Learning to Love Massage

 

Prior to my brush with a melanoma cancer in 1977, my only knowledge of massage came from Men’s magazine references to “massage parlors,” in the U.S., but preferably in the far east.  I have never been to the far east, and the unspoken messages about US “parlors” implied STD caution, so I had acquired no experience along these lines.   There’s nothing like a brush with death to make you more clearly examine life.  I thought about things more clearly after my night-nurse signed off on me before my cancer operation.  It’s called, “Learning to Smell the Roses.”  So, when my doctor, Dr. Michael Gerber of Mill Valley, told me that in addition to my vitamin D and E injections, iridology, reflexology, and bio-feedback training, I needed to have weekly massage therapy treatments, specifically addressing my lymphatic system, I said, “Okay,” without question.

I started on my path to enlightenment with his recommendation of a person there in Mill Valley, a person who was, of course, expensive and inconvenient.  Since part of my regimen with Dr Gerber was a healthy diet, I gathered a list of local San Francisco masseuses, who had posted advertisements for themselves on the bulletin boards of my local organic health food stores.

I read ads from hippies, hookers, and new-age freaks.  It was haphazard.  Most were incompetent.  By that I mean that my expectation was a combined euphoric/healthy feeling afterward, and a sense of time not wasted. 

This was rarely evident. 

After “bored-housewife,” “girl-next-door” back-rubs [the field is woefully under-regulated], an ad that promised Esalen style hot-tub luxury lured me back to Marin County.  This woman started with a lengthy backrub, followed by a hasty application of sports cream, like Vick’s, which burned like hell, as she applied to my nether regions.  The masseuse followed with a proposal that I declined, ready to give up the quest for a sincere masseuse.

By sheer luck, I found a woman who knew about lymphatic massage.  And she was supplementing her salary downtown, not trying to get rich off me.  As it turned out, I had known her in the Financial District years before.

Today’s reader will either not believe me, or concur that we were all just plain stupid, when I relate that in 1978, an acceptable office luncheon break was to get together at one of the local Market Street bath houses for a picnic.  These places offered large communal hot tub rooms, where 2-8 people could enjoy a relaxing hot tub and a lunch of cracked crab and white wine.  Well, I did this with my staff, so you can see what kind of a boss I was.  When I was alone and getting a massage, I had a wonderful place along Union Street in the Marina.  Just a hole in the wall, but they had a hot tub, a small shower and tables for two masseuses.  I always felt so good afterwards, I would stop in a sushi bar and have eel or octopus.

Strangely enough, before middle-age, I never thought of giving massages, only getting.  After middle-age, I find myself far more enjoying giving massages rather than getting them.

But the whole thing changed when I moved to Europe.  I couldn’t find anything other than military massages, “Lift your leg higher! Higher!”  All the spas were for women and they would be terribly upset to find a male in their midst.  I stopped for ten years.

When I arrived back in the Bay Area in 1988, I was busy with a wife and kids, so it wasn’t until Sue left me and went back to England that I even had time for such a thing.  My sister had been using Joy Tucker for massages for three years.  For my birthday in 1995, my sister gave me a 3-massage gift certificate with Joy Tucker.  I quickly became hooked again and started going once a week for a full hour’s massage.  It was a year before there was even the hint of something between us and another year before we were both divorced and free to begin an affair.  Then there were two more years where we explored Thai massage (Yoga Massage).

When we broke things off, I found a new masseuse closer to my house and work in San Mateo.  That was Barbara Zaller, who I used for three years, right up until my move to Guerneville.

After Susie Garber of RoseMarie’s, I tried Cyndee Green for three months, but she was too much into her new business in Guerneville.  My neighbor Carol recommended Gina Woods and she was perfect, and lasted  eighteen months, but then she took off for India, and was gone for  years.  I was working at this time and tried to blend in a little house cleaning, meal preparation and massage with Jody Ann Cafferata and Diane Timmerman. 

Then came school, and having learned to give massages, I got out of the habit of getting them.  I got so many massages during school; we were our own guinea pigs.  So, when I fully retired and couldn’t afford to pay to get massages anymore, I was only giving them, which lasted five years, but now I don’t do either;

except on myself  -  and I never complain.