Sunday February 9th, 2014

The exercise:

Write about: the masseuse.

This morning Kat and I finally got around to cashing in a Christmas present from my parents, as we went for a couples massage at a local spa. Max hung out with his grandparents while we were pampered into a barely functioning daze.

It was nice.


Helen waved her final customer of the day out the door, her smile as fake as the dead squirrel masquerading as a toupee atop the man's head. Once he was out of sight she locked the door to the shop and turned away, determined to clean the place up before she headed for home.

Home. Where she was called either Helen or Dear or Mom. Never Helga. Anything but Helga.

That was the name her boss had insisted that she go by while at work. He'd said it would get her more business. He was probably right, but Helen wasn't sure that it was worth it. Not with the sort of clients it attracted.

Well, to be fair, the name change wasn't the only draw. The blonde wig brought in its fair share of creepy men. She pulled it off as she moved through the empty rooms, struggling with the urge to toss it in every trash can she passed by.

It had been a long day. No longer than usual, but plenty long enough. She needed to see her family. Receive their hugs and hug them in return. Eat with them. Talk with them. Normally.

Not, as she had since nine o'clock that morning, in that godforsaken Swedish accent.


Greg said...

Couples massage is like a nice Christmas present and it sounds like it was very relaxing for you! Although the few hours of not having to watch Max like a hawk probably helped there :)
Poor Helen, I can't imagine that wearing a wig is at all enjoyable while trying to handle the kind of creepy client she clearly gets. The scene is very nicely presented though, and I did end up feeling quite sympathetic towards her, so well written!

The masseuse
Jim quailed. He was stripped down to his underpants -- white Y-fronts that his mother had bought for him when he was 14 and that now, fifteen years later, were too tight and had a roll of belly-fat spilling over them. He was shaking, and he was backed into a corner, while Yvonne, the masseuse, advanced on him.
The guys at work had recommended her, and he realised now, as he tried not to cry, that he should have paid more attention to them when they called her a masseuse with quite that stress. She was at least 300 pounds.
"Happy END!" she yelled, her bulk quivering like a gargantuan jellyfish and her hands reaching for him, skin and fat hanging from her biceps in curtains. Jim wished fervently that there was even a happy start to all this, but when she still didn't vanish in a puff of smoke crouched down to make himself as small as possible.
She made another attempt to grab him, and her foot, a squashed, bruised looking flipper of an appendage, caught on the corner of the massage table, pivoting her about her longest axis (and that was a tough call) and tripping her over towards him.
Jim stared at the huge bulk of woman crashing down on him and whimpered.

Marc said...

Greg - yeah, it was definitely a combination of the two. A much needed break, at any rate.

Oh jeez, your descriptions much too vivid today :P

Funny, if disturbing, scene :)