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Who Doesn’t Love a Surprise?
The massage—oh, how my muscles melted into blobby blobs the consistency of beached jellyfish. Mike—Steve—whatever his name is—his hands should be insured by that place that insures Gene Simmons’ tongue and David Beckham’s legs. Even my ankle feels better this afternoon, thanks to Mike/Steve’s special attention to the muscles in my calf. He force-fed me what seemed like a gallon of water afterward, “to flush out the toxins locked in your muscles,” and then scrubbed me down with lavender-infused towels. I smell so good right now, I might make out with myself.
Only I won’t. Because Roger’s hands are far better suited to doing egregious damage to my girl parts.
Tabby continues the Hollie Holiday by practicing her makeup skills on my face. Says she wants to h
