signify lifelong devotion.

Then it got weird.

Let me preface this with: I love Zane and he is a very good listener.

Zane had booked us at a spa: G. It was a couples massage package: PG. They even teach you some massage: Okay, getting PG-13 but still, awesome! Then the elevator doors open to the sex palace that Zane has booked us at, leopard print vomited on every possible service, a foreign old lady with a sexy name like Lana (lah-nuh) is the only person there and we are guided to “teek uh seet ahnd feel out dah forrrm.”: R.

I now know how long we’ve been living in Athol: Wonderbread USA. For the life of me I couldn’t decipher a single word of what she was saying. “Um… I don’t think I’m into that sort of…. OH! Wait, heh, sorry… yes that is my name.”

We exchanged many glances, nervously giggled and plopped onto the salvaged couches that must have been an awesome dumpster dive find about 20 years ago. Don’t worry, the leopard slipcover really took away any tacky vibe. I think here was the first of me saying “Thank you honey for a great anniversary story.” I then quickly signed away that this woman would rub me down, but that my breasts were sacred and not up for grabs. Literally.

As we filled out our release forms, uh I mean “list of allergies” we took in all that the place had to offer. It would best be described as a karmic-ally charged Italian Greek fusion restaurant, only tackier. Instead of dining tables; there are massage tables; instead of patrons, there was a thick aura of dread hanging over us. The waiting room was outfitted with everything a person looking for relaxation could want: a coffee maker, an air conditioner half the size of the room, and a junior college fridge no bigger than a can of Foster’s Beer. Before we could really make ourselves at home, our number was up.

Lana brought Zane and myself into the back, and then even further back. Into a room reserved for people who bought the “trrreet yur hahney rrright” package. Aww Zane, how sweet. Although I think it should be renamed the “treat your honey wrong, very wrong” package. We were left to slip into our robes and ratty slippers provided by our gracious hostess. Did I mention this is Zane’s first trip to a masseuse? I tell him how just leaving his boxers on is fine, as I’d be keeping my undies on as well. We slip on our robes, and I try to get Zane to take a quick photo but he declines and shortly after Lana comes back.

Nerves struck us as we neared the moment when these robes were to be discarded. I didn’t have as much of a problem with it since I feel completely at home in just my boxers, in just about any situation. J on the other hand had much more precious cargo to keep in mind. She tried to plan out how to aptly cover her luscious lady lumps; modesty that I greatly appreciate.

Lana busts through the door and like the demanding Russian she is, orders Zane to remove his robe and that he is first. A couple things run through my mind “Ah! Scary lady!” “First? I thought this was ‘couples’ massage” and “Where can I get these shimmery rainbow leopard curtains for our next place?” See image below.

Now in a normal spa, there is this thing called “discretion” it is often used when removing clothing, often combined with a thing I like to call a “blanket.” They must have been out of this “discretion” at the leopard print warehouse Lana shops at. So here we are, Zane standing in the middle of the room between two, yes you guessed it, leopard print massage tables, in just his boxers (p.s. he wore his “nice boxers”). He moves to lay down on said table and Lana goes in her Russian brogue “Oh noh noh noh. You get thee oil, thee oil get on yore clothdes then it get on yore uther clothdes.” Zane and I both heartily assured her that it’s ok, we can wash his man panties later, that he and I would much rather go through this with a fine layer of fabric dignity on. Lana wouldn’t have any of it and goes fishing in her magic bureau. After a moment she pulls out a tiny black package the size of a stick of Juicy Fruit and hands it to Zane followed by a similar black stick, even tinier for me. Zane and I, almost too afraid to ask, look at each other and then in near unison inquire “What is this?” In a flurry Lana answers our worst fears: “Yore ahndervair.” And leaves, for us to once again get a bit more “comfortable” for our lovely anniversary date.

I have been asked a couple times, did you laugh during all of this? I think at this point it was a mixture of laughter and tears and we both gently unwrapped our miniature Christmas presents. I will never forget the feeling I got when Zane held up his disposable black man thong and had to remind himself that this, in fact, was his idea.

Here’s all Zane had on for our first experience in a three way:

(Imagine it in black though. Actually don’t imagine it at all.)

Lana returns and finds Zane moving backward, having put his robe back on. She then has him remove his robe in the standing and upright position in the middle of the room and I almost lose it. Then she has my completely naked and scared boyfriend walk over the table and lay down, bare thonged butt in the air. He meant well, he meant well… I repeat to myself, horrified at it eventually being my turn.

J was nervous that the act of being rubbed by a woman, regardless of age physical attractiveness or tact, would have a somewhat “stunning” effect on me; of at least a part of me. However, as uncouth as it sounds my only concern was that of my built in woopy cushon possibly firing at a most inopportune time. Rest assured loyal readers, it did not.

