Tuesday, October 4, 2011

You Want Happy Ending?

I do, in fact. Thank you for asking. 

Of all places girls avoid (dark alleys, parking lots, construction sites, the pasta section of the grocery store), shady ‘touch your feet’ places is not one of them. We’ll go into the most disgusting pedicure spot just to slap a little lipstick on our piggies. God forbid we’re desperate for a wax.

I’ve literally dodged cockroaches trying to shack up with (in) me. But that’s another story. Has a little something to do with my waxer staring at her job (we’re clear here, correct?) telling me how I look just like her daughter. 1- She was Vietnamese. 2- She didn’t mean my facial features. 3-  Even the cockroach was uncomfortable.

The only reason I’d ever contemplate not going in, is thinking of our beloved drunk, Paula Abdul, who’s clearly consumed enough alcohol and happy pills to ensure she’ll forever be 85 pounds and just loosey goosey enough to always be on television. Bless her heart. And pill cabinet. I just remember her judging on Idol with her obnoxious, bandaged finger jutting out while she flailed and slithered down her chair. Realistically though, we all know that never happens. Just like inside trading is a fib, and Martha Steward just needed a new angle for the media to take interest in her apple pies. There was a crisis in the She-community about the files and cuticle cutters not being sterilized. We’re fine with Anthrax and Swine Flu, but mess with our nail sanctuaries, and you’ll have us clucking about ourselves like someone just found Jesus on their fish-stick in the Mid-west. While we all love a good bitch session, it’s not enough to keep us out. Pedicures are recession proof. As are blond highlights. Fact.

Around the corner at work, a new…commodity opened up. Imagine the love child between a grimy pedicure spot and a hepatitis infested massage parlor. It’s not quite Amanda Knox crime scene (to soon?), but just enough to feel the necessity of extreme intoxication to venture in. I managed to liquor my boyfriend up enough to entertain the idea a couple weeks ago. My date rape attempt didn’t cut it. He backed out at the sight of The 650lb Virgin from the TLC channel allowing one lady to french braid his back-hair, while another sucked on his pinkie toe. I’m in.

I ended up having to ship in an unsuspecting victim. After forcing her to slap a fake smile on her face, strapping her arms and legs up into a machine, and telling her it was called Pilates, I had full control. Our goal was a massage at a beautiful spa next door, but the host scoffed at us and was tickled pink that we’d actually think we could get a walk in massage.  But two weeks from now at 4pm they had availability. No, Miss Blue-Contacts-with-Brown-Eyes. You fool no-one. We’ll take our business next door and pay this toothless person to karate chop our spinal cords for $30. I thank you very much.

To the credit of my victim, she had a great attitude and was 100% committed to this fully clothed* rubdown. We hunkered down next to a group of women who only shaved their legs up to their knees, and left their thighs aux natural. There are no rooms, curtains or dainty dividers that we typically rely on to ignore everything else in this world that we wish to not see. I have to admit, this was probably the best butt rub I’ve ever had. Granted, he was basically dry humping me, but he managed to get those feminine hands on each cheek and went with it. After an hour of hair pulling, dry humping and a little spanking, I felt a little too worn out to ask for the happy ending. Although, my victim might have gotten a little something-something, she insisted on giving them a 40% tip. Slut.

While a rub down is all good, I was feeling a little unfulfilled and went in for a mani-pedi today. As with all good friends that you just met 5 minutes ago, we spent the entire hour discussing the options women have with happy endings. As one lady put it, men are ‘dorks’ and like that kind of thing, where women don’t have a penis and proves it to be a more difficult task. I, for one, want to keep this lady with me at all times to hear her outlook on various daily conversations. Particularly for the ironic use of ‘dork,’ then following that up with a penis joke. She was 80. I’ve found my new idol.

Alas, I do not currently have a penis, and do not plan to have one in my near future. Happy endings might not be the thing for me. But give me a toothless man willing to shamelessly grab my Kardashian, and I’ll happily leave my dignity and modesty at the door.

 Our sex hair after an intimate rub down

*I’m assuming you’re visiting this asterisk to get a detailed account for what actually went on. Shame on you.

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