I’m an avid read of Time Out New York - well, avid skimmer is more like it, my horoscope and Jamie Bufalino’s column the only items I read thoroughly. Though I enjoy the magazine, there was one thing that drove me crazy: all the “Best of Spas” issues. They seem to come out about 6 times a year, and I used to wonder just how many spas are there in this city and how often do people go? And why would anyone want to go that often?

And I’ve come to realize: because they fucking rock, that’s why.

Today I was finally able to use a gift card leftover from Christmas at Bliss (that’s about how long it took to get a massage appointment on a Saturday). I’m not sure if it was the best massage I’ve ever had - that may still be my very first, which was at Elizabeth Arden a couple of years ago. My masseuse was an older woman with hands of steel, who tried to insist the reason I got all congested from leaning my face in the face rest wasn’t direct pressure on my skull but my ingestion of dairy. In fact she went as far as to recommend a website, Not Milk. Okay, whatever.

Today my masseuse was a strapping young man named Maguire. I don’t have any problem with male masseuses - I mean, it’s almost like a procedure, right? like being at the doctor’s or getting your hair cut - except that maybe they just don’t realize how strong they are. Another one I had at Oasis back in October nearly killed me. He was a little muscle-bound guy who seemed more accustomed to deep tissue work, and made me yelp and wince throughout my supposedly milder Swedish massage.

“You’re resisting me,” he kept telling me.

No, you’re rubbing the hell out of that bruise on my arm.

Maguire was able to reign it in, and I winced just a few times. Though he did do one very unexpected stretch of my arm, during which I had to use every ounce of strenght from crying out, “FUCK ME, THAT HURTS!” The second arm wasn’t as bad since I was expecting it.

The thing about today’s massage was that it was the most active one I’ve ever had. Maguire - who, just for the record, was tall and blond, and though obviously gay, still yummily tall and blond - moved all around the table, to the point that sometimes I, with my eyes closed, had no idea where he was, and at one point was convinced that there another person had come in and was standing on the opposite side of the table

He also did me some intense stretches, almost like a physical therapist, once lifting my torso clear off the table, bending me almost in half, and whispering - he never spoke above a whisper - “Deep breath in. . .exhale. . .lean into the stretch. . .excellent.” (A’ight, I know it wasn’t supposed to be sexual AT ALL, but I still couldn’t help but think those dirty thoughts.) But the highlight was when he climbed onto the table to get a better angle for certain stretches.

Yes, you read that right. Strapping, blond young man climbed onto the massage table where I lay nekkid, though blanketed of course, to get that rub just right.

Maybe this is a usual thing, but I’ve never experienced it, and as you can see, if you’ve read this far that is, I’ve had my fair share of massages. The first time he did it, I was just very surprised. The second, I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing, mature young lady that I am.

Afterwards as I paid, I asked the girl what my masseuse’s name was. She told me, then said, “He’s nice, isn’t he?”

I had asked primarily for the purpose of this piece, but still I giggled like a school girl. “He is,” I said.

For God’s sake. Somebody get me a boyfriend right quick.

Related posts:

1. Placing Blame on NY
2. Sundays at the Tainted Lady Lounge
3. Total Bliss
4. Street Fairs In New York City
5. Last Night’s Antony & the Johnsons Show at Town Hall