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*

-Pennington

Sexual Filler Songs



I’m currently a hypersexual wildebeest meaning anything sets me off such as a piece of fabric caressing my skin to flirting with the coworker who’s dying to eat my pussy in the babysitting room at the gym.  I’m a sexual monster and I mean this in the most repulsive manner.  I’m completely ill with my days and nights of gargantuan hormones.  Currently speaking, no amount of Cardio, Yoga or Weightlifting has cured it this time around, not even a spec.

I’ve been scouting the gym and looking for possibles as if I were in some local bar.  I fantasized about picking one out, treating him to coffee where I’d perform my needs analysis and put my wicked talent of people character on the table for sex.  My stare is fully manic and my eyes are hypnotic demonic, with mouth ajar and head tilted slightly to the side with a flame-broiled horny face.

Earlier today before passing by a male stranger I gave him sultry squinting bedroom eyes with my lips puckered into a bodacious smooch.  I don’t normally like getting attention.  But I enjoy giving it to others and letting their mind race with entertaining thoughts of me and what I can do.  I play the part of a person’s fantasy very well just like an Oscar actress, a Porn Star or a beloved hooker.  He never saw it coming and I knew as he kept walking he wondered was it aimed towards me? and was it intentional? Yes. Yes it fucking WAS!

Being that I’ve been wildly consumed by my needs and desires and never consumed by the thought of actually and literally masturbating I thought to come up with a list of songs I listen to when I’m feeling hypersexual.  Some may get a kick out of this because some of you fuckers openly masturbate to me while others may actually get to probably enjoy a new tune.  Unless of course, you’ll be willing to let me in on one of the songs you play when you’re feeling extra frisky? 😀

1. Heidi Montag – Body Language
2. Oro Solido – La Tanga
3. Blondie – Call Me
4. Lana Del Rey – Lolita (Or Lolyta)
5. The Raconteurs – Broken Toy Soldiers
6. Norah Jones – Turn Me On
7. Sade – Is It A Crime
8. Country Strong Soundtrack – Shake That Thing!
8. Wynter GordonDirty Talk
9. Donna SummerLove To Love You Baby
10. Calvin Harris – Feel So Close
11. Britney Spears – Selfish
12. Shakira – La Tortura
13. Flashdance Soundtrack – Manhunt
14. Maroon 5 – Stutter
15. Janet Jackson – Throb
16. Metro Station – Shake It
17. Junior Reid – One Blood
18. Fiona Apple – The First Taste
19. Enrique Iglesias – I’m Fucking You
20. Billy Idol – Rebel Yell

-Ms. Hall

Dear Stranger


A tattoo on your neck is a form of danger.
Your ashtray breath gives the impression of your own cancer eating your insides.
I wonder how many lives you allowed to pass you by.
Bitten nails like flitting flings, I bet an STD be something to sing!
Baby, you’re troubling to me.
Yet pretty as a white artificial Christmas tree.
I wish I were the lady beautiful in pink
Looking to devote to an entire art of escapee.
Dear, here’s a memento to strike your mental:
Enjoy my poetry.

Pennington