He laughed when I ran commentary on the seeping talk of noise from the front office, I confessed I was half-expecting glasses to be clinking mid-toast and perhaps a birthday song. He laughed when I found a "scientific correlation" between his ADD and the fact that he used to teach pre-school. And he laughed when I started apologizing for making porn noises when he hit a spot. Even more so when I got creatively mocking with them.
Admittedly, all this was a little odd when I was meant to be zen instead, but trying to distract myself from both my nakedness and him massaging said nakedness was not at all relaxing. Thankfully, despite that depth charge earlier exchange of looks, The Therapist remained admirably professional. Or gay. Or married. Or at least he loved to laugh. Any one of those things did quite nicely to my mind. I consoled myself with the thought that I was but another hunk of generic flesh in for some professional kneading, and my prancing humor was more or less platonic.
It wouldn't exactly have been subtle to have flipped over with a sweeping "Hello, these are my breasts" or attempt the glamor of seduction with my face squeezed thru a donut hole. I'd had my bountiful share of hot masseurs, some tried to slyly pick me up, most stayed nicely within range of a light flirtation. One in particular wouldn't stop talking about my body, skin and hair thru the entire massage and punctuated it by asking me for a date before I even had my clothes on. I cringed at the thought of being just as creepy. Or sounding like a bad porn film.
So I didn't really linger, being far too conscious of feeling slightly warped by something. I did leave equipped with his card. Never mind the knowledge that he had an incredibly reasonable outcall rate. Or that he happened to live ten minutes away from me. The card sat on my dining room table for a good part of a month where I'd stare at it as I drank glass after glass of cold water, entertaining myself with all sorts of questions and scenarios - none of which really involved me, but mostly focused on how perhaps I'd finally reached the outer limits of depravity. I would walk away each time, shaking my head at no one. The Nubian Toro nudged me to call him, she used to do massages and had her share of flirtations with clients too cute not to, "Just call him, it'll be fine." I stubbornly refused, "Nope, no, not going to."
Now this is the part where I'm going to be terribly disappointing and close the windows shut on this story, because it's too soon, it's too uncertain and it's too..too verging on the edge of something or nothing. And The Therapist isn't really the point because though I met him in May, here we are in June - right in the eye of Retrograde Venus which had set most of the astro fiends a-trembling.
Lovers were going AWOL, quicksilver meet cutes were happening only to fall apart fragile as a house of straw, and Exes wormed themselves out of the woodwork to plague those who'd let them go. Worse, it was consensus that all the feelings left behind from lovers and lives past, were now all coming back up like the taste of bad burrito.
So I wasn't exactly enthralled when after a long day of big and small losses alike, I'd got a call from a positively ranting GF on the state of dating in LA. She'd just happened to talk one of her friends, whom I'm told is near perfection, and now they were both lamenting the fact that men no longer date, wanting to Hang Out instead. I'd written about this before, and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat as she gathered full force, "Like what chance do regular women have when someone THAT amazing can't even get a guy to take her to dinner?" Now, let me preface this by saying this was a woman who enjoyed the Golden Era of dating, such was her thrall over the men who pursued her that their gallantry extended to supplying her with all sorts of accoutrements - wardrobe, hair, nails, car, rent, dinner, gifts, trips etc. etc.
I'd been married previously, and not easily. Then after that war-torn coupledom ravaged by psychopathic deception. And underneath all that, I'd come from a background rampant with double standards. To this day my Chinese father would prefer to inconvenience me or my sisters, if it would serve to bring him closer to his sons. By dint of this, I should be flying the Cynic's Flag in full patriotism of its dogma.
Of course, I have wearied days, we all do. But when is cynicism truly merited? My GF had had her own travails, yet it would probably be consensus that in comparison my experiences were far worst. However, compared to those sold into slavery, beaten or abused, I'd be better off - bit dire but true. Is there a sliding scale that tells us when it's ok to be cynical?