You Can’t Touch This!

Posted by admin on June 11, 2017 in Randomalities |
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Finally, comedian Jim Gaffigin and I have something in common. Neither of us like to be touched.

Now, before you go off on me and ask why Kat would ever want to be with a guy who doesn’t like to be touched, let me calm your fears. Kat can touch me anywhere and anytime she wants, except when I have sicky skin. You know sicky skin; that time when you’re sick and your skin is so sensitive that even your own body hair is pissing you off.

I also let my friends touch me, albeit in very different places than Kat has visiting rights to. But even with them, there are limits to how much touching I really want.

There was a time that I didn’t want anyone to hug me. It wasn’t until I dated a girl from a very huggy family that I had to learn to at least endure hugs from people who a step away from being total strangers. I mean, the family of a girlfriend isn’t exactly family.

Even today, hugs are pretty awkward for me. I am still not sure what the accepted length, position or enthusiasm is supposed to be in play. To be quite honest, I’m still grappling with these same issues with handshakes.

But I’ve learned over the years to deal with a hug-happy world.

That said, I still won’t let total strangers touch me. Even when I’m in horrible pain. Even when a professional’s touch could ease those pains.

No, I’m not talking about happy endings at a massage parlor. But I am talking about massages. To this very day, I have never had a professional massage.

“What?” you ask? “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Well, first off, I love a good massage. I give a good massage too. You know the kind, the one where both of you end up naked, the one where the massage is the lead off to an eventual happy ending for at least one of you.

But the thought of a complete stranger touching me, while I am at my most vulnerable moment? I don’t think so.

I guess it’s that overly fertile imagination I have. There you are, waiting for your massage. A masseuse walks out and calls your name. They must be a “professional” because they have a white smock on. They look like they are in the field of medicine.

They usher you into a room and you’re asked to remove your clothes. Hmm. First, I’m the type that wears a t-shirt on the beach, largely because I don’t want members of Greenpeace to try to roll me back into the water in a last ditch effort to save me.

So there I would be, Greenpeaced, waiting for the masseuse who I have never met before in my life.

To make matters worse, I get splayed out on a table in the nude. At some point they want me face down, butt high.

Now, in the past, this could have been very exciting for me. Add some whipped cream, a blindfold and some mayonnaise and it could end up being a new RobZerrvation.

But we’re talking about a complete stranger here. I don’t know if their hands will be cold, if they have some kind of rubbing fetish, learned all their skills in a prison cell or are a freaking masochist. They have complete control over me and I don’t even know anything about them.

Yes, I have heard great things about the massages my friends have gotten. I’ve heard all about their tensions being released (happy ending), feeling at peace (happy ending) and never wanting it to stop (another happy ending).

I’ve also heard about people who use hot rocks in massages. I actually have some experience with this, having lived in Florida where it’s 105 degrees in the shade and the rocks along the path on the way to the mailbox will brown the bottoms of your feet like a fine piece of meat.

Not my idea of a fun time.

Then there all those supposedly exotic oils they rub into and onto your skin. Not a fan. I don’t even wear suntan lotion because I end up feeling like a greased pig that will be released any minute so the kids can try to catch me.

I understand that a good massage could probably fix my back problems. Even my doctor said it could be useful. She didn’t write me a prescription for one, however, so I still have some doubts about her sincerity.

Or, perhaps, she doesn’t like the idea of a complete stranger, with a rap sheet a mile long, unknown fetishes and a boyfriend who’s a prison barber, touching her either.

Still, people try to convince me that I am really missing out. I tell them the embarrassing story of having my balls lanced in Leavenworth by a very lovely young intern and fighting off a hardon as it was happening. You’d think that at a moment like this, where you’re in excruciating pain, with someone holding a sharp instrument over your balls, that you wouldn’t exactly be excited.

Another reason not to chance a massage I guess. If a medical emergency couldn’t keep a good man down, I’m not sure what chance I would have with a lovely masseuse working me up one side and down the other.

Perhaps some day I will weaken and give in to having a massage. I’ve already indulged in a gateway massage, as Kat tends to my feet and gives me a foot rubdown and a pedicure.

But then again, it’s Kat. She is allowed open season on all of me, even if I wiggle and fidget the entire time. At least she doesn’t have a boyfriend in prison. Or a foot fetish. Or…

Why did I even have to let that through enter my head? Kat! KAT!

In the Emerald City, rubbing people the wrong way, but never getting it in return,

  • Robb

 

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