Where’s my happy ending, ruski?
I’m not that inhibited when it comes to my body. Well, I’m not porn-star confident, so you won’t see me flashing my tits in a girls-gone-wild way. My college days are over. But when I’m scheduled for a deep tissue massage, and given a choice, I select a male because, you know, they are usually stronger and can really get in there.
Andre was a giant – very Rocky IV Russian. Exactly what I’d expect from a spa in my Little Odessa neighborhood. He was probably 24 with a square face and a firm handshake. I knew he could get me straightened out from six weeks of hobbling in a cast.
I was head-down in the doughnut. My mashed boobs spilled into my armpits. He came into the room, pulled down the sheet to my crack and oiled me up. Within 30 seconds, I got a string of questions I’d never been asked while lying on a massage table.
“Are you married?” he asked.
“Do you have any children?” was his follow-up question. Do I look like a single mother? I told him no, I had a rescued dog.
“Are you from LA?” was his third question. Oddly, I began to realize, his questions were no different from when I’m screening people, except I start with LA first. I told him I had lived in LA for five years, but I was from Virginia. “Oh, that’s the accent.”
I decided to change the subject to NYC Russians and my experiences at the Russian Vodka Room. He then suggested, after my massage, I meet him next door at Bar Lubitsch.
“I’m serious. If you live around the corner, go home, change, and meet me,” he encouraged.
He worked my back over and got the knots out. When we finished and I was re-robed and outside the door, I thanked him again. “You see what your aunt feels like doing and try to come have vodka with me,” he said.
I suppose a shot of vodka was a more professional approach to getting to know me; however, the whole time I was on the table, I wanted a happen ending, just to say I finally got one. But I’ll take getting hit on while naked. That’s a new one for me too.