The Reluctant Metrosexual
Chapter One
The Not-So-Happy Ending
“Big hands I know you’re the one . . .”
—violent femmes
When asked by a curious novice to define jazz, Louis Armstrong famously quipped, “Man, if you have to ask, you’ll never know.” The same edict apparently holds true for certain aspects of the ever-popular massage, a fact I learned the hard way.
Not long ago, in preparation for an upcoming triathlon race, I made a massage appointment at my health club, an overpriced Manhattan institution with a brash late-seventies tennis legend as its spokesman, never check- ing on the gender of the massage therapist. As a straight male, I assumed that the receptionist would somehow match my implicit preference (female). Preference, however, would have been a moot point: my gym offers only masseurs (males).
Unfortunately, I discovered this only as I walked into the small, dimly lit massage room. There I met Hans, a tall, well-built forty-something who looked as if he owned a closetful of well-worn leather chaps for weekend use. But no matter, I thought, trying to keep positive. Hans seemed nice enough, and when he lit the cand ... read full excerpt from: The Reluctant Metrosexual ebook
