by E. Clay
Maxine’s was once a car dealership that folded when the Cash for Clunkers government scheme failed to honor some of its financial commitments.
I reached for my wallet and retrieved my VISA.
“Today is a special day, and I would like my girl to have the VIP treatment,” I said, as I placed my arm around her waist.
“Clay, all I really need is a massage,” Monet whispered in my ear.
“All right, babe. Whatever you want.”
While reading the LED sign something caught my attention so I enquired.
“Excuse me, but what does Gay Friendly mean?”
The woman smiled and was eager to explain.
“Gay friendly simply means we are respectful of all people and their relationships. Our staff and our patrons are from all walks of life and we embrace that.”
From a business perspective it made sense so I dropped it at that.
Monet presented her VISA and offered to treat me to the VIP treatment. My first instinct was to decline because it was very expensive but I reluctantly said yes.
The guest passes only covered use of the machines and the sauna.
The receptionist hit a few strokes on her keyboard and within moments a strikingly attractive male masseur emerged from the double doors to our left. He was Italian-looking, about 6’2”, built like an Olympic gymnast and dressed in all white. His entrance could have been accompanied by a theme song. His eyebrows were arched and he had short, black, gelled hair. Monet noticed him and her reaction made me feel a little insecure. It wasn’t what she said, it was her body language. I prayed to dear God that Mr. Fabio was not her masseur. I couldn’t bear the thought of her being alone in a room with him with just a towel to cover her half-naked body.
I seized the moment to take control.
“Hey, sweetheart my masseur is here. Guess I’ll see you in an hour. Love you, babe,” I said as I walked to the gentleman with the Superman physique.
The receptionist intervened to my dismay.
“Sir, you have the VIP treatment. Your appointment is with Tammy, she’s a new trainee. She will be here very soon. Mario, please show our new guest to the women’s changing room.”
Damn.
Monet waved at me as Mario kindly escorted her past the lobby down the corridor.
I think she sensed my unease. My poker face sucks.
“Don’t worry, sir. She’s in good hands. Mario will take good care of her.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said as I watched them engage in chitchat until they passed through the automatic sliding glass doors.
I stood like a spoiled brat with my arms crossed trying to suppress my frustration.
“Excuse me, how long is her session with Mario?”
“It’s an hour, would you like extra time?”
“Ah, hell no. I mean, no thanks.”
My inside voice slipped out.
“What’s the VIP treatment?” I asked.
While leaning over the counter, someone tapped me on my back and winked.
“Hi, I’m Tammy and welcome to Maxine’s.”
Okay. Monet gets Adonis and I get Tammy the tranny. Nice.
Tammy could have played point guard for the Lakers. She was taller than Mario and had humongous hands. Tammy was African-American and had an orange tint afro. Tammy’s big, hooped earrings constantly swung in motion as she used a lot of head movements when she spoke. She was definitely a man.
“Follow me, sweetness.”
Again I felt less than manly. I followed Tammy down the opposite corridor to the men’s changing room. I wanted to cancel but Monet paid up front.
I took the longest time to undress and don my complimentary robe. I peeked outside and Tammy was patiently waiting tapping her feet and chewing gum.
“Don’t be shy, sweetie. Let me check to see if our room is free.”
I prayed that it was occupied. That was my ticket out.
“C’mon precious, I won’t hurt you,” Tammy said as she opened the door.
It was spotless inside. The ivory décor was a nice touch and gave it a sense of cleanliness. A burgundy leather massage table was the focal point of the room. There was a partition for me to disrobe and tie a towel around my waist. The only redeeming factor of this experience was I momentarily forgot about the love of my life being halfnude alone with what’s his face. I felt vulnerable. I reluctantly laid on the table face down, my cheeks in clinch mode.
Across from me were a mix of lotions and other accessories to be used during the session.
Tammy stood in front of me and gave me her well-rehearsed spiel.
“This is a legitimate establishment. I don’t give hand jobs and don’t ask me for a blow job. So let’s get that straight, okaaay.”
Wow. If she only knew how distasteful that sounded.
“Okay.”
“Also, it’s perfectly natural if you get an erection; we can work through that.”
“Yeah, somehow I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem.”
“Just sayin’ if it happens, it happens. No big deal.”
“So what’s the VIP treatment?” I asked.
“Hun, this is top-shelf pampering. First you get a fab wax job and then you’ll get a royal massage that will make your toes curl,” Tammy said enthusiastically.
“Waxing?” I had flashbacks of the movie Forty-Year-Old Virgin.
“Honey child, we wax everything from the back to the sack to the crack.”
“Okay. I’m outa here. I need to check on Monet,” I said as I got up from the table and went to get my robe.
“Sorry, no offense. I’m just a little uncomfortable.” Tammy was taken aback by my attitude and my abruptness. “Would you prefer a man instead?”
“You are a man.”
My inside voice slipped out again.
Tammy became upset and highly emotional. I could tell I hurt her feelings. I felt terrible. She reached for her wallet.
“Here, this is my driver’s license. What does it say?” Tammy asked.
