The podiatrist looked at my left foot with a puzzled expression. He said he’d never seen anything like it.
The four lesser toes were uniformly straight and pointing forward in line with the foot. But the big toe was pointing about 40 degrees in the other direction.
The captain was abandoning ship.
“Are you sure you never had an injury, some instigating incident years ago that would cause this deviation?”
“Positive,” I lied.
But there was an incident, a painful recollection about which I never told another soul.
It involved me, soft music, a darkened room and a beautiful woman who was not my wife.
And to top it all off, I was completely naked and fully aroused.
The woman was my masseuse.
It was the early aughts and I was at a fancy spa in Taos, New Mexico. This was back when I was immersed in the freelance travel writer gig.
Back then, high-end New York PR firms representing top resorts and destinations would seek out guys like me to write about their clients. And it was all free.
Free airfare, free rooms, free meals, free golf, etc. Relaxing spa treatments were staples of every trip. And with every massage, I began to detect a pattern. I was getting more than just deep tissue relaxation.
I was getting horny!
Understand, these were very professional masseurs so it didn’t lend itself to horniness. There was no dirty talk. No flirtation. No hint of illicit couplings to come.
It was just me lying there on a cushioned table with a beautiful woman rubbing warm oils up and down my naked body …
Up and down …
Up and down …
What’s horny about that!
So, of course, I’d get these erections, but they seemed so out of place, me there with this obvious hard-on and her there talking about how later that day she’d be taking her mother-in-law to Tuesday Bingo down at the VFW.
There was zero chance I’d be getting what’s known in the industry as a “happy ending.” That’s where some masseuses who are casual about ethics will, often for money, seize the erection and manipulate until it until it achieves its biological conclusion.
But that never happened to me. When our hour was over, they’d leave the room and busy themselves preparing for their next appointment while I’d get dressed, silently relieved I remembered to wear cargo pants instead of a Speedo.
The awkwardness inspired a story idea that eventually appeared in Men’s Health under the headline: “Spa Boner Etiquette.”
I spoke with an industry leader who assured me an erection was a perfectly reasonable reaction to the setting.
“You shouldn’t be embarrassed,” she said. “An erection is almost a reflexive reaction to what’s happening.”
I was thinking of this as I lay there naked on the the table in Taos eager for my massage to begin.
I do not remember her name. It may have been Rebecca but, hell, for all I know it may have been Burt. What I do remember clearly is she had raven hair and her hands were both soft and strong.
In an instant, the reflexive reaction mentioned by the spa spokeswoman began to stir.
Now, even with full industry sanction, I did’t misbehave. I did’t wiggle, play peek-a-boo or jump up the table and insist she salute and sing “Morning Has Broken,” all the things I insist Val do as a prelude to romance.
But the masseuse seemed to take an instant dislike to me. Or maybe she’d had enough of men like me — all erection and farmer tans. But 10 minutes into the massage, she took an aggressive turn. She became rough, like she intended to show me who’s boss.
It was an incredible turn-on!
Then all of a sudden she reaches down and starts tugging on my left big toe.
I remember thinking, geez, of all the things on my body right now screaming out for a good tug, why the hell would she choose my big toe?
“You’re hurting me,” I said.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, then she abruptly ended the massage a few minutes later. Then she was gone.
Maybe she gave up massage. Maybe she became a lesbian. Maybe she decided to confront her demons head on and seek employment down at the old Oscar Meyer weiner plant.
And that’s who I blame for needing the surgery that I hope will eliminate this infernal limp.
But I’m going to be fine and on the bright side it’s far better for men like me to admit we have a little limp than admit we are a little limp.
That makes this a rare case of a story that ends happily without having benefitted from the memory of a true happy ending.
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