Massage Chronicles of a Middle-Aged Woman

Just a little over a mile from my house is a private college that teaches specialty programs, including massage therapy. On Friday nights, Steve and I often take advantage of cheap massages for our aches and pains. It sounds so romantic - couples massage holding hands while laying on side-by-side table. However at a school, the massage area is a bit like an ER, lots of people in a dimly-lighted room with curtains separating you. So there you are in a dark room, in your semi-private massage/shower curtain space listing to Yanni, smelling incense, and praying that your ass isn't hanging out for the whole room to see. Because these are students who are getting graded by you, they are always checking with you for feedback, "How are you doing? Is the pressure I'm applying good? Do I need a breath mint? " You get the idea.

About a half hour into my massage and my fantasy of Matthew McConaghey applying Hawaiian Tropic suntan oil on my back while we are sipping frothy fruity drinks on the white sands of Bermuda when a cabana boy - who speaks in the voice of my massage therapist - asks me, "Is the pressure ok". I begin to say, "Yes", when she pushes down and along my spine releasing all of the air in my lungs. What comes out is a rather loud, enthusiastic, orgasmic YEEEES". She very professionally ignores my blunder, but a few shower curtains down, I hear Steve chuckling. Now I really wasn't embarrassed too much at this point because frankly, we are all laying supine with our faces planted in a cushioned toilet seat. Then all of the sudden, I heard the disapproving, CLEARING OF THE THROAT and I am thinking, "Oh shit, Dad is here!"

At this point I should have grabbed the paper-thin sheet and just hightailed it out of there because my relaxing, erotic massage was ruined. All I could think about was if my father was there on a couples massage date with a senior sister temple worker or worse, using a AARP coupon.