I can't even feel my neck right now

I finally had my second visit with Joe the Massage Therapist this afternoon. I rode all the way up to West 86th Street just to see him at the “other” office, which is actually, like, an apartment. Joe opened the door, New York Post in hand, and gave me my massage in a closet. “Isn’t it funny,” he asked, “how we learn all of these skills and don’t learn some of the basic things about taking care of our bodies?” Though I wasn’t so shocked at the things Joe could do to my body this time, he did flip me over for a neck/face/scalp massage. At one point he held the side of my head in his giant hand and rubbed my ear. I was really tempted to be like, “Joe, you must be a real hit with the ladies!” but I didn’t want to a) sound like an 80 year-old and b) embarrass him. Joe’s pretty modest, you know. Even though at one point he stuck a couple fingers down the hem of my pants, as he left the room he adverted his gaze as if the towel over my chest was see-through. “It was good seeing you again,” he said, looking at the wall. He left and I sat up, my hair all mussed. Until next time, my dear Tony Danza lookalike.