Bishop Smash

I remember her room was dimly lit and reeked like a mixture of sweet oils and cleaning solution. Soothing music played from her small Japanese stereo as water gently trickled over the rocks of her Zen fountain. Her voice inviting me to undress and lie down on the table. Her sandy blond hair rested precariously on her slouched shoulders. She slobbered on a thick wad of bubble gum – occasionally picking at it with long curvy red press-on nails. Her starch white uniform making scratchy sounds as she went about arranging her things.

She started in on my neck and then worked my shoulders deep. I exhaled through my nostrils while she kneaded the flesh of my buttocks into a gelatinous putty. Giving each cheek a thirty second counter clockwise rub - paying close attention not to overuse the hot slippery oils.

I remember nodding with a sheepish grin as her long finger-nailed hand reached under the sheets to give me a tug. Her tired eyes telling me that everything was going to be ok. And as that feeling of sweet relief washed over me, my mind wandered to thoughts of warm gray chinchilla fur and how I need to be nicer to people with red hair.

When I opened my eyes she was gone – never to be seen or heard from again.

7 years have passed and still the visions of the Masseuse haunt my waking days. I float through my makeshift life, and no matter how many times I yank chain to her memory, I just can’t seem to shake her from my mind.