I stuck my hands in my robe pockets and squinted to read the print on Tammy’s license.
“It says, Tammy Monroe, Sex: Female?”
“Damn skippy. If the State can recognize me as a woman, why can’t you?” Tammy said, waving her forefinger all around my face.
I felt like I was being unduly chastised so I walked towards to the door in silence. Exit stage left. I paused for a moment and then I looked over my shoulder and Tammy’s eyes were welling up.
Guilt consumed me.
I did an about face.
Sigh.
“Okay, I owe you an apology. I’m sorry for calling you a man.”
Tammy reached for a tissue and wiped her eyes before blowing her nose. It sounded like a foghorn.
“I don’t want your pity, all right?”
I sat back on the massage table and asked her to sit next to me.
“Tammy, this isn’t about pity. It’s about trying to right a wrong. I’ve got some insecurities and that’s on me. I shouldn’t have projected them onto you. You seem like a very nice person.”
Tammy sat next to me, balled up the tissue and threw it into the trash can way on the other side of the room. Maybe she really was a point guard in her former life.
“I don’t even know your name sweetie.”
“All right. Let’s start from the beginning, okay? Hi, my name is Clay,” I said as I extended my hand to shake.
I could tell Tammy was coming out of her defensive shell. She seemed more relaxed with me and she shook my hand.
“I’m gonna call you Cassius,” she replied, with a smile.
As Tammy let her guard down, she opened up to me.
“Cassius, I left a six-figure gig in marketing to work here. It’s really hard trying to maintain my champagne lifestyle on a beer budget, you know what I’m sayin’?”
That had to be a serious cut in pay and I was curious why someone would do that deliberately.
“Six-figures is good an
ywhere. What made you quit?”
“It’s a long story, but I’ll give you the CliffNotes version. I spent three months on a multi-million dollar account, developing a marketing strategy. It was the first time my VP didn’t review my presentation before it was unveiled before the client.”
“So, I take it the client didn’t like your ad.”
“They crucified it. It was a beautiful poster of two women holding hands applying for a mortgage. What’s so wrong with that?”
“I guess some people aren’t ready to turn the page on gay marriage.”
“I don’t believe in gay marriage either. I believe in marriage, marriage between two loving people. No one calls it straight marriage, so why do they feel the need to call it gay marriage? It’s not gay sex, it’s sex. It’s 2011 and we need to move past the point of tolerance to acceptance. Straights really need to get over themselves,” Tammy explained from atop of her soapbox.
That was an earful, but I wasn’t offended.
“Okay, Tammy. How about a wet shave instead of a massage? Can you handle that?” I asked, as I rubbed my hand across my five o’clock shadow.
“Sweetie, by the time I get through with you, your face will be smooth as a baby’s behind.”
I laid comfortably on the massage table and Tammy went to work.
As I lay on the table I remembered all the gym rats sporting near-perfect bodies.
“You know, Tammy, I really need to get back in the gym. My girl has a body to kill for; I need to step up my game. Standing next to Super Mario didn’t do much for my ego.”
When I mentioned Mario, Tammy froze in place with the razor just under my chin.
“Mario? I thought he took the day off. His boyfriend’s birthday is today. Philippe’s gonna have his ass on a stick. I better remind Mario to pick up a gift on the way home.”
“Mario is gay?” I asked, with delight.
“Pleeeease. You couldn’t tell? Sweetie you need yo eyes examined.”
What a relief. I was so glad I stayed. Otherwise I would have tortured myself for no reason just waiting for Monet in the lobby.
Tammy was right, my skin never felt so soft. I looked in the mirror and appreciation was written all over my face. Tammy and I had a brief conversation just before I left and she had a few helpful tips.
“Cassius, some girls love big arms and some girls love a nice ass. But every girl loves a man with a tight waist. Work your abs and work them hard. And one mo thang. The Olive Garden has fab raspberry cheesecake. It’s orgasmic. Get a piece for your lady,” she said.
As I headed out Tammy winked and then waved goodbye.
As I waited for Monet, sitting at the juice bar sipping on my mango smoothie, I felt like I gained something from my experience with Tammy. I requested a customer survey sheet and gave Tammy a rave review. She deserved it.
FOUR
* * *
Dinner at the Olive Garden
I‘ll take the mixed grill please,” I said as I placed the napkin in my lap.
Monet studied the menu intently as her head scanned up and down each selection.
“Hmm, I will take the Seafood Alfredo,” Monet said as she gave the lovely waitress her menu.
I reflected on the past and I challenged Monet’s memory of one of our old traditions.
“Shall we?”
“Sure, why not?” Monet replied as she motioned for the waitress.
“Yes, ma’am. Is there something else you’d like to order?”
“No. But if you take our picture when the food comes we’d be really appreciative.”
Wow! Monet remembered after all this time.
The waitress was so courteous and accommodating. She was a bubbly young woman about twentyish and just under five feet in height. I think she was Jamaican. Her name was Mary.
Monet always liked to sit next to me when we ate, but this time she let me sit across from her. I preferred it that way because it allowed me to get lost in her beautiful eyes.
