If I don’t die in my sleep, I will wake up tomorrow 8 days sober. I haven’t put together 8 consecutive days of sobriety in almost 10 years.
However, my pain pill addiction is a beast of its own. I am fiercely in love with opiates. I know this because pills consume my every thought, and I hate them as much as I love them. That’s what love is, right?
So after scoring Oxycodone from my crack head ex-husband who just got out of the hospital after breaking 3 ribs in a botched robbery attempt, I decided to cash in my Mother’s Day present: I called and scheduled an appointment for an hour-long massage, followed by a body slimming mud wrap and a pedicure from a fancy hotel spa.
I had been taking enough pills to knock out small horse over the last few days. This I never intend to do, but always do. This behavior is never intentional, but always the case. Because I am, by definition, insane. I repeat the same behavior over and over, each time expecting a different outcome. It’s always the same. As an addict, I think, “I’m gonna save them for when I need them this time.” Yeah right, I take them everyday until they are gone.
Because of the amount I had been taking, I took a few laxatives the night prior to my spa appointment. Once again, enough to make a small horse shit out its lunch for an entire week. Opiates halt any and all activity in the gut. This is the downside of taking pain pills. I have an eating disorder as well, so looking fat devastates me. Sometimes the laxatives work, sometimes not. Even without the opiates, my system doesn’t cooperate. I am in no way regular. A can consume a can of refried beans, a handful of prunes and a cup of coffee…most would be bursting at the seams. Nope. Not this girl. Needless to say I was disappointed when I didn’t poop yesterday morning. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t bloated for the massage. I guess I am addicted to laxatives too. Jesus.
My appointment was set for 1:15. By 11:30 I felt the rumbling begin. “Oh thank god,” I thought at my desk. Come on, come on, come on,” as I anxiously watched the clock.” I happily pranced to the bathroom knowing my day at the spa was going to be just as I envisioned. But I should have know better. Laxatives completely flush me out. COMPLETELY. At least give it an hour, maybe 2 until it’s a clear liquid. Then I know my tummy is empty and I feel thin. I raced to the bathroom 2 more times before I left for the spa.
“Shit, I thought as I sat on the toilet with my head in hands. Why did I do that? I should have just waited until tonight to take them… Or I should have taken a couple more to make sure I was done by this time of day.” There is a fine line you must walk when taking laxatives. I didn’t want to wake up at 3 am with diarrhea. First of all, my girlfriend would know, who’s all about letting nature perform this act as she is ‘miss normal’ in all areas. Secondly, she would shit if she knew I was taking pills again. I had diarrhea. And it was only starting. Fuck, there was no way I was making it to my anticipated and much needed spa day without the fear of when I was going to shit again. I needed at least 5 or 6 trips to the toilet and time was running out.
Upon my arrival, the spa staff insisted I was 15 minutes late and I insisted I was fifteen minutes early. I was escorted to a small room to change into my hand-selected robe. Now, feeling pressure because apparently I was making everyone wait who was scheduled to pamper me (Pampers would have been perfect), I rushed across the dimly lit hall to the bathroom. A tiny and elegant room. I sat down and poop shot out of me at max speed. Dread hit me harder than shit hit that porcelain. And oh my god, that smell could empty an auditorium faster than Milli Vanilli. I felt a little relief when I spotted the purple can. You know, the lavender-scented Lysol? Of course that’s the one they chose. The yellow or green can doesn’t scream luxurious spa like the lavender one, those let you know you’re in gas station or an old person’s house. After leaving the bathroom, I was positive everyone would know it was me who created that god awful smell. I walked in to meet my massage therapist. It was a guy. An extremely hot one. He must have been in his late 20’s. He had lite mocha skin and perfectly chiseled muscles. He spoke with a seductive voice. He had a smile that came with a flirtatious smirk and the sexiest set of dimples. I was about to get a full body massage from Shemar Moore and I was clenching my ass cheeks.
This was my first full body massage. I had never had a massage from a man (with the exception of my ex-husband, thereby making it perfectly acceptable to fart.) No one asked me upon scheduling my appointment if I had a preference for a male or female. I would have chosen female, but whatever. It was too late. As I sat there soaking my feet and clenching by butt cheeks together wishing I had just a little more time to shit before my massage, he explained to me what would transpire over the next hour.
“What do you mean by full body?” I blurted out.
He flashed a dimple. I wondered if he was thinking, “Thank god I didn’t get another cow shaped house wife whose muscles I can’t even get to under all the Twinkie residue.”
“Well, I will start with you on your back. I will massage your neck and temples. Then I will turn you over and continue with your shoulders, arms, lower back. Then I’ll do each leg starting with your glutes and thighs slowly moving down to your calves and feet.”
Oh my fucking god! Did he just say glutes? This man, almost as sexy as Usher himself, is about to rub my butt. What if at that very moment I have to shit? I’ll clench and he will know because my cellulite will pop out. Why is this happening? I just wanted to enjoy a massage. I am supposed to be relaxing. What a fucking idiot. Of course I screwed this up. I screw everything up. Even my own Mother’s Day present.
