Soft Hands Sought

Massage is technical skill and physical art. I remember past masseuses better than I do old girlfriends. And honestly, miss them more.

One woman, was text book dyslexic, literally. She took part in several university studies because she had such typical symtoms. She described one experiment in which she was performing better in the math component than expected. Her interviewer asked her how she was scoring so much higher than her math skills warranted. She didn’t want to say.

“I’m getting the right answers. If I know the right answer, why does it matter how I know it?”

Stubborn, but you can see her point. She eventually explained that the man conducting the study was sitting across from her, reading the multiple choice questions, and then the four possible answers. When he read the correct answer, his pupils dilated, so she picked that one. The interviewer turned his chair around so she couldn’t watch him read, but she still got them all correct. She could hear his voice change when he read the right answer.

Such an interesting woman, so intuitive, and she noticed everything. As she dug her elbow into the soft tissue of my shoulder she taught me how to be a good subject, “You’re holding your breath. You have to breath through it.” I miss her.

These relationships don’t last. You move cities, or they quit, or begin working at a high priced salon who’s prices I can’t justify. That’s what happened to the last one.

Breaking up is hard. I’m stressed out. Which is the last thing you need when your masseuse has dumped you.

Now I have to go back to the horrible experience of masseuse dating. The first person I tried was terrible. I’ve had puppies kiss me harder than that.

Then my wife booked a guy. I enjoy massage too much for it to be a guy, plus men think they are tough, so they massage by digging in their fingers. Women work with their smaller stature and go straight to the elbows. Women give harder massages.

Anyway, this guy was a train wreck. He would just stop moving, and for an uncomfortable length of time, stand there with his hands resting on my back. All I could hear was the bullshit new age lute music and his deep breathing. What the fuck is he doing up there? Is he trying to send energy into me? A good massage should not feel too long, or creepy, and this was both.

Deep tissue massage enthusiast seeks partner. I’m punctual and a good tipper. You’re an interesting woman with soft hands and stern elbows, who has no interest in mystisim. We both appreciate a good silence and a stretched ligament. Waiting for your call!