From Massage Spa Therapist to Physical Therapist

Life usually knows what a person needs.  I find myself forgetting sometimes that life is my greatest teacher.  And even though I really do want to believe in coincidences, I don’t.

Just a week prior to my first session with my pelvic physical therapist, my aunt gave me a gift for a 90-minute massage to the spa therapist.  So, even though my aunt was coming with me to the spa, I couldn’t help my anxiety levels because this was my first time and the idea of a stranger touching my body intimately was a bit nerve-wracking.

All these normal tiny question-based fears crept up like a cold draft in a haunted apartment like:  Will my naked body look okay?  What about that little bit of cellulite in my inner thighs?  Will they notice and are they going to feel it when they massage me?  Am I going to perspire like a madwoman because of my revved up anxiety levels and stink the whole place up like a skunk?

Ah, so with all the dread, it finally came time to strip down to my bra and panties at the locker room which brought back memories of never wanting to get undress in gym class at junior high and how other girls would make fun of me because I prefer privacy over publicity.  But I managed to get into the lovely plush robe despite the fact that some eyes were peering my way.  I confidently shook it off and strolled nervously into the massage room.

It was beautiful!  Dim lighting, meditative music, candle atmosphere.  Then it was time to undo my bra.  My panty I could leave on!  And I managed to get through it.  But because I went through this experience, I was able to not completely freak or walk out the door when I had to strip my pants and panty at the physical therapist place.

The first real session (not the initial evaluation) with my pelvic physical therapist was surprising but expected since I’ve done my research.  Still, I was freaking out internally.  The dim lights, classical music, and earthly décor put me at ease to an extent, but the rest of the time I’m sporting a deadpan expression with brewing spades and acid in the pit of my stomach.

For me, there’s nothing comfortable being half naked and having this talkative nice lady massage and stretch my stomach, pelvis, inner thighs, sit bones, hips, glutes and lower back.  Nothing.  As if nothing could top that, she brought out the vagina dilators, gloves and lube.  And I reassured myself, “This doesn’t make you gay.  This is medical procedure.  This appears sexual but isn’t sexual at all.  Relax.”

This was when I had to channel my anxiety and awkward levels to asking her a million questions about her life and her career and everything else in between, so I wouldn’t die too much in the present moment of vagina dilators.  All I could think is, if I can handle a 90-minute plus massage with wraps, hot oil and hot stones, I can handle someone sticking dilators inside me, regardless if they’re the same gender.

*pats back*


Mammoth Crush: Dark Knight


It all happened over a year ago.

I met a very popular guy, a professional personal trainer who looks like a linebacker with detailed beautiful strong and graceful features of a black stallion whom many people worshipped just by being in his presence in and out the gym environment. I remember the first time I officially met him, at the top floor where the big boys and big gals play. Barbells, hammer strength machines and steel dumbbells awaited for my arrival. It was after gym hours where the lights automatically shutdown on a timer and whomever decided to stay had to fend for themselves with a small flashlight from their phone like me.

On that particular night I was out to deadlift, but before I started on my merry training session I saw a new person up there: Tall, dark, muscular, handsome and the thing that stuck out the most was the fact that he’s one of the few men I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting who has a nose piercing. He came up to me and introduced himself as one of the trainers and quickly asked me what I was going to work out on and when I replied he asked if I was an athlete. I told him I was working on it. And I never thought about him again the way he slipped out my mind despite his physical appearance.

Somewhere along the line this changed and before I knew it we worked out every single weekend together for months straight through the cold warming one another with our laughter and conversation delights. I’d wait for him to make his protein/supplement cocktail mix after the workouts, sometimes I’d be in the locker room with him while we chatted and chatted about anything and everything about life way past midnight. Than he would walk me to the bus and wait until I got on giving me the smile of the sun to which I enjoyed immensely. Than one night while on the bus I realized how much he turned me on mentally by the conversations we engaged in and I became hooked. He became my muse and every time we spent quality time I jotted a poem, made quite a few blog entries on here and stalked him around the gym, along with many different things.

I knew he liked me because he spent a lot of time with me when he could as long as others weren’t around to observe us. We flirted but kept things calm and collected. One day I became frustrated at all the time we were spending and was beginning to think he was leading me on and I texted him, “Well are you interested or not?” He shot my heart down with, “Hey, aren’t we friends?” And if I wasn’t getting to the point of obsession then, I definitely was going to obsess until I could get over him because rejection turns me on almost as much as a deep stimulating conversation does.

Suddenly I thought that all the time we shared could have been imaginary, that I have quite possibly could have related to the male sex of hope and delusion. But my gut told me different, the universe in all its coincidences like picking up on his scent right before he would come to the gym to let me know he’s on his way and multiple frequencies kept voicing me the truth, that indeed he’s interested and I just have to sit back and remain patient.  Or find it in my heart to get over him?

To be continued..

Here’s the first poem I ever wrote about him dated September 30, 2012.  The title will be under the nickname that recently sprung up to mind:

Dark Knight

We’re having moments


And I’m pulled by different forces,

And recurring neurosis

A question balloons:
Why do you strike me caring and tender?

Sweet giant!

Can you get to me without prying?

You stare through me
with eyes of mysterious fire

I melt in a tension of dangerous desire

Your every word is lush and comfort

It’s southern in the city

Roots from the blood

You edge me to taste the optimism from the mud

You want to teach me the ways

Of your spirit

I can feel you there.
I can feel you there.