Mohammad's Scrotum Dreamin'...

So, Will and I finally used a gift certificate that his Mom gave us two years ago (maybe three?) to Qui Si Bella. It's a "Luxury Eco-Wellness Spa", which means that they ask that you use both sides of your toilet paper before discarding, and their farts come from purely organic, recycled air and they can charge more.

Anyway, we went for a much-needed, very over-due, organic-fart massage.

(And just for the record, unless we're talking about my man-panties, the words Luxury and Exclusive make me barf in my mouth...just in case you were wondering.)

I rarely go for a massage, but when I do, I ALWAYS think, "Why the F didn't I do that before?"

Except for this one time, in band camp, I had been hiking in Bali and I was spending some time in the beach town of Sanur and decided to go for a "massage". Well, I ended up face down on an extremely dirty floor of an art shop with two Indonesian women talking in decibels that could break glass, rubbing all kinds of exotic oil (probably old engine oil) all over me, grinding their dirty, un-trimmed nails into my skin and grabbing my muscles.

It fucking hurt and I actually had scratch marks after the massage.

And they didn't even give me a blowjob...or a handjob...Which I'm thankful for, because they probably would've left scratch marks on that too.

So, anyway, Will and I went for a massage last Friday.

Will was irritated with me because I was running late, yet I was still thinking that we'd make it on time, until we hit traffic. It kind of sucks to have to rush to a massage. But, who wants to hear anyone complain about that? "OOhhh, poor me...I HATE rushing to a massage! Life is just AWFUL! IT'S NOT FAIR!"

Yeah...no one wants to hear that shit.

Well, when we walked in, Will was still irritated when they handed us each a little cup of water with some lemon in it. Will turned up his nose and scowled and I said, "What's wrong?" and he replied, "I DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS!"

As if it were piss they were sneaking us...eco-wellness piss.

I turned to the receptionist and inquired, "Do you have a martini for him, please?" She giggled and I said, "No, I'm serious." She giggled some more because she was stupid and said, "William is with Ching Chong".

And in walked "Ching Chong".

She was rather...imposing.

And I think that it's safe to say that both Will and I had visuals of what she did to little girls back in China.

"I DON'T CARE IF IT HURTS! CHINA DOESN'T CARE!!"

"STOP WHIMPERING! DON'T MAKE CHINA MAD!!"

Yeah...We were both kind of scared. She looked like she could break bones with her eyebrows...her penciled-in, crooked eyebrows.

I nervously protested, "I asked for Will to have a male masseuse." (Originally thinking that a male masseur would be stronger, but now I just wanted to save his life.) And the receptionist replied, "Oh Ching Chong is very strong!" (Yeah, bish...We can tell) "I think that he'll be very pleased."

I looked at Will apprehensively and I'm pretty sure that we were both thinking, that when the massage was finished, he'll be less "pleased" and more dead.

Then, up walks a VERY dark guy and the receptionist continues, "And you, Kevin, are with Mohammad."

He said something that I couldn't understand. And it may have been, "Hello, my name is Mohammad, nice to meet you. Follow me this way." Or, he could've said, "Greetings Assholio, I'm going to fucking snap your neck. Let's go, tart."

Either way, I said, "Okay."

Well, Ching Chong whisked Will into another room to dislocate his limbs and Mohammad dragged me down the hallway kicking and screaming.

I found out, after I stopped screaming, that Mohammad was actually extremely nice. And thorough. Holy shit was he thorough. You may remember how I injured my lower-back at the beginning of the Summer? Well, I told him this, so he took extra care of it. And it really was amazing. Especially when he used his tongue.

However, at one point...now that I think of it, at multiple points, he was massaging SO hard (with his hands, not his tongue) and in his broken English was asking if the pressure was okay, "Prestuur okkY? Prestuur too much?"

I was in too much pain to answer. And he had actually pushed all the air out of my lungs, so all I could do was moan, "UUhhhhh..."

And he'd reply, "Good." And he'd keep going.

Well, I realized that while I was lying face down with my face resting on that...toilet seat that they have for your head that's attached to the massage table, and he was massaging my lower back and upper buttocks (my rockstar, smokin' hot ass), he was standing up near my shoulders leaning over me reaching towards my rockstar, smokin' hot ass, thus pressing his scrotum onto the back of my head.

Nice...

Now granted, this is not the first time I've had someone else's scrotum resting on my head...tea-bagging as we like to call it. But, it WAS the first time that someone named "Mohammad" rested his bag on my melon and not only that, but I WAS PAYING HIM FOR IT.

It was pointless to protest, 'cause I didn't have any air in my lungs and was quietly suffocating under his strength and the weight of his balls, so I just moaned, "Uuuhhhh..."

And he replied, "Good."

But, I remember lying there thinking, Ten minutes ago, Will and I were arguing in traffic, now he's in one room being dismembered by Ching Chong and I have some dude named "Mohammad's" sac resting on the base of my skull. How quickly things can change...

Well, when all was said and done, both Will and I had two badass massages. Ching Chong had apparently crawled up onto Will's back and gave him the special ancient Chinese secret massage. The thought of her crawling up onto his back and pulling his arms and driving her knees into his back, and her vulva was doing karate chops on whatever muscles they were hovering over at the moment, all while she was screaming, "I DON'T CARE IF IT HURTS! CHINA MAD!!" just cracked me up.

Will and I left feeling a little groggy and slightly bitch-slapped the rest of the day...but in a good way. My back was soar for two days after, but also in a good way.

Ching Chong and Mohammad were the shit. Pain and all.

Well, the rest of the weekend and this week have been nothing but crazy ever since. (As though that picture I painted wasn't crazy.) With two open houses and showings everyday, and by Monday, while trying to put something into my left pocket with my right hand, I managed to punch myself in the balls with enough force to make me sick to my stomach. And by Tuesday, a Fed Ex truck driver came within a foot of running me over and didn't care. And Will and I on two separate occasions have seen people literally almost run-down in crosswalks in the last 3 days. After all, delivery schedules are more important than human life.

However, in this same week, a really close friend lost his job (and he has a family to provide for) and another friend lost her home in foreclosure. AND they're both so positive about it, knowing that it could always be worse. Both of them determined to take their lemons and make lemonade.

So, in perspective, I guess having Mohammad's scrotum resting on the back of my head while he's crushing my body ain't no thang. And in fact, it was a luxury, and I'm looking back on it with much fondness now. Dreaming of the next time.