I know J felt more than a slight twang of jealousy, having this strange woman working my luscious manly humps; but really there was nothing to fear. As if this would be the day I leave her for a transgender Russian representation of Bruce Valanch. Sure she’s funny and easy to get along with, but not exactly the qualities someone should have if they ever hope to deep-fry my corndog.

Lana finally lets me in on what’s happening as she massages Zane’s back and teaches me the 4 steps to massage. Now, I’m no genius, but I was expecting some big secret revealed, maybe a pressure point pointed out, even the right type of oil. Nope. Step 1: Ve paynt. “Painting” Zane with oil, she begins her handsy journey on my love. Step 2: Ve massahhhge. Duh. Here’s where she she lost me… Step 3: Ve brrraaaak eet. Now, I think she said “break it” but it involved a quick back and forth “Indian Burn” motion. Step 4 you ask? Ve massahhhge again. So technically, wouldn’t that make it “Repeat Step 2?” This is where I began to find fault in the woman. After enlightening me to these steps, we each took an arm and painted, rubbed and broke Zane.

Now there are lots of little details that went on in that little room on 46th Street: the fact that she wedgied my boyfriend in his man thong; how I got jealous when she got a bit more daring in Zane’s “in depth” leg/thigh/not okay for her to touch there area massage; how she poked her finger into Zane’s tummy scar and very bluntly asked him what happened.

Yes I have scars. A bunch of them, deep ones too. Buy me a drink and maybe I’ll let you take a look!

Zane stop hitting on the reader.

Oh, sorry. When she asked where they were from I told her the story of my birth, complicated by Tracheoesophageal fistula. She then informed us that her son was the same way, having a lot of scars from a single surgery. We nervously laughed, knowing full well that when someone offers some light humor, and has you 99% naked on a table it’s wise to take up any chances you can to laugh. That was until it dawned on us that his beauty marks may not be as manageable and sexy as mine and recanted with an “ohhh…[:-/]”.

When it was J’s turn she was instructed to disrobe (literally) and lay face down on the table. Seeing as how privacy has yet to be introduced to this establishment she quickly covered herself as to not let our masseur in on the treasure she certainly made me fight to earn. When it was time to flip over, J held her arm close to her chest as if to keep it from falling off. Lana, with her soviet wiles laughed at J’s feeble attempt at self-decency. Apparently J is a “a vurry seelly gurl” for trying to cover her sweet pepperonis. Alas her attempts were thwarted when Lana then placed a towel covering just as much as a single pasty.

What felt just plain wrong was after we both got our massages and she left us alone, in the leopard love pit, for the second half of what Zane unknowingly paid for. “Now eets time for yore own practice on each uther.” And as Lana packed it up to leave the room Zane and I panicked “Um, are we done? Do we get dressed now? What time is this over?” She laughed quietly to herself and most likely at our expense, and reassured us she’d return with wine and fruit.

So, after we were served our X-rated appetizers, Lana let us reflect on what happened for 30 minutes. Grossed out at the concept of what has probably happened in this room many times before, we quietly dressed, ate our fruit and vowed never to discuss the events of our anniversary, save for this blog entry.

While the touching may have ended, the festivities certainly did not. In keeping with the desire for adventure (despite arguably having our fill for the year), I decided to make reservations at the Brazilian/Portuguese Restaurant next door, which, as it would turn out, kept with the second theme of the evening "being served by those who were less than experts of the English language". We were greeted with a smile. Even though my Internet-obtained reservations were not on the list we were just lucky that they had more than two tables in the place. We perused the menus, finding that the cuisine wasn't too different from what we were used to, just the pronunciation. Julie ordered the steak and I had whatever was the easiest to say which turned out being fried chicken.

We sat there stunned, questioning how what started as an innocent evening between lovers, turned into a scarring night of being loved on. When the entrees arrived, accompanied with so many sides the table was about to buckle, it was then we noticed what would be the cherry to top the unwelcome surprises that the night would become infamous for. Upon Julie's cut of beef was an entire cooked egg. For those of you who do know/never cooked for minha amiga she is allergic to egg yolks. While it isn't a deathly allergy, it would certainly make the train ride home uncomfortable, to say the least. Thankfully though it appeared intact and was easily removable from the dish, leaving no trace of the poultry laxative.

With our bellies full of what would probably be the best rice and beans we've ever encountered we made our slow walk back to the subway. Due to the heat wave that we were forced to succumb, sweat poured from us like guilt upon seeing our mesh massage skivvies for the first time.

I ask myself "would I ever do something like that agian?" The answer would be "Heeeellllllllll NO! What's wrong with you, are you crazy?". Then to ask myself, "Is there anyone, other than Julie, who I would want by my side when exploring this odd and bewildering experience we call life?" I'd simply say "Never."

Happy Anniversary baby, next time I’ll take care of the planning.