The story of Boobs McGee

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Bad massages make me sad.  I’m sure I’ve given 1 or 2  in my 14 year career, but I promise you I have never ever ever given a CREEPY massage.  Well, I did play Prince during a massage once. That may qualify as creepy.

I have had a creepy massage, but not the creepy that some people pay for.  This was creepy in a  I might stab you in the back when you get relaxed sort of way.  And dispose of your body in the basement.  THAT kind of creepy.

I met Boobs McGee at the gym that I exercise at.  The first thing she said to me was, “You’re such a great swimmer, were you in the Olympics or something?” Well, hello flattery (and complete inaccuracy).  Ask anyone on my college swim team.  I was the slowest person on it.  I didn’t race, I gently floated to the wall.  So, I took that compliment as a golden nugget and chewed on it for the rest of the day.  I finally shared it with my husband.  He laughed.  He laughed hard. “You’re a great swimmer, but an Olympian?  C’mon.”

HAR HAR HAR HAR HAR HAR HAR HAR dee HAR….etc.

I saw Boobs again the next week at our local park.  Should I explain why we call her Boobs?  Well, she has huge knockers and she seems to like them to be well documented.  I can see her, sitting poolside, striking the pose of the playboy bunny silhouette on the trucker mud-flaps.  She’s confident.  That’s a positive, but I’m gonna call her Boobs anyway.  Makes me feel better about myself.

So, there she was, at the park.  We began to chat.  I thought she was odd, maybe a bit hyper, but entertaining as hell.  She was OUT THERE! We exchanged phone numbers and emails.  Then I mentioned to a friend that I had met this woman.  She knew immediately who I was speaking of (Boobs) and warned me to steer clear.  I thought, well that seems a bit judgmental.  After all, she told me I swam like an Olympian.

Yes, I am a naive fool.  It’s true.

Turns out she’s a former massage therapist.  I don’t think I asked enough questions about what that meant to her.  She emailed me to see if she could give me a massage so that I could tell her if her space (in the dining room of her rental house) was adequate, and give her some pointers on her technique.  By this time, my instincts have started sending me little twinges of doubt about Boobs.  I stall.  She asks again.  I am busy.  She asks yet again.  I am working.  She just keeps asking, and in order to stop the endless requests, I accept.

Never ignore both your instincts and your friends.  That’s just dumb.

I show up at her house.  She lets me in and asks me to undress and get on the table.  I must admit, she had set the room up nicely, but I did still have a weird feeling about being next to the kitchen.  I lay face down.  She says, “Now, I know that you’ve been doing this a long time.  Feel free to tell me how my work is. I mean, I haven’t been doing it lately, so it’s not going to be a good as yours, and my hands aren’t that strong yet, and I know that it’s not up to par, but this is just for practice, so just let me know.”

Obviously, she didn’t want me to tell her anything.

She began, fingernails scraping my skin.  She was chatting.  I was chatting (you should always try to win over your captor).  She told me about her “muse.” This is a word that I am only familiar with from my art studies – a creepy old dude trying to bone down on some young naked model. That’s what’s called “inspiration” to the masters.  Her “muse” was a lifeguard, about 22 years her junior.  Did he know he was her “muse?”  Good question. She showed me a picture of him in her locket.  It was a profile picture from his Facebook page.  She had printed it and cut it out, into a nice little heart.  Around her neck.  Um.

My radar is going off.  Damn delay.

Creepy massage continues, with a nice twenty-minutes of “rubbing” my butt cheeks.  I know, our asses are compiled of huge muscles.  They need some manipulation.  There is a difference between massaging the gluts and rubbing a butt.  Trust me.

At this point I am really regretting my choice to come here.  I am vulnerable, mostly naked, with a crazy lady.   And then she asks me to roll over.

She mentions how much she misses her “muse.”  He has not called since he moved to Arizona.

I am wondering to myself, “Is Arizona code for your basement?  Is he locked in there?  What’s that noise?  Is he scratching on the floor?”

Her story has sparked a memory of mine about a woman who had a restraining order against her because she was stalking one of the lifeguards.  Oh crap.

Boobs is a stalker.

And she is giving me a rub down.

Surprisingly, she didn’t murder me.  She finished the TWO HOUR massage and I got myself dressed faster than I’ve ever dressed before.  As she walked me out through the living room to her front door, she showed me some more pictures of her “muse.”  All from Facebook (note – check your privacy settings!).  For a hot summer day, I sure was shivering a lot.

I still see her.  My least favorite encounters are  in the locker room.  It’s always when I am bending over, trying to quickly get my underwear on, and there she is, right behind my bare ass.  “Hi!”

So unnerving that she recognizes me from my butt.

The last time I stupidly made small talk at the gym, I said to her, “Gee.  That poor swim instructor.  Someone should tell her that her swimsuit is completely see-through.”

She replied, “Awww. Why’s it always the girls?  I want to see a guy with a see-through suit like that.”

Creepy?  Well, in my bubble – YES!

Beware of the Boobs McGees.  They are out there and they WILL rub your butt, if you let them.

(what’s that noise?  oh.  probably just the wind.)

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