I used to always partner with men students in massage school, when I could, because the women tended to get all caught up in the mythology of “nurturing touch,” a phrase which to this day makes me hallucinate the smell of sour breast milk and the sensation of being pawed by a solicitous frog. You can depend on men to pound the shit out of you, most days, which is the kind of massage I prefer to get myself and the one I am known for, though I can do your little old lady with osteoporosis massage or your “I have a migraine and even my hair hurts” massage.
I had a lady on the table the other night who shared my tastes, but who had a thought-provoking experience to narrate.
“My daughter and I went to the practicum clinic at the massage school over on Broad Street a few times when we were trying to save money,” she said. “No one wanted the guys to work on them so there was always one free and that worked for me. Except this one guy. He was hairy. I mean incredibly hairy, and he did the thing where you use your forearm to get a broad stroke on the back?
“It felt like he was rubbing me with two small dogs.”
I had never thought of that side of it before. I guess both genders have their liabilities.