Massages

I have an appointment this weekend. I'm treating myself to a spa.
I've never "done" a spa before, but a friend of mine told me about a place called "Sir Spa" and said it was fantastic. So, being a single guy with no family, "significant other" or pets to glom onto my income, I'm spending a little of my money on me.

By the way, the slogan for "Sir Spa" is cute:
Where men go to get their go.

But one thing I won't be doing at "Sir Spa" is getting a massage.
I hate massages. Really.

About ten years ago, I was working as an intern at a substance abuse treatment center in New York. Part of the internship was that we were supposed to take part in at least one session of all the activities that the patients did. (I had one session of counseling and the woman made me cry within five minutes -- she was good!)

So, I signed up for my one session of massage therapy.
I'm lying there on my tummy with my shirt off and I explicitly told the massage therapist, "Don't go near the ribs. I'm super-ticklish on my ribs."

Did she heed my explicit warning??
Noooo!

Every time she would remotely approach my rib area, I'd tense up and jump.
"You really are ticklish!" she said.

Well, yeah, that's what I said in the beginning.

I kept jumping. And tensing, and jumping, and tensing.

By the end of the session, I was like a cat, hanging upside down on the ceiling by its claws.

At the end of my three-month internship I was looking over my evaluation.
It read:
Jonathan does not benefit from massage therapy.

See? I have written documentation that I don't enjoy massages.

So, at "Sir Spa" I will not be treating myself to a massage.

And a massage with a "happy ending"?
Sooo not gonna happen!