“So, here we are. Just like old times,” I said as I held her hand across the table.
“Yeah. Thanks for the massage babe. I really needed it. Mario was a strange man. I kinda expected him to be a little flirty but he was so business-like once he started. Couldn’t quite figure him out.”
“Oh, really?”
“Were you worried, babe?” Monet said as she stroked my hand.
“Who me? I was cool as the other side of the pillow.”
“Not even a little bit?”
“Okay, maybe just a little.”
“Clay, how was your VIP treatment?”
“It was stimulating. Feel this,” I said as I ran her hand across the side of my face.
“Your skin is so soft.”
Mary brought our meals to the table and we indulged.
For the next ten minutes all I wanted to talk about was Robert our son. I could see the excitement in Monet’s eyes as we discussed Robert. She was very proud of him and I loved hearing every detail she had to offer. I was impressed with how he successfully balanced his academics with his demanding sports schedule. Robert was an A-student and an all-state candidate for track and soccer. Robert also was semifluent in Japanese and had a steady girlfriend named Aiisha. I could tell Monet was hoping that relationship would taper off when he joined the Marines, but it seemed to grow stronger, according to Monet.
“So how does Robert get along with Marc?” I asked.
“Robert idolizes his dad, I think that’s why he joined the Marines. In the end, Marc wasn’t a good husband, but he was always a great dad. Too many back-to-back tours in Iraq and Afghanistan screwed him up. Marc was driving a HUMVEE and hit a roadside bomb in Kabul, Afghanistan and the blast killed two of his troops. Marc suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and I couldn’t deal with the mood swings and violence.”
“So, did Marc recover from his PTSD?” I asked as I licked the steak juice off my fingers.
“He’s better now. I think getting into bodybuilding helped him vent some of that pent-up guilt and anger. He’s huge and at 6’2” I was no match for him that last night.”
I froze with my fork in my mouth. I really didn’t want to hear what happened but I had to know.
“Okay, tell me what happened.”
“Clay, it was over something petty but he lost it. We got into an argument over a Facebook post from one of his exes from high school. He backhanded me at the dinner table and dared me to talk back to him. When a man puts his hands on you the first time it’s never the last time. I wasn’t going to give him a second chance. So I asked him to leave… for good,” Monet said, with sadness.
“Clay, Marc knows about our affair in 1991.”
“What? How did he find out?”
Monet pushed her empty plate to the side and leaned toward me.
“I had to tell him. I had no other choice.”
I started to whisper because I didn’t want anyone to overhear our private conversation.
“No other choice? Hmm,” I said, a little unnerved.
“Clay, Marc saw the tape.”
“What tape?”
Monet gasped.
“I forgot. I never told you. The sex tape.”
What the F? I thought.
“Monet, we didn’t make a sex tape. I am sure I would have remembered that.”
I was furious and I could feel myself starting to perspire.
“Clay, I am so sorry. I didn’t tell you because I knew you would have wanted a copy,” Monet said remorsefully.
“So how did he find it?”
“In 2000 we went from VHS to DVD and Marc gave the VCR away to a friend. I had nothing to watch it on so I had the tape transferred on to DVD at the local Radio Shack. I came home from work one day and saw Marc watching it in our bedroom. You had me pinned against the wall from behind with my work clothes still on.”
“Shit!” I couldn’t believe it. I crossed my arms and shook my head. “Monet, this isn’t good. What the hell happened after tha
t?”
“Marc said if I didn’t tell him who was fucking me he would throw all my shit out the bedroom window.”
“And?”
“He threw all my shit out the bedroom window. Through the bedroom window. I couldn’t tell him who you were. I know what he would have done.”
Before Monet could finish, we were interrupted by the nice waitress.
“Can I take your plates away?”
Perfect timing. I was about to catch the express train, first stop Paranoia City.
I let out a huge sigh and wiped my mouth with my dinner napkin. I started to calm down. First of all the incident was over a decade ago and Monet was divorced from him. I dropped it and Monet was glad that I was able to move on. We changed the subject.
“Are you still doing the stage hypno thingy?”
Monet knew me very well. Hypnosis was one of my passions and I was more than happy to chat about it.
“Not doing the stage stuff anymore, just hypnotherapy. That’s where my heart is. Even though it’s been 20 years since I went to the academy, it is still just as exciting as it was back then.”
“So where do you want to go with it? There are so many possibilities.”
The excitement in my eyes affirmed my love for the misunderstood discipline of wellness.
“My dream job is to one day become a forensic hypnotist. I would gladly volunteer my services for free to help solve criminal cases. In trance I can tease out crucial information buried deep in the subconscious, much more effectively than a detective. Now that is my dream job.”
“Have you ever done anything like that before?”
“Kinda. But it didn’t work out the way I planned.”
“Well, did it work?”
“Yeah. A friend of mine was deploying to Operation Desert Storm and just before he got his orders he found out his 14-year-old daughter was raped by some college football jock while she was visiting her grandmother in Kentucky The problem was she couldn’t remember who raped her.”
“That’s bullshit. How could you not know who raped you?”
