Tuesday, January 8, 2008

Charlotte's Web

I was speaking to a friend today about vegetarians, Jews, and Muslims and why they don't eat certain farm animals. We talked about the motivations behind the different types of vegans and the differences between being raised in a certain belief system and making conscious adult decisions not to eat fattening strips of fried pig flesh. Which by the way, are magically delicious even though pigs are one of the filthiest scavengers around.

If you've seen Pulp Fiction you might remember the conversation Jules and Vincent have in the diner towards the end of the movie. When Vincent offers Jules some sausage he declines saying he's not Jewish, he just doesn't dig swine because it's a filthy animal. Vincent says, "Sausages taste good. Pork chops taste good." Jules retorts, "A sewer rat may taste like pumpkin pie. I'll never know 'cause even if it did, I wouldn't eat the filthy motherfucker".

Jules goes on to explain that pigs sleep and root in shit and he refuses to eat an animal that doesn't have enough sense to disregard it's own feces. Interesting concept I thought. Unless I was stranded on a deserted island without food, I probably would never eat a rat. But even then, I would have serious reservations about eating rat meat. Unless of course, it tasted like pumpkin pie.

I had never really considered how filthy pigs were until I had a) seen Pulp Fiction and b) read about some of the diseases and worms that are found in pigs. I'll spare you the vile details of my research, but let's just say I'm siding with the Muslims and Jules on this one. I'm so going to miss combination fried rice.

I have the utmost respect for people who follow their beliefs (as silly as some may seem) and whatever the reasons might be that they choose not to eat meat, pork, goldfish, or newborn albino babies is of no consequence. What does matter, is when they deem it necessary to push their beliefs onto you or mock you for the ones you observe. That being said, I should probably stop laughing at my sister for not owning a microwave. At least she'll probably never get testicular cancer. 


Thursday, January 3, 2008

Happy Ending

I've done the unthinkable. I have gone against my oath as a therapist and violated the Code of Ethics that I vowed to uphold. Somehow, I managed to cross the sacred line between client and therapist and I see no viable way of recouping my dignity. It wasn't really a conscious decision, it just sort of . . . . . happened. I suppose it was only a matter of time, being that my work involves massaging a slew of beautiful women on a daily basis. For too long have I relied on my Matrix-like ability to dodge bullets.

For the most part, today was like any other. I had six clients lined up and only two more to go. I quickly ate a banana and downed a protein shake to get me through the rest of the day. (As I've described in earlier posts I have the metabolism of a cheetah and have to eat every two hours, otherwise I turn into that crazy bitch from the exorcist.) I greeted client number five and noticed that she was extremely attractive. During my brief questioning of her medical history she was a little flirtatious making a lot of eye contact and smiling.  Working on her back was an absolute delight. She was very fit with the perfect combination of musculature and curves with soft, youthful skin. She had a beautiful color tattoo of cascading lotus flowers flowing diagonally across her back as though carefully carried by the wind. 

After her back and shoulders, I began working on her long, toned legs, my hands tracing her perfect outline with slow and sensuous glides from the heel of her foot to her shapely glutes. As my warm hands flowed past her knee, she opened her legs slightly to allow unobstructed access to her inner thigh. A subtle move not uncommon to getting more comfortable, or to signal ulterior motives. My skilled hands glided up her inner thigh and right before reaching the point of inappropriateness, came back towards the outside, over her left glute, around the hip, and back towards her feet again. I started the process over and as my hands ascended up her leg, again she repositioned her legs slightly more open. Although a little peculiar to do this twice, still I assumed nothing and continued my work. The spa music plays at a decent volume to drown out a lot of the background noise in the vicinity, but if you pay attention, you can still hear labored breathing, stuffy noses, painful grimaces, sighs of relief, and occasional moans. To an experienced therapist all of these seemingly insignificant cues can be paramount to providing the ultimate massage experience. 

A lull in the music allowed me to hear my client's breathing gain tempo and her body almost seemed to writhe under my touch. A third pass began up her leg as I heard a faint moan of satisfaction. Once more she separated her legs and as my fingers crept up her inner thigh, her body seemed to beckon my caress. I could feel the heat emitting from between her legs as my touch came closer and closer to her most intimate place. And then . . . . . . . it happened. I can't explain what I was thinking or why I did it, but it one moment I breached our trust and defiled the sanctity of that bond. My mind was weak under the circumstances and my body succumbed to the most primal of all human urges . . . . . . . . . . . . I farted! As soon as I did it, I knew there was no turning back. There was no way to undo my transgression. No freebie, no do over, no reset button. Time slowed to a stop and I let out a distinct and undeniable flatulence. . . . . . .

I hope you too have started the new year with a loud and resounding blast!