Liberty Calls

I lie pretty much naked face down on a massage table set up in our dining room counting down the minutes until the masseuse exits my life.


He flicks eight needles into my back. A third less than last time.

Correction: ten needles. He plants two more.

In my neck.

Suddenly, I'm Frankenstein's monster if the doctor took home ec instead of shop class.

Needles in place, the masseuse turns on his heat lamp.

Somewhere in the universe, a Brobdingnagian version of me wonders why his back stings and his ass feels toasty.


The lamp's alarm sounds.

When the masseuse removes the needles in my neck, I awaken suspended in a womb-red amnion with various tubes attached to my bare body.

Okay, not really.

I soon find myself unclothed and coated in a viscous liquid though.

This time around for the massage portion of the session, the masseuse focuses on my neck and shoulders.

I feel like he's a thief with no tools at his disposal and my head is solid gold.

"Motherfucker won't come off!"
"Keep trying!"


At one point, the masseuse squats directly in front of me and squeezes my neck muscles around the hindrance that is my head.

While doing so, he sneezes.

On my head.

He pauses to cursorily wipe the top of my head with his right hand and then continues massaging me.


Good riddance.

More goddamn designers…