The Rub Down

Leaving the memory of yesterday behind in the wrinkled sheets, I stretched my arms above my head. My tight muscles were not nearly as limber as I needed them to be. Eight clients yesterday proved to be too much. After being in Philadelphia for a week, Jessica, my little sister and spa manager, overbooked my first day back in Boston.

We were opening a new location in Philly, and every few weeks I flew there to check the construction progress. The female clientele bitched about my lengthy absence and demanded I see them first thing. My partner and I needed to chat about him traveling down there every so often to help.

After Da

Our first location was a small space in Downtown Crossing, near the old Filene’s Department store building, but soon after, we relocated to prime real estate on Newbury Street. The move provided a bigger space so we could offer services like facials, nails, and yoga classes.

Every person we hired was at the top of the field. We refused to settle for people who went to massage school for shits and giggles, and accepted only the best. Another thing that separated us from most other spas was our practice of hiring only male massage therapists. Nothing against women, but during their auditions, none made my regular clients moan and scream. My philosophy was simple. My therapists needed to be skilled enough to bring every customer close to orgasm. In fact, I caused one a time or two over the years. Kneading, stroking, and massaging the body should feel as good as when a lover was deep inside you. A client should be completely relaxed and in the moment.

Another reason for no female therapists? The drama women brought into a work environment. Case in point: Je

Changing locations forced me to make an exception to my no-women rule when it came time to hire estheticians. Talented men in that field were nonexistent. Plus, my lawyer informed me I would get my ass sued if I didn’t, and was surprised we hadn’t had a case against us already. So, I hired Elle, another one of my gorgeous sisters, to handle the drama. She knew my tolerance for bullshit stayed at zero. Elle and Jessica suffered more than their fair share of my wrath, thanks to the female cattiness, but since beating my employees was unacceptable, my sisters dealt with the mess for me.

*****

Later that morning, as I walked into the office, my phone dinged for the tenth time. Je

Having spent the last two hours dealing with her, I ignored her latest text and turned my attention to business. The melting snow, thank fuck, meant spring was on its way. Granted, we lived in New England, so a late season storm could still hit us. When the weather warmed up, Newbury Street, our own Rodeo Drive, came alive. Exclusive stores, like Chanel, Burberry, Armani, and Dorfman, lined the streets, as well as high-end restaurants. Parking was a bitch, but I lived on the T, our subway system, which brought me just a few blocks from The Rub Down.

The first thing I saw when I entered our office was my partner’s six-foot-two-inch frame crammed in a chair, his feet propped on the desk, and phone in his paws, more than likely playing a stupid game. I wasn’t one for pleasantries that morning, and Da

“Have you started the payroll yet? Do you have a lot on your schedule today?” I fired off my questions without giving him time to respond. “We have a ton to talk about. And if you haven’t noticed, I’m in a piss-ass mood this morning.”

Da

“Does your shitty mood have anything to do with Je

“No. Give me a break.” Having to explain this pissed me off. “Je

Changing the topic, I dove right to the heart of my mood. “We need to talk about Philly. The site looks great. The contractors are moving along on schedule, but I can’t be the only one that goes down to check on them.” I paused, making sure he paid attention as I asked my next question. He needed to see how serious I was. “Is there any way you can go in a few weeks? I have a new client starting today. She’s training for the marathon, and Jeff wanted me specifically to handle her.”

Jeff, a friend of ours from college, was a personal trainer who specialized in marathons. Boston’s was coming up soon, so the final push was on.

“I guess. But, dude, you know I hate to fly. I’m going to drive, which means I will be out of the spa longer,” Da

I rolled my eyes and chuckled at his answer. Known for doing tons of scary, adventurous shit, he was scared to fly. Last year alone, he went zip lining in St Thomas, white water rafting in Maine, and hiked up and then skied down Tuckerman’s Ravine on Mount Washington. But never ask him about his fear, or he would go on and on about how he couldn’t wrap his brain around a tin can in the air. When he drank, I liked to bring it up because his bit about people shitting in the bathroom of said tin can was priceless. He thought when they flushed the toilet, shit dumped out of the airplane and landed on the people below.

“I could care less how long it takes you, man. My clients are complaining about me being gone so much.” I spread my arms and puffed my chest out to go with the shit-eating grin on my face. “What can I say? They miss me.”

Da

*****

Jeff’s trainee arrived right on time for her eleven o’clock appointment. With sports massage clients, I preferred to consult with them before they shed their robe and lay naked in front of me.

I met Alexa Williams in our Zen room located off the locker room. It was one of my favorite places in the whole spa. With soft music and low lighting, its light pinks with ivory accents complemented the color scheme throughout, or at least the designer thought so. Whatever it was, it was calming and really set the mood for any treatment. The ambiance alone could relieve stress, and I loved to decompress in there after a long day. Zen was a perfect name for it.