Blog Dis
The sorcery of magic hands
2024-04-02
There are a number of ways to live one's life, most notably of these, of course, is the way that brings us peace and enduring happiness. Money is often confused as the means to that end and love, too, but I am inclined to think it is the power of touch. Years ago when I didn't realize it at the time, I was blessed to have an ortho-therapist who'd visit my apartment to deliver an ortho-therapy massage session.
I was only ever able to afford to see my friend at six week intervals. He was fabulously talented because after spending just one hour with him, kneading my body, I'd get up off his table completely relaxed and literally in a state of euphoria. Yes, he was that good.
The massage began the same way, an application of essential oil, typically lavender and vanilla base, that was smoothed across my back. He would begin to work on loosening up tight muscles. And there were many of these, given the fact that I sit at a computer all day, five days a week, and cycle on a 16-speed road/racing bike which means my body would be in a crouched position. Then a towel would be laid over top, over which he would run an electric hand-held percussion massager (named Ramone) from the tip of my spine down to my bum, and down my thighs. Mmmm... I can feel the soothing rumbling of the machine as I type this blog post. I would prefer to get my massage in the nude, you see, because clothes are restrictive and because my guy was a professional who made me feel secure. Next came the back of my legs, then my feet and each individual toe, wiggled to perfection. He would then pull out his (wait for it) head wizard which is some kind of wire thingy that looks like a large Dandy-Lion spider and these tiny tentacles would slide over top my scalp, move up and down, delivering more tingles all over my body.
Did I mention that I'm a hedonist? I would roll over and he would begin massaging a second kind of oil onto my chest that is laced with a peppermint to open up my nasal passages. Put those dirty thoughts away, you! He never put his hands on the girls, of course, because knowing myself I'd probably get too turned on. My arms and fingers would then be massaged and finally my lower legs. The entire process would take an hour, although it sure felt as though time flew by on pure, unadulterated crack. I was rarely ready to accept that the time would pass as quickly as it had. We'd talk about our lives and our dreams and homes and always share a good laugh or two about the ridiculous events which occurred to each of us in between massages.
I would choose a piece of music, typically classical or purely instrumental, to accompany the session.
There is little pretense when you're lying on a massage table naked, while some young man touches almost every part of your skin (Note how I didn't refer to my inner flesh). It is a tactile experience, leaving you in such a state of deep calm that you can easily fall asleep afterward. And later in the evening when it was time for bed, I'd sleep especially well after each one of his massages. As I said before, if I could afford one I would buy one every week. But reality isn't in the habit of remaining static for very long. I learned, much to my breaking heart, that the hands of a massage therapist take a beating in this profession, and most after anywhere from 5-7 years are ready to move onto a new job, because they simply cannot function at the same optimal level when they too need a hand massage for their aching hands afterward. It was shattering when my ortho-therapist landed a new full-time gig with the Canadian government and never again would I receive one of his marvelous massages.
Not all massage therapists are created equal, any more than all dentists or doctors are created equal. Some become masters in their trade, while others are half-masters; they sure try to raise their game but somewhere privately inside they must know that they shall never reach the pinnacle. But clients don't have a bevvy of experience with other massage therapists in the same profession to make an assessment of their true value. When it comes to a massage, you'll know immediately if you've struck gold. If you try a new therapist, and later in the evening you are left in discomfort with any part of your body, I would rate their mastery of the art with a number below five. You should not come home with any kink in your body because the whole purpose of getting a massage is to destress your body, not to return home feeling more tense. Sadly, I've yet to find a massage therapist with the skills of my one and only. He was a master. I would practically float after the wizardry of his hands had expertly unfurled the knots in my body.
In fact, I so worshipped this man's artistry that I wrote a poem to commemorate his skill, and it appears as poem #82 in my third collection called Mounting The Bedpost.
Before you die, make it a personal quest to land yourself a remarkable ortho-therapist. You won't regret the expenditure of time or money. And apparently there is a difference between an Ortho-Therapist and a Massage Therapist, though I've been interchanging both names willy-nilly in this post. An ortho-therapist is someone who works on your body to optimize your physical abilities to promote your well-being, whereas a massage therapist is a professional who manipulates the soft tissue of a client to treat injuries and ultimately to promote wellness. Not quite the same, but with a similar intent.
Regardless... I'm still searching for my next wunderkind ortho-therapist. Wish me luck! And in the meantime, here's that poem:
EIGHTY-TWO
My peppermint oil pleasure
of ninety minutes in heaven
are his hands healing my body.
And stirrings did start
in my head, despite the music soft
that I should float away.
