06/12/2010 05:12 am ET | Updated May 25, 2011

Baby, I Didn't Like the Birthday Present

I never have liked massages. I'm sure at some point in our time together I would have mentioned that the idea of paying a stranger to smear me with dirty oil and then to spend the next hour worrying about said stranger's hands slipping into forbidden swimsuit line territory is not relaxing to me. It's anxiety inducing. It also goes against all of the rules that I learned in public school health class which dictated that if ever confronted by a combination of naked+rubbing+swimsuit line+stranger I was to "call out for help" or "talk to someone I trust." I trusted you, baby. Did. Trust you.

I knew it would be bad when my masseur walked out and we were both sitting there on the bench and he smiled in what would be considered a welcoming way if it weren't filled with connotations. You, seemingly unaware of my whitened knuckles clamped around your wrist, pried me off and walked away with a smile, sure this was the best birthday present ever.

And it was just me sitting there and my masseur's face dropped in unconcealed disappointment as he realized it was I and not you he would be rubbing. Then he uttered his first and most horrifying sentence, "I usually only do this one to big men."

The massage you got me was particularly awkward due to the size of the man pummeling me. He was big -- I'd go a step further and say "rotund" -- and flamboyant. After I undressed I allowed him to press his meaty legs into my back while my face was wedged into that squishy ring that reminded me of a toilet seat cover from the 80s. As I was immobilized face down (I was on my stomach most of the time due to my masseur's apparent confusion over what to do with my breasts) he walked around my body rubbing my stiff flesh with his meaty hands and making considerable and very disturbing grunting noises with the effort. My arms lay uselessly by my sides and as he passed by me some squishy part of him brushed my hand.

I shudder to think what part.

I felt as though I were miscast in some sort of sick fetish film. A feature thanks to the 90-minute deluxe version you bestowed upon me.

Next year, if you are indeed celebrating my birthday with me (something I can't even consider until the smell of tropical oil is thoroughly eradicated from my dermis) I would like you to go back to that massage parlor and buy another 90 minutes. And I will wait in the lobby with an Oprah magazine while you indulge.