Mauled by 12 Year Old

I did some typing for my sister a couple of weeks ago. I obviously wouldn't accept payment for it, so she said she'd treat me to a massage.

Last week, a massage at some training college, her treat. I've never actually had a massage before and didn't really know what to expect.

I didn't like it. Nope, didn't like it at all, not one little bit.

Not only did I have to get undressed in front of some 12 year old student in what looked like a dark hospital A&E cubicle, I had to pretend I was enjoying it but not make any sounds that might be construed as 'sex noises'. It was very difficult, not least of all because I was rigid with discomfort at my semi-nakedness - it must have been like trying to massage a corpse.

The 12 year old (nice enough, but you know, she was 12!) started on my legs first, and as I gazed 'relaxed but not aroused' at the ceiling, a single clear thought entered my head; when was the last time I'd shaved my legs? While she struggled with the 'upwards' strokes, almost gasping at the effort, I figured it must have been at least a week, maybe two, and that she was probably having quite a 'rough' time down there.

Stomach area was next. Yeah, okay, you're 12, what do you know about barely-middle-age spread and home-working on a laptop and winter wobbly-bits, eh? Nothing (spit). In she went, kneading the stomach like dough, her little fingers almost disappearing up to the knuckles (I'm exaggerating of course, I'm as slim as a sylph in real life, whatever a sylph is, must look it up).

She then did something rather unexpected. She pushed a thumb into my bellybutton. Now whilst most people wouldn't find anything wrong in this, I have a Pathological Fear about bellybuttons, my bellybutton in particular - I don't want it touched, I certainly don't want it prodded by anything (argh!) and I'd much rather you just forget it even existed and stay well away.

So whilst I was squirming on the bed considering whether to (a) violently swipe her hand away as instinct dictated, or (b) jump up and run, she said, "No pulse."

"Pardon?" I squeaked (desperately trying not to scream Get your berluddy fingers out of my berluddy bellybutton, girl!)

"No pulse," she said again, "In your bellybutton. That's good."

I lifted my head to look at her, plunged up to her elbows into my navel, and said, "I'd consider not having a pulse to be a bad thing. Do you have a resuscitation team here?"

She continued to lightly pulverise the top 70 layers of flesh. "This is a really hard part," she said, "I don't like doing this movement."

The movement consisted of moving her hands up my stomach, sideways across my stomach, down the other side of my stomach, and across the bottom. A square-shape manoeuvre which did Absolutely Nothing for me. In fact, the only thing I'd felt so far was an overwhelming desire to leave.

She moved above my head, pulled down my bra straps and did some quite substantial kneading and pulling and prodding of my neck and shoulders. Several times I actually wondered if she'd rendered me paralysed. The pain was quite significant.

"Turn over," she said after a while.

I wasn't sure I could, but managed to haul my carcass like a pig on a spit, and she went to town on my back.

I'm not sure what it was she did exactly, but every now and again she'd prod the side of my spine with what felt like a knitting needle, and I involuntarily cried out 'UH!' Not 'UH!' as in 'that feels so good, do it to me some more, baby', more 'UH!' like I'd just been stabbed and didn't know how to react yet. Seriously, at least six sharp objects were plunged deep into my body, its was the weirdest feeling.

"Get dressed when you're ready," she suddenly said, stopping.

I dragged myself off that table like a woman just coming round from a major surgical operation, maybe spinal readjustment or a heart-bypass. My legs trembled as I lifted them into my jeans, and I did think about asking her to remove the knitting needles from my back before I left or if they were complementary.

"That was great," the mouth lied profusely, "I really enjoyed that, thanks."

She led me out into the reception area and said that because I'd had to wait a few minutes there would be no charge. Great, I thought.

Sis reappeared and said her massage was 'on the house' too, only she still wanted to pay. Oh, okay then.

We went up to the reception desk. "Did you have the aromatherapy massage?" another 12 year old asked me. I looked at her, shrugged, and said, "I don't know, it could have been."

"My sister has no sense of smell," said Sis, and suspicious glances abounded.

Sis, it turned out, only had huge-denomination notes in her purse, and the receptionist, of course, had no change. So I paid. For both. Including a tip comprised entirely of 20p pieces for each masseur.

My treat, apparently.

["Let me take you to the pub," Hubs said to me tonight, "My treat, bring money."]

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday, or as soon as the knitting needles are removed.
Brummie Blogs: Stiffly hanging out there rest of time.