At once his hands stroke every surface
of my body and arms
and neck, chest and legs and back.
And all of that, none should I wish to give less
of flesh upon skin bare,
the soft stirrings of piano and violin.
I was only ever able to afford to see my friend at six week intervals. He was fabulously talented because after spending just one hour with him, kneading my body, I'd get up off his table completely relaxed and literally in a state of euphoria. Yes, he was that good.
The massage began the same way, an application of essential oil, typically lavender and vanilla base, that was smoothed across my back. He would begin to work on loosening up tight muscles. And there were many of these, given the fact that I sit at a computer all day, five days a week, and cycle on a 16-speed road/racing bike which means my body would be in a crouched position. Then a towel would be laid over top, over which he would run an electric hand-held percussion massager (named Ramone) from the tip of my spine down to my bum, and down my thighs. Mmmm... I can feel the soothing rumbling of the machine as I type this blog post. I would prefer to get my massage in the nude, you see, because clothes are restrictive and because my guy was a professional who made me feel secure. Next came the back of my legs, then my feet and each individual toe, wiggled to perfection. He would then pull out his (wait for it) head wizard which is some kind of wire thingy that looks like a large Dandy-Lion spider and these tiny tentacles would slide over top my scalp, move up and down, delivering more tingles all over my body.
Did I mention that I'm a hedonist? I would roll over and he would begin massaging a second kind of oil onto my chest that is laced with a peppermint to open up my nasal passages. Put those dirty thoughts away, you! He never put his hands on the girls, of course, because knowing myself I'd probably get too turned on. My arms and fingers would then be massaged and finally my lower legs. The entire process would take an hour, although it sure felt as though time flew by on pure, unadulterated crack. I was rarely ready to accept that the time would pass as quickly as it had. We'd talk about our lives and our dreams and homes and always share a good laugh or two about the ridiculous events which occurred to each of us in between massages.
I would choose a piece of music, typically classical or purely instrumental, to accompany the session.
There is little pretense when you're lying on a massage table naked, while some young man touches almost every part of your skin (Note how I didn't refer to my inner flesh). It is a tactile experience, leaving you in such a state of deep calm that you can easily fall asleep afterward. And later in the evening when it was time for bed, I'd sleep especially well after each one of his massages. As I said before, if I could afford one I would buy one every week. But reality isn't in the habit of remaining static for very long. I learned, much to my breaking heart, that the hands of a massage therapist take a beating in this profession, and most after anywhere from 5-7 years are ready to move onto a new job, because they simply cannot function at the same optimal level when they too need a hand massage for their aching hands afterward. It was shattering when my ortho-therapist landed a new full-time gig with the Canadian government and never again would I receive one of his marvelous massages.
Not all massage therapists are created equal, any more than all dentists or doctors are created equal. Some become masters in their trade, while others are half-masters; they sure try to raise their game but somewhere privately inside they must know that they shall never reach the pinnacle. But clients don't have a bevvy of experience with other massage therapists in the same profession to make an assessment of their true value. When it comes to a massage, you'll know immediately if you've struck gold. If you try a new therapist, and later in the evening you are left in discomfort with any part of your body, I would rate their mastery of the art with a number below five. You should not come home with any kink in your body because the whole purpose of getting a massage is to destress your body, not to return home feeling more tense. Sadly, I've yet to find a massage therapist with the skills of my one and only. He was a master. I would practically float after the wizardry of his hands had expertly unfurled the knots in my body.
In fact, I so worshipped this man's artistry that I wrote a poem to commemorate his skill, and it appears as poem #82 in my third collection called Mounting The Bedpost.
Before you die, make it a personal quest to land yourself a remarkable ortho-therapist. You won't regret the expenditure of time or money. And apparently there is a difference between an Ortho-Therapist and a Massage Therapist, though I've been interchanging both names willy-nilly in this post. An ortho-therapist is someone who works on your body to optimize your physical abilities to promote your well-being, whereas a massage therapist is a professional who manipulates the soft tissue of a client to treat injuries and ultimately to promote wellness. Not quite the same, but with a similar intent.
Regardless... I'm still searching for my next wunderkind ortho-therapist. Wish me luck! And in the meantime, here's that poem:
EIGHTY-TWO
My peppermint oil pleasure
of ninety minutes in heaven
are his hands healing my body.
And stirrings did start
in my head, despite the music soft
that I should float away.
At once his hands stroke every surface
of my body and arms
and neck, chest and legs and back.
And all of that, none should I wish to give less
of flesh upon skin bare,
the soft stirrings of piano and violin.
