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20/365 – Masseuse Attraction
© 2011 Timmy Tamisiea. All rights reserved. Excuse me, but would you ladies like a massage?

20/365 – Masseuse Attraction

Masseuse Attraction

Here's my card. I do Swedish massage, deep tissue, awkward kiss massage and I'll gut you out massage.

In the last three weeks I’ve gone from Persistent Wedding Ring Wearer to Occasional Wedding Ring Wearer.  It’s not a job title I really want.  Ring Aficionado.  Great Husband.  Froddo.  I’ll take these.  But “Bad Husband.”  Not quite ready for that.  I was doing so good until this demotion.  I was wearing my ring to bed, in the shower, swimming, fist fights, ring parties . . . because I was fully aware of it’s presence I was trying to wear it enough that it would become an extension of my finger.  Then I realized Megan was taking hers off at night.  I figured, if she can do that, I should be able to take mine off at bedtime as well.

If I'd just bought this wedding band I would never forget to put it on . . . it would haunt me in my dreams.

Bad decision.  My daily morning routine consists of putting on my glasses, making coffee, showering, dancing to the beat of a different drum and eating breakfast.  I still haven’t figured in the “putting on your wedding ring” step.  And today, I would like to think, it bit me in the ass.  I preface that statement by adding that the following story may have nothing to do with my naked ring finger and everything to do with how handsome I am.  However, I’d also like to think that the presence of the ring would ward off certain individuals.


Excuse me, but would you ladies like a massage?

11:00am.  I get on the number 22 bus and head south toward downtown.  I’m going to apply for a sweet job at the hip and cool Urban Outfitters establishment.  So cool . . . man.  SKINNY JEANS!  I am sitting towards the back of the bus when I catch the eye of another man, a few years my younger.  I don’t think much of it. People catch each other’s glances all the time on public transit.  It’s all part of the awkward, annoying, unwritten contact you pay into when entering a train or bus.  It is NOT an excuse to put out a Craigslist “Missed Connection” ad.  I mean, it  was a glance, not some serendipitous marriage proposal – stalker.

BUT, the rule of thumb with bus glances goes, ONCE, accident.  TWICE – coincident.  THRICE – it’s either an “awwww yeah” moment or a “get off the bus now” moment.  Now, I think I caught this gentleman’s eyes once MAYBE twice.  Then I sneezed and he gave me a rather informal, sorta flirtatious, “Bless you.”  Okay.  No one else “blessed me.”  So, that was nice and I thank him.  Thanking someone is not an invitation for love.  It’s another formality of public transportation that far too few people practice.  I just thought I’d pay it forward, you know?

I should have learned my lesson about paying it forward when this little creep died from it.

About 2 minutes later, a bussle of people get on the bus (Bussle: a large group of bus riders) and take up all the seats in the back.  This in important because it illustrates that I’m not alone with this guy.  I should also point out that I haven’t made further eye contact and have only given the gracious but formal “thank you” to him.  Otherwise, I am just another passenger on the Chicago Transit System.

Suddenly, I realize the guy is holding his business card out to me.  He says, “Here’s my card.  I’m a hair dresser.  Just in case.”  My first thought – “What did I just do to get that?”  I mean, that was clearly a pass.  In my mind it was.  No one else got a card.  How come I did?  And the way he looked at me – he wanted some Timmy-Tums.  Or did he?  Then I think, wait, is my hair that bad.  Do I need a stylist?  But then I look closer at the card and he also does massage therapy from his home.   I instantly crane my neck forward, avoiding all eye contact.

Now this may sound innocent to many of you readers.  I understand that.  However, I had a similar, much more creepy incident like this in September that gavel this one more weight . . .


I could understand men hitting on me if I looked like this - I only wish!

Anyone who knows me is aware that I am an avid city cyclist.  I cycle everywhere in Chicago from mid-April to mid-October.  When I have long distances to bike – say to the South Loop – I don’t do any pussy footin’ around.  I get geared up – bike gloves, bike shirt, bike shoes and – yes – bike shorts.  SPANDEX!  I’m not wearing the same sweaty clothes I biked in at work all day.  Gross.  Hipsters may do that but I have standards.  And I bike hard and fast so I’m plenty greased up by the time I get to work.

So, I exit my back door wearing my awesome, tight black shorts and yellow jersey.  As I get to the fence, a mustached gentleman is walking his tiny little pup past the gate.  I wait for him to pass so I can roll my bike out safely.  He stops and starts a conversation.  The following is the world premiere of my new short play, “Bike Shorts.”

Man with Dog: Hello

Timmy: Hi.

Man with Dog: I just moved here.  I’m new to the neighborhood.

Timmy:  Oh, well, welcome to the neighborhood.

Man with Dog:  Here’s my card.

Timmy:  Oh, okay.  Thanks.

Man with Dog:  I do massages.  Sweeeedish.  Pressure. Whatever.  I see you like to bike so you may need help if you’re sore . . .

Timmy:  Oh, okay . . .

Man with Dog:  And now that I know where you live, Maybe I can give you a massage sometime.

Timmy: [silence]


Man with Dog:  Oooohh.  Uh oh.

Timmy:  Yeah.  I gotta get that fixed.  See you around.


Not an invitation for sex. Never. No. Never.

WHY?  What prompted that?  And it’s not a “gay” thing, even though it appears that only gay men are doing this to me.  It’s a weirdo thing.  Or a masseuse thing.  I mean, who in the world feels its okay to do that – make blatant dances in the name of massage therapy toe=wards a COMPLETE stranger.  As well, I always thought that most gaydar detectors were finely tuned to exclude me.  Ask my gay friend Patrick – I am clearly straight.

So, I’m thinking I need to get that damn ring on and keep it on so that these encounters come a halt.

The cute thing . . . I told Megan and her response; “I don’t like it when gay guys hit on you.”  I usually find it flattering, but these two instances are a little abnormal.  So, Megan, baby – either do I.  Either do I.

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