Ain't Nothing But a Hand-Job

Little Sean Rouse is a knobby little kid out of Houston, white as a frogs belly and scrawny like an old man with thin blond hair stuck to his head. He's got this arthritis, rheumatoid arthritis, that makes his joints all big on his skinny little extremities so he looks a bit stiff and cartoonish in an adorable way, in a way that makes you wanna do things for him. He was originally diagnosed with Lupus, an incurable disease that can be fatal. That's what he thought he had the first time I worked with him in Houston. The first night he came into the bar after the show.

"You're really funny. Let me buy you a shot."

"I can't drink. I have Lupus."

"So what? I have radio in the morning."

"Ya, once I had radio and Lupus in the same morning. It sucked 'cause not only did I have to get up early, but my friends and family had to watch me slowly deteriorate."

This kid is funny. So I brought him out to El Paso to open for me on his first road trip. The week is kinda slow cuz we got no car, nobody is fucking us and Big Knuckle Seanie can't drink. The occasional waitress would get him high but it wasn't a great first road trip. So I see this flyer that was laying around the condo for a massage joint. Legitimate massage, the worst kind. It screams legitimate, too. It's called Montwood Day Spa and has all that aromatherapy and herbal body wraps, nothing close to a hand job anywhere near the place. It was fairly inexpensive though, the kicker was that they pick you up in a limo. I say "fuck it, lets be rock stars for a day!" and I call them up.

They pick us up in a stretch and bring us clear across town (El Paso is a big fucking city, too, for as little as goes on) while the driver a way to exuberant Mexican guy, beats us down with the unyielding tide of tedious "after-show" questions; "So you guys are comics? What's that like? How'd you get started? Do you work on a circuit?", etc. Not a relaxing start but its still a limo. We get there and the place is a lot smaller than you'd imagine from the flier. From the flyer your picturing the pools from Caligula with nymphs feeding you grapes and fanning you with palm fronds. This place is a few rooms in a strip mall. We go in and there's a girl behind the desk, pretty cute and friendly enough, who takes us back through to the sauna and Jacuzzi where we lounge til I'm near a beautiful coma waiting but in no hurry for my massage.

Now my big fear in "legitimate" massage is that I'll get wood on the table. When I was a teenager, my mother went to massage school and I would go down to be a test dummy for the students and get free massages. Only problem was that when you're 17 years old running your fingers through ground beef could practically make you whitewash. So I'd lay there under a thin sheet with my dick reaching straight to find God in front of 15 students and my Mother. It was horrifying. Ever since then I have fear of massage. That's why you go to the jerk-joints where they expect and encourage you to get wood. So when this girl finally gets me for my massage, I'm real nervous. I'd already jerked off ahead of time so I'd show up empty but she's real cute and I'm still worried as she leads me towards the massage room. I couldn't be sure that wood wasn't just around the corner. She opened the door to a quietly lit room with a massage table, turned and very softly and sensually to me and said "I'll step out now, you can take off your towel, slide under the sheet and then David will be into give your massage."

David? I don't want any massage from David! Who in the world would be so low as to pull a a bait-n-switch like that?!? Nobody wants a massage from David. Unless it was free and you were on ecstasy and you knew David real well and even the you'd be pissed you didn't get the cute chick. But I'm already two hundred bucks in on the deal between me and Lupus Lou so I can't back out and I'm thinking "At least I don't have to worry about getting wood for David", but then I think "HEY WAIT! What if I DO get wood for David!?!" Anytime someone has their greazy palm rubbing up and down your inner thigh you risk a strong possibility of chucking lumber.

So I lock in under the sheet and wait for David, contemplating whether or not I should claim some skin condition to get out of it. "Oh, I just remembered... I have sclera derma. But thanks anyway." A long five minutes passed as I silently decided what to do next when finally the door opens. It's the fucking limo driver!!! That's David! Turns out he's the owner, the driver the masseur and the most annoying fucking guy in the world. "So anyway where do you do your comedy shows? Do you always work with that other guy? Where do you get your jokes from?". He doesn't stop. Then he gets to the inner thighs and I'm trying to think of any horrible thing I could imagine to make sure I didn't go turgid. "What if my Mom got cancer? Remember when the dog died?" Between that and the endless stream of blithering yap coming out of David, I ended up leaving ten times more tense than when I walked in. After a "legitimate" massage from David, I needed a good hand job from a bigheaded Asian girl who wouldn't know your deltoid from your asteroid. That's relaxing. A hand job should be a mandatory part of massage and if you are ever naked on a massage table when a man walks in uninvited you should have every legal right to mace him and cry rape.

Sean Rouse ended up with the cute girl while I ended up with shame, a crook in my neck and the bill. Later, doctors downgraded his condition from the deadly Lupus to the uncomfortable rheumatoid arthritis.. They say he was "misdiagnosed" but I say it was from that massage. That magic massage from the cute chick that I was supposed to get. Lord knows what medical benefits I was cheated out of. I just hope Mr. Rouse remembers that when he's big. That I took the man-massage bullet to save his life.