I have a girlfriend who used to go to a certain 5-star hotel spa for a weekly massage. I met her a few times after, and she always had a certain bounce in her step and glow to her skin. So, I decided to get a massage at the same hotel. I had a great massage—a bit more expensive than I’d like to pay—but I wasn’t on cloud nine. What was the big deal?
“Did you request Ernesto,” she asked, with a purr. Ernesto? She never told me to request Ernesto. I was curious, so I pried her for more information. Could she possibly be alluding to...? Turns out my girlfriend was getting more than her back rubbed. OMG. “Why?” I asked. She had a boyfriend, albeit he was several years older than her. Why would she let some strange guy get her off on a massage table? “He’s got very skilled hands,” she joked. Enough! I didn’t want to hear it. I put my hands to my ears and started singing “la, la, la, la, la…” to drown out her tales of sexual promiscuity.