Don’t be THAT Girl…Who Dates THAT Guy

There is a line.  It’s as gradual and hazy as the sunset on the ocean; the line between dusk and dark is elusive - it is light and then it is dark, but for a moment you’re in the gray.

He gave me a massage.  Don’t worry, he was accredited and referred by a friend.  He was maintaining his license and as such, needed to provide several free massages in exchange for comment forms.

A sturdy bit of a man – barely over 5’ tall with a girlish voice and disengaging personality, I felt immediately at ease.  His tiny but strong hands melted my knots and pent-up cares.  So much so that when his hands butted up against my “line,” I wasn’t sure whether to: A. Protest, or B. Enjoy it.

But where was this “line?”  He explored around it, cozied up to it, and ran alongside it, but he did not cross it.  So would protests be premature?  Was he just doing his job?  Did he not know better?  I didn’t want to hurt his little man feelings, so when he offered a second free massage for next week, I felt my protests melt away.

Second time around.  The “line” he had previously cozied up to, he now was ON.  Again, not crossing, he walked that line like a tight rope artist – careful not to fall to the other side, but placing his feet squarely on the rope.  My poor mind raced: it’s a free massage – but molestation shouldn’t be the price for free; he’s ½ my size and harmless – but Military-bound and 3 cups of desperate; my friends were going to him too, but many were broke like me and loved all things free.  Back and forth went my mind; back and forth went his hands.  The line was as clear as the smog induced Southern California sunset.

Third time around.  Why did I accept a third massage when I had previously been so uncomfortable?  Well, 1. I was jealous that some of my friends had had 3 massages with him and I wanted to catch up, 2. Minus the “line” butting, it was one of the best massages I had had, and 3. It was free.  The price was right.

So using his right hand as an anchor wedged between my thigh and my lip (yes, that lip), he used his left hand to rub down my neck as I lay face up.  His mouth inches from mine, breathing his hot breath into my lips.  Trying not to offend, I moved my head to the side, only to have him move it back – he wanted to keep it straight.  At this point, we’d become sort-of friends and how do I say to my friend, “I think you are molesting me and it’s making me a tad bit uncomfortable, please stop breathing into my mouth, and get your hand out of my hair (yes, that hair).”  I felt completely violated and yet utterly out of place to say anything.  I knew it was my fault for accepting a second and third go ‘round.  I had gotten myself into it and felt completely unable to get out of it.

That night I called my girlfriend to protest, only to hear a tale more sordid than mine.  On the way to her second molesting, I mean, massage, Mr. Fingers called to ask her out on a date, to which she consented.  So when he was rubbing down her naked body in his friend’s empty house, and his strong (but tiny) hands stroked her gently and sensually, and his hot mouth was moments from hers, she had a lucid, lurid thought; “If I move my mouth up just one inch, we’ll be kissing.”  One half horrified and one half tempted (he’s such a little, desperate guy, but she’s divorced and naked and turned on), she shifted her body just an inch and their faces met.  And it was on.  His practiced fingers already knew her body, and they had hot oily sex on the surprisingly sturdy massage table.

“How many times have you done that?” she asked him, knowingly, to which he replied sheepishly, “Oh, what?  Never…”  She knew better, and didn’t care, she thought she’d found the dream man – good with his hands, knew where to find the best oil, low-maintenance and low-pressure.  But Happy Fingers was anything but.  His nimble fingers knew more than bodies, they were best friends with texting and emailing and calling and borderline stalking.  The constant barrage of communication commenced and my friend’s nerves were once again frayed.  But this time she didn’t seek the massage therapist for comfort.

After I told her my tale and she told me hers, we knew Hand Job had to be stopped.  Several of our friends were seeing him and we wanted to keep the juices off the table.  “We know what you’re up to, and if we hear any mild complaint from any of our friends, we’re going to the Massage Board and writing you up.”    The texting trailed off and the emails slowly ended, and I eventually found my $20 for 1 hour massage place in Korea Town , where no line has ever been brushed, bordered, balanced on or breached.

The lesson is this: You must decide for yourself when dusk turns to dark.  There is a line in all the gray, but you don’t have to wait for the sun to disappear, the stars to appear and the stranger’s hand to grab your crotch before you say “stop.”  Don’t be a victim of “free.”  Free yourself to speak your mind, you know when a line is crossed.

And to Sticky Fingers: Stick to the ads in the classifieds.