“Does that sound good?” Usher replied.
“Yes.” I said pensively.
“Okay, go ahead and take off your robe and get under the sheet face up. I’ll be right back.”
Oh my god. Turn me over? There is absolutely nothing one can say in that situation that doesn’t scream sex.
“Just relax, be listless, he whispered. Let me do all the work, when I move you, just be heavy and let it happen, don’t try to help.” I can’t believe he can describe a massage without knowing he sounds like a steamy R&B song.
I was naked and so not fearless. Without those damn laxatives everything would be perfect right now. I could relax while LL Cool J squeezed my butt cheek and appreciated that I’m not just another white girl with a flat ass, but a rather ample ass any black man would admire. But I was so nervous. I had to shit. Why god why? I knew he could tell I was tense. He’s a massage therapist for fuck sakes. “It’s ok girl, just breathe. You’ll be fine. It’ll pass,” I reassured myself. I prayed by the time he got down there I didn’t have an urge to poop. What if some just slipped out and I couldn’t stop it? I wondered if that had ever happened to him before, some lady just farting in that small room. Except for this wouldn’t be just any gas, it would be lethal and possibly visible.
Glute time had arrived. I quickly went back in my memory to anatomy 101. My glute was in fact my buttocks, right? Why didn’t he just say buttocks? Maybe he meant upper thigh. I silently panicked, “Okay, it’s happening, there’s no getting up and running.” I suppose I could. But I’m the type to lay quietly holding my breath, hoping nothing horrifying happens. I’m not the type to speak up and blurt “Stop, I have use the restroom, or… Stop, I made a horrible mistake by coming here. I have to go. I forgot to pick up my kid. Don’t worry, your tip will exceed your expectation.”
This immensely hot massage therapist who just stepped out of Playgirl magazine was ready for my ass. He slowly rolled up the sheet all the way until I felt the entire right side of my body exposed to the warm air. I felt his hand wrap around my ankle. He lifted up my leg ( I swear my vagina was in plain sight for him to examine while my leg was extended, thank god I had shaved). If he was my boyfriend, this is when penetration would occur. He tucked the sheet under me so it wouldn’t be in the way. He saturated his hands with oil and immersed his hands into my gluteus maximus. My eyes bounced back and forth inside that horseshoe shaped hole from wide opened to squeezed shut as my brain screamed” Please don’t have to shit, please not now. Just a few more minutes. Damn why can’t I be enjoying this like I am supposed to? God this feels good. Deep breath. It’s all good. He’s moving down. He’s going down. It’s almost over. He’s at my calf. Okay, Breath. ” I had made it through one ass cheek.
As my perfect shade of chocolate massage therapist pursued my other side, by the time my vagina-exposing, sheet-curling moment began, so did my tummy. As the gurgling increased, I was sure he could hear it. I pictured the smirk on his face. That half smile. And oh, those dimples. It was happening, I needed to pass some gas. Except in this situation, the only thing passing would be liquid down my thigh, not to mention a smell reminiscent of a dead possum from the garage. I squeezed. I had to. As I clenched my face and my ass, I hoped he wouldn’t start rubbing before it passed. He had to have seen my butt squeezed so hard there was no doubt I was holding in a fart. Mortified, it finally passed. I hoped nothing had bubbled out while almost passing out from a mixture of fear and holding my breath. He began the final stretch of my massage. Damn it felt good. No one ever rubs my ass. By this point, relaxing was out of the question. I just breathed and waited.
“Okay, we’re finished. Take your time getting up. You may feel a little light-headed. Your robe is on the chair. I’ll be waiting for you outside the door with a glass of water.”
“Jesus Christ,” I thought as I walked out of the room. I felt it come on like someone had just turned on a water hose inside my gut. I had to go. For real. I was gonna blow. I graciously took the glass of water. I waited for him to finish his spew of directions telling me to “just relax” and wait for the next person who had apparently been tapping her nails waiting 15 minutes to pamper me. Of course she was ready. Of course she was ready. I, however, was not. As he walked away, I set down my glass, clenched my butt cheeks together and tip-toed to the bathroom. It smelled like a newborn’s diaper in there; from one hour ago when I shit the first time. Embarrassed, because now every employee knew it was me who rancidized their entire facility, I sat down and let it out.
I was now ready for my mud wrap. “It’s okay,” I thought, if anything leaks out, at least I’ll be covered in mud. I’ll match.”
I made it through the rest of my appointment without incident. Well, except the part where I split my pants in the crotch while getting dressed before my pedicure. I looked in the mirror from behind. It was only visible if I bent over. How fitting. A hole conveniently placed so I could shoot out shit while getting my toe nails painted. I hoped the manicurist wouldn’t mind.
“I’m so sorry for the mess, Miss manicurist. And about that dead possum smell. Don’t worry, your tip will exceed your expectation.”